30 days of Verbal Diarrhoea

'Don't get stressed about your stress buster.'

A wise friend of mine told me this when I told him I like writing, but dislike how I don't do it often enough. He loves to bike and recently completed a 30 day biking challenge where he rode 1000kms in 30 days. I marveled at how he managed to do it! And it also got me thinking about doing my own variation of a  30 day challenge.

But why?

Because,
a) I could do with a distraction.
b) I have so much to say with very few people to listen to me.
c) Bihar can be really happening and people need to know about the state of our country.
d) I'm bored.
e) I'm a great at starting things but terrible at finishing them. This blog is fine example of that. So here's to trying to complete something for once!

What are the rules?

a) Write daily.
b) A minimum of 500 words.
c) About a preselected topic, picked at random from a box full of chits listing things I've learnt, seen, experienced, eaten, visited, done, wish to do and thought about in life.

So here's to 30 days of Verbal Diarrhoea. 30 days of chatter. 30 days of writing.

Until tomorrow!

Tour de Paris!

Today as I sit watching 'Julie and Julia' on Star Movies I watched Meryl Streep walking by the River Seine just beyond Notre Dame. I mentally jumped in excitement at actually recognising the street and in my head I thought, 'Well I've been there too, my lady!' It was quite an amazing thought really, to think that just last week I was thousands of miles across the oceans, sight seeing in Paris and eating French croissants (which are absolutely lovely by the way). I had a similar moment on the long flight back to India as I engaged in the customary binge watching of movies. While watching 'Beauty and the Beast' - I was at the emotional throwback to Paris where the Beast asks Beauty whether she'd like to go to Notre Dame or Champs-Elysees - 'Or is that too touristy for you' he asks her. Well that's exactly where Day 2 of our fine summer vacation took us!

The day was pleasantly sunny as we made our way down to breakfast after a very restful night of sleep on the super comfortable mattresses of our Hotel. I always wonder at these mattresses, they are at least a foot tall, wonderfully snugly, almost like a nice warm hug, and I'm sure are quite a big investment. I have a lot of respect for people who spend good money on comfortable mattresses, mentally giving full marks to the proprietor of this place. After a 'continental breakfast' consisting of croissants and bacon (Hurray!) and orange juice and fruit yogurt we set out in our tour bus to venture into the city.
We soon encountered the first similarity between India and France - traffic. But in everything there is something to be admired - the vehicles were handsome and mumma was pretty sure that at any moment one of those imposing gleaming enormous red and blue trucks would transform into Optimus Prime and leave us with a brilliant story to tell. Of course that didn't happen and instead, we soon found ourselves, passing French khets (fields), French railways tracks, French graffiti, French flyovers and finally crossed the ring road, and Viola! Entered the heart of the city.
Our first stop was at the local Fragonard perfumery right next to the Opera Garnier (I suppose the shampoo is named after it). A very elegant Japanese lady gave us a lesson on perfume history, perfume cookery and perfume math describing why it's so costly - apparently you have to boil 3000kg of rose petals to get 1kg of rose essence, imagine being the person who has to pick all those thorny rose bushes! With that baffling number in mind she lulled us into the fragrance chamber, were we got a little light headed smelling all sorts of perfumes and I think under the influence of that and her descriptions most of us were convinced that we HAD TO get some and the perfume sold like hot cakes!

We wandered around the squares taking in the beautiful Roman and French architecture. The sober off-white and grey walls were accentuated by colourfully tasteful doors and windows. Imposing doors of different colours and sizes, with detailed carvings, peep holes and heavy iron knockers. Some were well maintained, some run down, some wide opening letting us peep into homes or glimpse nearly tied curtains while some were locked tightly shut. This seemed to be the hub of activity in the city centre, the opera house standing imposing and large with its tall symmetrical pillars, soothing turquoise dome and its steps so regal you would feel a little underdressed for the occasion of visiting it, but there in lies the novelty of Paris - it houses all sorts of different people on its steps.

We saw different kinds of people from all walks of life, with different faces bearing resemblances to various parts of the world. There was curly and straight hair, red hair and dreadlocks, blonde, purple, black, white, bald heads, covered heads with different hats. The day was sunny and this wasn't India, so we saw - lots of skin, and heard - different languages from the throngs of tourists with cameras alot cheerful hop-on-hop-off tourist buses. And where there are tourists, there are souvenir shops which consisted of Eiffel towers in every conceivable shape, size, colour, prize range and form - fridge magnets, coasters, pens, you name it! I-Heart-Paris  t-shirts professed their love of Paris, and the more subtle ones displayed the lovely, River Seine.

Everyone in Paris, it seems, has somewhere to be, many walking briskly in an awful hurry to get somewhere, wading through the crowded sidewalks with purpose, business suits on and take away coffee in hand. At the same time, the roadside cafes were full of people sitting around consuming large quantities of wine and beer. And they are such fascinating, wonderful places - these roadside cafes! Checkered red and white coffee table tops. Rickety little foldable tables cramped together on the foot path. Cute french waiters in neat spotless white aprons precariously balancing multiple cups and plates and spoons. Owners opening out large colourful umbrellas to shield their customers from the sun. People vacating tables. Someone clearing away the cutlery and resetting the table. People chatting, laughing with a group of friends, or sitting with a cup of tea immersed in a book oblivious to the hullabaloo around. I loved the wayside scene, it was just so charming as though the city was engaging in conversation with us and telling us, 'Come sit down ladies, won't you stop for a cappuccino and cheese cake?' But of course! Who were to ignore such a call! And so, although we were a little short of time, we sat down at one the wooden tables at 'Cafe de Paris' (touristy, I know) and enjoyed a cup of coffee served to us by a nice looking waiter guy who I'm gonna call 'Viola!' because that's the only conversation we had.

'Could we get a cappuccino please?' -
'Viola!'
'Could you bring us the menu?' -
'Viola!'
'Can we have the check please?' -
'Viola!'
'What is the meaning of life?' -
'Viola!' (Just kidding)

We spent more than the time allotted by our tour manager getting 'Violated' and got left behind (I guess Indian Stretchable Time doesn't apply in Europe). We found ourselves stranded, in the middle of some Parisian street with a hard to pronounce name, and a non functional phone - not good. A kind french policewoman let us use her phone, and once we'd located our group, stopped a cab guy, explained things to him in slippery french syllables and packed us off on the more hilarious cab ride ever. They say that French men are overtly flirtatious and vocal with their feelings, and I must say, it's true. Our 50 year old cabbie in the space of our five minute cab drive managed to get a family and occupational history out of us, asked for my hand on marriage, invited himself to my wedding and shook our hands in the end like we'd been friends forever.

The highlight of the day was the cruise on River Seine, with its remarkable bridges (which are UNESCO World Heritage Sites). The river is 775kms long and cuts through Paris halfway down it's course for 14kms adding a lovely scenic dimension to this city. There are 37 bridges over the river, which connect the left and right banks of Paris, and each one is different! Some are plain and simple, some pedestrian only, some paved road, some have canopies for shelter and hanging lanterns while others have beautiful statues guarding the pillars that plant it into the river and one even has hundreds of padlocks of its railings as a sign of the bond of many lovers. They are central to the charm and romance of the city, these bridges, as couples walk across hand in hand, old and young alike, and people go about their daily life. My favourite bridge was Pont Alexander III which connects Napoleon's tomb to the Grand Palais and was built by Gustav Eiffel (yes the same person who built the tower). For those of you who are interested here's an article about by a guy who documented all the bridges, after he spent an entire day just walking by the river, for a hurried tourist that's an impossibility, for the leisurely traveller, a most novel idea. (http://www.flockingsomewhere.com/the-35-bridges-of-paris-in-an-evening/) We caught our first proper glimpse of the Eiffel tower on the cruise and there was such a scamper of people reaching into bags to pull out their phones, DSLRs, video cameras and what-not-else to document this historic moment. The excitement was almost palpable! And extremely contagious.

We returned to the hotel sated with history, lovely sights and yummy food, thankfully sinking into our mattresses and with the promise of more to come. 

International Air Travel for Dummies

Madhepura - Saharsa - Patna (and mum from Chennai) - Delhi - Doha - PARIS! I guess it's true what they said, 'The journey is the destination', because boy, this journey was long!

Day One - of our trip to Europe has helped me learn the characteristics of an International airport - absolutely no people (in terms of number of people per square metre relative to the Indian janata density), lots of PDA, self flushing toilets (how did it know?!), Duty free shopping, silence, terribly expensive lens solution, bland food, eery cleanliness and metallic colour theme making me feel as though I was part of a science fiction movie. I realised how Indian I am, as we sat down to have the salad we had ordered, mentally converting the dollars to rupees and desperately wishing for some chilli flakes. It's funny the kind of things that can make you feel patriotic!

My mum and I found ourselves giggling over foreign languages, snapping pictures of the randomest things and taking selfies when all other means of time pass had been exhausted on the plane. All my hopes of meeting an intriguing young foreigner of the opposite sex quickly disintegrated when I was meet instead by a family man with a special affiliation for Rajnigandha (Bihar just doesn't seem to want to let me go!)

We passed over so many different countries as we flew from Doha to Paris, places I'd only seen on the map, various different terrains I'd read about in geography class. Flying over Doha was like flying over a chapatti made by a very artistic child. It seemed as though the islands head been drawn and thrown across the sea like one would sketch artistic doodles on the corners of their notebooks when they're bored and sitting by the lecture hall window day dreaming of exotic lands. Qatar airways has very kindly provided us with 3D Maps, which had me zooming and looking repeatedly from the screen to the ground below, identifying mountains and rivers, the names of which I could never pronounce, in countries I one day hope to visit. As we passed over Salzburg, Austria I gazed in wonder at the meadows far down below me, with miniscule houses and near little country roads, and I'm pretty sure I could almost see Maria, twirling to a song in her head, or Heidi, skipping across the grass, red cheeked, out of breath and brusting with enthusiasm. Rivers snaked through the land forms gathering followers of towns at its banks, their reflections shining like gold in the bright sun. Snow capped mountains, looked deceptively humble and small, as though someone had sprinkled icing sugar unevenly over the tops of their rugged cup cake tips. The food imagery is not a coincidence as we spent a good part of our day eating the same meal over and over again - we had lunch thrice thanks to the time difference. I felt quite like a baby in NICU, confined to a specific bed, getting fed two hourly, taking breaks to pee and poop and getting distracted by the endless collection of movies on the flight. Speaking of movies, it was oddly interesting to take a peek into what everyone was watching, I did this very discreetly when I was waiting to use the bathroom on one of my many breaks. One lady was tearfully dabbing at her eyes as she watched a sappy romcom for the 49th time I'm sure, while a little Korean kid jumped around watching happy feet. Different subtitles cluttered the screens, and when I pressed my eyes together till they were almost closed all I saw was a blur of flashy screens occupying everyone's attention, near rows of passengers all facing the same direction. Wouldn't it be nice if we sometimes faced each other?

Did I tell you our driver's (forgive me, pilot's) name was Vladimir, (from Russia), and immediately I was thinking of Putin and history class in Kodaikanal, and Tamilnadu and chutney and, well you get the drift...
The one thing that really messed with my head, was the time difference, it seemed though we just couldn't get enough of today and so we kept traveling back in time going from 10am to 12noon (Indian time), then back to 10am (Doha time) and then to 12 midnight (Indian time) and then again to 9pm (Paris time) - in effect, it's the only practical form of Time Travel known to man today. When we arrived in Paris at 8:55pm, the wonder of day light saving dawned on us, as it was still light! French signs, french people, french tiled roofs, french short shorts, french grass, french trees and a 'not-so-french-but-completely-Indian-Karan' from Thomas Cook met us at the airport. The weather is breezy and the people are different (now I know how a foreigner feels taking pictures of cows in India). Soon we were shuttled to our accommodation and following dinner are more about to tuck into bed as tomorrow we set out to explore what's called the most romantic city in the world (albeit superficially but explore nonetheless).
Au revoir! 

Radiology Revelations

A physiologist in the quiet blackness of the night observes how bats navigate in complete darkness.

A Physicist invents a transducer using sound waves to detect ice bergs after the sinking of the Titanic.

A neurologist uses it to detect brain tumours in Russia.

Students in the last bench of a Physics class stare dreamily at the professor talking about the properties of sound waves.

A Philanthropist donates a large sum of money to a Mission hospital.

A teenage girl feels a lump in her breast.

A company produces medical equipment in Japan.

An elderly gentleman visits the anaesthetist to get clearance for his cataract surgery.

A little baby with a very large head and recurrent episodes of vomiting gets admitted to the ICU.

A college going boy is brought to the emergency room with abdominal injury after ramming his car in a drunken haze.

A first time mother 24 weeks pregnant visits an obstetrician.

An unborn baby floats in her womb swallowing amniotic fluid and wiggling its tiny fingers.

An obstetrician palpates her abdomen and writes out an investigation to rule out anomalies.

A recent MBBS graduate starts her first day at a mission hospital.

A radiologist turns to his third ultrasound of the morning.

An ultrasound machine unites them all.

A world of greys and blacks and whites. Of shadows and densities. Of depth and gain. Of flow and colour. Of angles and pressure. A real time wonder of physics.

Its language is completely different, and to describe what one sees therein takes years of practise and reporting. That single transducer, as it makes contact with the abdomen, opens a portal to another world, the unseen, is demystified for us to see in plain sight. A little angulation of the probe, slight variation in pressure as you glide your probe across the slippery jelly, leads you through various cross sections and fleeting glimpses of human anatomy. You can pick up gallstones, ovarian cysts, free fluid in the abdomen, aqueduct stenosis, breast lumps, a calcified valve, and ejection fraction – just a few simple examples of its varied use in the medical field.

But as is the case with all good things, examples of its misuse are also very prevalent. It is shrouded in litigation over prenatal sex diagnosis, with sonologists levying large sums of money to dish out illegal sex determination, greeting the prospective parents with a ‘Jai Mata Di!’ if it’s a girl and a ‘Jai Shri Ram!’ if it’s a boy. I wonder, why that shifts the blame entirely on the sonologist for female foeticide, since the sex ratio in our country has been bad, even after - implementation of the PNDT act and even before – the advent of prenatal sex diagnosis.

In recent months I have seen many antenatal ultrasounds with developing foetuses at different gestations. It fills me with awe and wonder to see little fingers moving, a foetus swallowing amniotic fluid, the circle of willis twinkling colourfully in the Doppler, the four chambered heart thumping energetically, valves flapping open and shut in lively rhythm, the spine from cauda equina to the craniovertebral junction and the continuity of skin along it, developing eye balls, the infantile nasal bone, a little human taking shape and form so rapidly and with such organisation that it puzzles me how anyone thinks all this doesn’t have a creative maker behind it. I realise the great significance of a normal scan when we encounter a baby having anencephaly with everything else in perfect order, when a patient with bleeding per vaginum for the last week is told that she’s had an abortion, or when you don’t hear the foetal heart on auscultation and rush hurriedly to the USG room only to encounter intrauterine fetal demise - an ominously still heart.

The USG is an unsung hero, the little overlooked brother of the more glamourous and imposing CT, MRI (Not that they aren’t mighty useful and fascinating!), very modest and very helpful when in the right hands.

The oft heard dictum which stands true when peeping into the monitor of an ultrasound is this –

‘The eyes cannot see, what the mind does not know’. 

Life in Madhepura Christian Hospital– A JMO's Point of View

‘I want a career in which I never have to sit at a desk for too long, or stare at a computer for days on end, a job where no two days are the same. I want to be useful!’ 

These were the big ambitious wishes of the young teenage me. It’s been a few years since then and my wishes have been more than fulfilled through my placement at Madhepura Christian Hospital.

When I first arrived at the airport, I was greeted by Manju bhaiya, a very happy man, who is the face of Madhepura Christian Hospital to all newcomers to the hospital. As we got closer to Madhepura the road got bumpier and the weather got cooler. Instead of seeing plump turban wearing uncles and the yellow mustard fields of Punjab, I now saw pineapple fields, paan chewing bhaiyas and the vast fertile land of Bihar with its flowing rivers and greenery. Our campus is a small haven in midst of the cramped town of Madhepura – with a collection of different fruit trees (Litchies, Mangoes, Chikus, Mulberries et al), full-fledged organic farming and nature study, spear headed by Arpita ma’am doctor/mother/homeschooler/organic farmer and her three home schooled kids in tow.

A typical day here leaves me breathless! We kick start the day with devotion, followed by General ward, ICU and NICU rounds, quickly completing discharges and rushing to OPD where patients are already waiting to see you and the cards begin piling up.

OPD consists of an USG room and two airy rooms with plenty of sunlight. The area where the doctors sit is separated by a curtain from the area where the patients wait – expectant mothers, crying babies, old and wrinkled grandpas and concerned relatives. It is a bustling hub of activity – the nurses screening patients, taking vitals, giving directions, ‘Char number – Billing! Aath number – Dawayi! Satra number – Lab!’

On the other side, Dr Timothy (our SAO and radiologist) hustles in and out, going back and forth, doing USGs, handling office work and overseeing construction. Everyday in OPD, USG probe in hand, he opens my eyes to the wonders of the developing fetus, physics, radiology and life, with a sprinkle of PG entrance MCQs and well timed jokes. What was once a blur of greys, whites and jargon now makes perfect sense thanks to him enabling me to learn how to do USGs. As a senior one would expect him to be strict and up tight, he on the other hand, is approachable and humble – no where else have I seen the JMO and MS alternating calls.

Dr Ilango, our Anesthesist sees medicine and paediatrics, patiently explaining and listening to what troubles the patients. The ICU where bleeping alarms of falling saturation often rattle my nerves, he once coolly sauntered in and asked me to intubate a patient absolutely unruffled by the cacophony that surrounds him or my feeble protest of, ‘But I’ve never done it!’

Dr Pradeep, a Paediatric Surgeon works part time at Madhepura Christian hospital and the rest teaching at government hospitals in Bihar. The days he’s here are packed with surgeries. From something as small as an Incision and drainage or cutdown to Hydrocoele repairs, Hypospadias repair, Hernioplastys, Laparotomies, Cholecystectomies and even a Hemiglossectomy – he takes equal effort to explain them all. With his kind smile and gentle touch he soon wins the trust of his patients.

Dr Bina, our Gynaec-ALL-ologist, is always multitasking - busy seeing Antenatal patients, and pretty much every other kind of patient as well. And here lies the remarkable speciality of working here – you get to see everything!

As the sole JMO in this 35 bedded hospital every on call night provides an opportunity to see and manage cases from all specialities – Ob-gynae, Paediatrics, Surgery, Medicine, Derm, Psychiatry, ENT, Community health. I have learnt more in the last two months than I ever did in my 5.5 years of college. MCH is small, but makes a significant contribution towards mending lives in the state of Bihar.
In the midst of the hullabaloo of OPD, we have patients coming into the Emergency Room adjoining OPD. Some are dramatic - Snake bites, Organophosphorus poisonings, Eclampsia, Ruptured Uteruses, Severe Anemia, Dehydration and Malnutrition, mothers in second stage of labour – in which case we drop all and rush to OT/ICU, some unique and others relatively docile – Common cold (the treatment of which is really an art!)

On an average we have 2-3 Caesarean sections a day, and a busy labour room – all managed single handedly by Dr Bina and the team of nurses headed by Sister Ancy. From never having done a PV on my first day here, to doing independent C-sections two months after, my learning curve has shot up steeply thanks to her patient instruction and excellent example. On many a busy nights we’ve groggily made our way back from OT after our third CS of the night, bleary eyed and low on sleep, but the next morning however tired she is, she’ll greet you with a twinkle in her eye, a pat on the back, her easy smile and yummy dosas for breakfast.

Some days are free, some insanely busy, some days I worry about how I don’t get time to study for PG, some days I realise I’m learning things that form the basis of my practise, some days patients fight, some days they walk out hale and hearty, some days are lonely, some days filled with the company of really wonderful people. This brings me to the sprightly youngsters of MCH – An animated troop of seven campus kids who make sure you never have a dull moment. From climbing trees, playing with guinea pigs, running behind chickens and reading story books to making me jump on the trampoline (‘Because it’s good for your lymphatic circulation, Preeti didi!’) they add colour to life.

I have learnt that in a mission hospital there is nothing that is ‘not your job’, there is no job description, you learn to juggle multiple roles and manage your time (or at least you try to!)

I have learnt that well trained nurses are the backbone, the hands, the feet, the circulatory system (or whatever simile you’d like to use) of an effective mission hospital.

I have learnt that if you keep an open mind there is something valuable to be learnt from everyone, the sweeper, the staff, the OT technician, the patients, the relative, the doctors and the nurses. You learn integrity, dedication, hard work, humility, compassion and you see a side of India which we often choose to ignore. For how long can we ignore the elephant in the room?

It is impossible not to be downcast at some of the things we see, to not get angry at the injustice meted out to those who can’t fight for themselves, but this is the stuff of reality. In working here I truly feel useful in my small way, and I am glad I’m able to be of service to the one who looks after the greater scheme of things. When one hears of Bihar it always brings to mind images of derelict women and children, extreme poverty and illiteracy. Clearly, the harvest is plenty, but the workers are very few.

They called her Devi

She walked gingerly into the emergency room, her eyes looked tired, her saree was old and worn out, the once vibrant colours now tattered at the edges. She was pregnant with her third child – her tummy looking disproportionately large as compared to her tiny malnourished frame. She was white as a sheet, holding her hands to her back and clearly in labour pain. She smelt musty, a mixture of sweat, blood and neglect met my nostrils as I reached out to examine her. She was burning with a fever, and when I asked her what was wrong unable to answer she turned to her husband. He too was a tiny man, his big eyes shown with hopelessness as he spread his calloused hands and proceeded to explain what had happened. She was pregnant with her third child, the first one had been delivered by Caesarean section only 4 years ago, the next one was a normal delivery at home, and this was her third. She had been to a few ‘doctors’ before us where multiple unsterile per vaginal examinations had been performed and the last one had indiscriminately administered Oxytocin to induce labour. When the labour did not progress they referred her to a higher center. She had been bleeding for a few days, her urine was blood tinged, her pulse was racing, her blood pressure was unrecordable, and even after giving her fluids was dangerously low. She had ceased to feel her child moving for the last 2 days and on doing an ultrasound we found that her baby was dead.

Her haemoglobin was very low, her white cell counts very high, her fever never seemed to subside, they had no relatives to donate blood, and no money to pay for the surgery she most urgently needed. In the operation theatre, on opening her abdomen we found that her uterus had ruptured from the pressure of contracting against resistance for days, the torn ends were sealed by a huge clots of blood, the anatomy was hard to make out, her baby was lying in one corner of the abdomen, a perfectly healthy baby which would’ve had a 100% chance of thriving had the Caesarean been done electively before the pain started. Lower down we saw the bulb of the urinary catheter sticking out through a huge rent in the wall of the bladder, it had also burst. This explained why her urine was blood tinged. The bladder and uterus were repaired and her abdomen closed. She was stable, for now.

Over and over, we tried to measure her blood pressure, at the most optimistic of times the reading was still very low. In the ICU her condition worsened, and still no blood. Her husband sat next to her bed on a little wooden stool staring at the moniter beeping loudly, and the alarms going off as her vitals destabilized. She lay on the bed with multiple supports going through veins which we had struggled to cannulise before the surgery and as I stood there looking at the moniter I felt the sinking feeling that she wouldn’t make it. I thought back to the time before the surgery when we had shifted her to the operation table and tried to distract her from the pain of the IV cannula pricking her. I remember asking her why she didn’t go to a hospital earlier, and she just laughed and said, ‘Humko kya pata’ (How was I to know?). She had laughed completely oblivious to the fact that those would be her last words. Like she rightly said, how was she to know? Even when she did go to a so-called doctor, she was given grossly faulty treatment all in the name of ‘normal delivery’. ‘Do no harm’ a dictum from the Hippocratic oath, isn’t said without good reason. She died that night, without resistance, without a fight. A result of incorrect medical treatment. When the very people you trust to fix you are so grossly out of line, who does one turn to?

I checked her pupils – dilated and fixed. No pulse, no heart rate, no breath sounds. A fresh JMO, I went over the motions of confirming her death once, twice and a third time, and turned to tell her husband. He shook his head and thanked me for all our efforts. He explained that he was a daily wage worker, he and his wife were both orphans with no close relatives to support them. ‘I wish I’d known what to do,’ he said, and with that he left.

Her name was Phekni Devi, doomed from the day she was born, her very name shows us that. Phek meaning thrown away. Abandoned. Unwanted. A fate a large number of girl children in rural India meet. Devi, referring to a goddess. A surname every woman adopts once she is married. In a country which worships female goddesses like Kali, Sita, Laxmi while mourns the birth of every girl child, it seems to me, like the worst kind of hypocrisy and the cruellest contradiction, for nothing could be farther than the truth. When I stepped out of the ICU I heard devotional songs blaring through the loudspeakers all over our little town of Madhepura.

Ironically, Bihar was celebrating Saraswati puja. 

The C-Section

Scrubbed in for the first time.
I was sweating like a pig.
Everything looked too clean,
a forest of humans clad in green.

Tips of fingers to top of elbow,
under nails, and back again.
Washed in Iodine for ten minutes,
touched the tap, had to do it again.

Got blood on my feet and OT chappals.
Watched the incision in horror and awe.
Put my hand in another's abdomen.
Helped pull the rectus apart.

Found out my glove size is 6.5
and the size of my brain minuscule.
I smelt blood. Suctioned it.
Got up to my wrists in it.

I saw life emerge, like a little rag doll.
Saw a baby pulled out,
pulled out with (force)ps.
And heard it make the most awesome sound.

Clamped the cord. And cut it.
Felt giddy as I did my first suture.
Felt nauseous. Had to step out.
Came back. Had to sit down.

Found a person to look up to.
Found a peace to hold on to.
Felt excitement like never before.
Confirmation of purpose and the promise of more.

More to learn. More to feel.
More of his glory will be revealed.
More to hear. \
Try to get over all fear.

So much to know...
Oh there is so much!
Felt inadequate. Small.
Humbled. In awe.

In awe of creation.
In awe of anesthesia.
In awe of absorb-able sutures,
and of negative airway pressure.

In awe of the fact that, yet,
anything can go wrong.
Or, that everything will go just fine,
as has been since Adam's day.