The great Indian hospital stay

I dread hospitals, and last week, I was forced to take my father to one. My father had a long-planned dentist appointment to remove the top row of teeth, to fit a denture. He was prescribed antibiotics and some painkillers, both with nausea and vomiting marked as the major side effects. My father also has rare bouts of vertigo in the mornings that manifest once every few years, and while he does not suffer from diabetes and heart issues, he has a mild arrhythmia, for which he takes an Ecospirin a day. It had to be halted though to prepare for the dental procedure. Long story short, the antibiotics may have triggered a bad case of vertigo. I was woken up earlier than I usually do, with my mother telling me my father isn’t feeling too well. He’s giddy and can’t get up. I skipped breakfast and headed over to my folks’ place.

I see my father sleeping on his side, in a fetal position, eyes and jaw clenched shut, occasionally swallowing with slow, deep breathing. My mother is trying to feed him breakfast. He tries to get up with his eyes shut, fists against the pillow, but decides it’s better to keep lying. I check his blood pressure and sugar levels. They are alright. I call the dentist and let him know. He tells me he’ll write him another prescription. I walk down and get it. I ask him if he we need to see a doctor if his situation doesn’t improve. He says OK, in say an hour or two.

There is a decent hospital next door, and I go to the counter, tell them my father isn’t able to sit up and we were hoping to see a doctor soon. He says the out patient doctor (OPD) will be here in about 30 minutes to an hour. I ask him to register my father’s details so we can get the first slot, and we’ll be there the moment he arrives. The rather cold and rude gentleman sipping his cup of tea says, he can’t register unless the patient is here in person. I repeat, he can’t get up and I can’t get my father here and wait an hour. I’m beginning to get annoyed. I walk away to the casualty ward, hoping to get better support. I ask the doctor if she could see my father. She says, if he’s stable, then it’s better to see the OPD doctor. I go back home, and try to get my father to sit up, help him get ready but he says he needs to vomit. That ordeal done, he’s now fresher, with the giddiness reduced but he is way weaker. Now I’m a little worried. I can see my mother being of no help, pulling an already disorientated man, yelling at him to wear these chappals instead of those, tugging him instead of helping him up.

We get to the hospital, and the same arrogant inquiry desk attendant tells me the doctor will be here any moment. I say that my father needs to see someone a little urgently, so we are pointed out to the casualty ward. The doctor checks the blood pressure and sugar levels, even an ECG, since he just vomited. This is to rule out any heart complications. She says his BP and heart rates are elevated, and there are some irregularities (arrhythmia). She says it’s better to see the specialist. We roll my father to the first floor, and the cardiologist’s attendant says, he’s left for now but he’ll be back in an hour. She says I should meet another doctor on the ground floor. I ask the inquiry attendant if he’s available now. He says he should be, and I pay the amount to go see him. The nurse outside his cabin says, we are 8th in line and the doctor isn’t here yet but is expected any moment now.

The casualty ward doctor suggests we could admit him to be safe. I go to the counter, and the billing person there is taking his time, urging me to take cashless insurance, choose a single bed room with its Rs. 50,000 deposit, instead of a twin with a Rs. 10,000 deposit. I just want my father to be in a secure environment, till the specialist shows up in an hour or so. I fill the form, and the person gives the form back. “You have not filled in the Aadhaar number”. I am not in the mood to argue. I call my mother and get it. By then, there’s a well-dressed woman sticking her hand into the window, demanding answers - why are the doctor’s charges Rs. 250 when they were Rs. 200 last year? I’m trying to be patient, and I have to keep checking on my father who’s sitting there with his eyes closed, fingers intertwined. The attendant still wants me to take the single-bed room. I insist on the twin room, get that done, and the ward boy is shouted at to take my father to the room. He helps my father on the wheelchair, and runs off elsewhere in seconds. Now, I’m standing there with my father sitting there with his eyes closed. I unlock the wheelchair and start rolling him towards the elevator. The ward boy is back, mildly disgruntled that I didn’t wait.

We enter the room, and we are left alone and I have to check whether any nurses or doctors are expected to attend. I remind them, and 10 minutes later, I’m told to get a list of items from the pharmacy. Another nurse appears, she administers the dextrose and some B12 supplements to the drip. A doctor comes 30 minutes later, and checks his stats. He’s doing OK.

Noon turns to evening, and the doctor we were supposed to see instead of the cardiologist comes to see my father. He has a patronizing tone, loud, obnoxious, patting. “HElloo! Mr. ____. How are we doing today?”. Has he been seeing my father the past few days? I don’t know. Some more tests follow, an X-ray and more. This doctor tells us it’s likely spondylosis. He also demands to know, why we’re taking this one other tablet for arrhythmia. It’s not like me and my father decide to go window shopping by the local pharmacy every week, shopping for random pills. Another doctor from the same hospital prescribed them. Doctor, why don’t you go figure out why we’ve been given this?

By now, my father has eaten lunch, but he has vomitted again. A ward boy appears 10 minutes later, demanding that my father be taken for his physiotherapy session. I have to explain again. He just vomited. I don’t think he should be strained. Reluctantly, he leaves, rolling the wheel chair, disappointed. I inform the nurse about the vomiting and she tells me why I didn’t tell the doctor? I tell her, but he just vomited again and the doctors we already met before this, knew this. The nurse sighs, then calls the doctor as if to do me a favour. I’m told to get a Vomitex injection. It is administered a while later. I see my father recovering soon after that. His appetite is back and he eats his dinner well.

Our twin room only has us, so it’s empty. I sleep on the other bed, without the bedsheets and stuff. A curtain with a long streak of dried blood is next to me. I don’t as much sleep, as lie down. We turn the lights off, but there’s a large window above the door and I can see the light, and the nurses and other staff laughing, giggling, screaming through the night. A mosquito is chewing me alive too. My father wakes up every hour or so, to visit the washroom. Just when we’re about to get some sleep, the nurse comes in at 4 to change the drip. At 5, another nurse comes to take blood samples. At 5:45, the housekeeping person wants to change the bed sheets, and my father’s clothes. I do not understand how these are priority, and at this hour. If the illness doesn’t make you weak, the sheer schedules of these events will do you in. The second patient in the twin room has arrived too. It’s 50-something year old man, who needs to have an eye operation at 8. More ruckus ensues.

My father and I are groggy at 7. We have barely slept two hours. I head home to get the toiletries, and some breakfast. I return and my father isn’t in the room. I am told he has been taken to do physiotherapy, without breakfast, after a sleepless night. I do not understand what’s happening. I spend the morning talking with dad, but he’s better since the injection last evening. He says he’s not weak. He’s walking around freely, relaxed, sitting upright looking at the phone. Before lunch time, the cardiologist who was supposed to see us an hour after we admitted to the hospital, finally wishes to see us. We have been summoned to his cabin. The father wants to walk there, but the ward boy insists he sits on the wheelchair. We wait outside, then are rushed in, then told to wait outside some more. My father is brisked off for some more scans. Some six young men, most fat, some morbidly obese, with large bags sporting logos of all popular pharma brands. They are trying to look their best, their bags placed on the couch meant for patients, the most obese one fast asleep. They are pharma sales promoters, trying to pitch their products and get time with the cardiologist. We’re standing there, my father is his hospital gown, me in my crumbled shirt, with the patient files and reports. They aren’t bothered to move their bags, or make space even for the patient. They are jostling at the surgeon’s cabin door. The cardiologist gives us a clean chit. Nothing wrong, ECG is fine, his heart is fine. The other doctor also tells us he’s fine, and we can leave by evening, maybe tomorrow morning. I insist on evening.

We’re relieved, not because of the outcome of the diagnosis, but by the news that we can leave. It should have been a safe assumption, when someone frail vomits, they lose fluids, electrolyte levels collapse, resulting in weakness and when you’re dosed up with antibiotics and now dehydrated, the arrhythmia acts up.

We wait for evening, but there is no sign of the doctor. He arrives at 6:30, repeats his “HElloo! Mr. ____.” routine. He shakes my hand like we’ve accomplished something great together. He says, my father’ fine to leave and he’ll sign off the papers. We wait 30 minutes, then 60 and nearly two hours later, after several reminders, the nurses get the paperwork done. The bill spans three pages, ranging from a dietician’s consultation, physiotherapy charges, the visits by the various doctors, scans, etc. I pay up, and we walk home.