A and B male and female one sperm and one egg intrigues another account ...of a zygote tale
stretch the knees and elbows I am out of tightened close quarters rashes, blotches and tiny white spots vitamin k and a dose of hepatitis ...thick yellowish feedings
metamorphosis... goose pimply teenage change-physical/mental break these shackles Disclaimer in bold
who am I what am I meant to be Dreams...accomplishments tug-of -war by and large of order and complete randomness
…is human and human beings err. We believe we all have an image (public rather) and once built we try to protect it at all costs. We expect a winning, pleasing personality everywhere. Image? What is that for? To hide our vulnerabilities and play the right cards at the right time. Why is there a constant scrutiny of hopes? Why our intentions are weighed and talks dissected? Will there ever be a day when we would be brave enough to be ourselves? Laying everything bare (chuckles)…no fear of being judged by the world (basically my family, friends, colleagues etc.). I started it on a serious note but halfway down I realized its futility …so here I am with yet another incomplete thought…
Someone once said that she often felt an intense desire to return to the womb. Do you feel so? I often do…but if you ask me why then I will have to say there’s no rhetorically graphic answer to that…but when I see bound by their tradition a section of women still eat last and least throughout their lives, even when they are carrying and lactating. Perpetuating the cycle of malnourished moms’ dying in childbirth or giving birth to malnourished babies…I do feel the desire…
Be it your newspaper or your cell phone-open display of reassuring messages that women’s day is all about freebies and gift coupons…clothing ranges, movie tickets, spa packages, restaurant deals. Oblivious of the existence of this very day when I see Meena, Korobi, Lashmi in purulia, nalbari, Agya (just to name a few) are working hard like any other day only to listen to their husbands words that "women, like children, eat and do nothing." I do feel the desire…
There’s nothing new to talk of daily rapes, assaults and dowry-related murders. Female infanticide and sex-selective abortions nip the little aspiration left right in the bud. Amidst these when I see women in rural India (even a section of urban) lack power to decide whom to marry. And women inheritance rights…legal loopholes deny that too… I do feel an intense desire to return to the womb…and sit peacefully under my rainbow coloured umbrella…
The red light flashed nothing but a routine traffic stop the drivers’ honks’ and the passengers’ yawns’ busy, crowded and urban amidst these…a little girl in a semi-tight top clung to her hips was a long torn skirt displaying young curves more than it should have glimpses of lascivious stares how long would she be safe knocked a faint thought but the blank look in her eyes echoed… maybe it was already too late the green light flashed speed, time-lapse… and a hurried thought all in a not so routine traffic stop…
Relationship…he said necessitates an irresistible involvement involvement? What kind of involvement? I asked… is involvement a mystery just confined in the contours of our bodies or is it my wild eyes when I feel your lips… is it your touch which loosens something at my chest or is it my fear of masks in the bedroom and bath is it your biological presence diminished by the volume of your Armani suit or is it my inflated ego with an open neckline
‘Oh! You question a lot’-he said. his hand wandering over my bare arm waiting for a second at the birth mark of my neck …the me-questioning again but in silence… is involvement the smell of Cartier... the perfume he is wearing…
After getting rid of the English men, we thought, we would be successful in driving out their language, because as things stand, we can neither really live with it nor, indeed do without it. National self-respect demands that we dethrone it from its status in our country but its utility has made it so indispensable to us, that we are not in a position to banish it either. Today English language has become the lingua franca of thought and commerce.
We all know that English was not listed as one of the 14 (now 22) Indian languages when the constitution was drawn up in 1950. It was to be an "associate official language" for a period of 15 years. But when the time came to discard English officially, there were protests by the people from the southern part who could not tolerate the hegemony of Hindi. In 1967, the government was forced to pass an Official Language (Amendment) Act, prolonging the associate status of English indefinitely.
In 1957 UNESCO issued a formal declaration declaring the right of every child to be educated through their mother tongue. Supporting this declaration, Skutnabb-Kangas (1994) argued that, in a civilized society there should be no need to debate the right to maintain and develop the mother tongue. It is a self-evident human right....Observing linguistic human rights implies at an individual level, that all people can identify positively with their mother tongue and has that identification accepted and respected by others whether their mother tongue is a minority language or a majority language.
Skutnabb Kangas (2000) also says that English is a killer language in India. But it is seen that English is not usually the direct cause of language death in India. Of late, the Government, policy makers and academicians are taking all possible measures to encourage multi lingual education (MLE). It has become a global movement seeking to provide quality education for all.
“Indians secretly believe, if not openly say, that competence in English makes a considerable difference in their career prospects…politicians and bureaucrats denounce the elitism of [English-medium] schools but surreptitiously send their children to them.” Gupta,1995.
...English plays a very important role in education, business and administration. It is the medium of instruction for higher education-both academic and technological. Those who seek jobs in private companies or professions must be proficient in English. It is recognized as an official language for purposes of administration at the national level. Kudchedkar, 2002.
On one hand the politicians say that no more English medium schools will be permitted and on the other hand without proficiency in English a student can’t dream of a decent job in future. At times, I feel we are a bundle of contradictions. All the national and international conferences are conducted in English (as that is the only link language). We laugh at people who cannot speak decent English and grammatical error…strictly no-no (that’s intolerable). How can one expect from a person who studied in a vernacular medium school, where the medium of instruction was the mother tongue and English was taught maximum five hours per week (5 forty minutes period) to speak fluent English? Today, success in the job market or for that matter even marriage market has come to be equated with fluency in English.
So, higher fees are no deterrent; parents are willing to make sacrifices to ensure upward mobility for their children by sending their kids to English medium schools. Before making policies, it’s the Government who has to understand that ‘no demand, no supply.’ If the Government ensures that irrespective of a person’s English language competence, he/she is sure to land up with a decent job in future, who would not love to send their children to vernacular medium schools. After all, we all love our mother tongues. Don’t we?
(these are thoughts which can't be a part of strict academic discourse, I wanted to but I can't make it a part of my dissertation so here's commonsensical academics-as true academics is beyond commonsense)
Heaven opened and the water hammered down, receiving the reluctant old well, greenmossing the pigless pig sty, carpet bombing still, tea-coloured puddles the way memory bombs still, tea-coloured minds. The grass looked wet green and pleased. Happy earthworms frolicked purple in the slush. Green nettles nodded. Trees bent…Avi turned page no. 10 of God of small things… this is probably for the fifteenth time he is reading the book. He felt a piercing pain in his eyes, maybe the dimly lit room is the cause of his pain-he thought. As he pulled the pillow to sleep…he re-discovered that he is not alone in the bed. He overcame the urge to pull her towards him instead moved to her side and remembered the slight blush on her face.
'Do I really love her?' he whispered to himself.
He thought of her beautiful eyes…laughter…her voice which once sounded like ringing of bells…their college and university days…
then what is missing? Why am I not feeling the same? He questioned.
She became my wife the night before… Avi concluded (still whispering).
Refreshingly delightful, poignant and simple…every time I read O’ Henry, I feel so. Few days back, Amal offered me this forgotten experience (of late, not reading much). Simple story and great actors make a good film and Richie Mehta's low-budget film Amal stands as a witness to that.
A rich hotelier, disillusioned by ways of the world finds a humble, honest autorickshaw driver. O’ Henry’s stories are full of irony. Amal’s chance, his life-altering encounter... the disillusioned old man as his passenger…his chasing a little girl who stole a purse from a regular passenger…the accident… Amal’s need for the money to help the hospitalized girl…the sudden favour of luck…wealth at his doorstep. Irony at every turn..
Henry’s endings are generally ‘tender’ with a ‘twist’…(the smile that says where you’re from). Amal was no different…at the end, I kept smiling for sometime with Amal.
Agastya was reminded of Joshi's room on the first day, and Ahmed's voice dropping to a hush to pronounce 'Mrs'; to all the admission of conjugality seemed a cause for embarrassment. ‘What's your full name?’Mrs Srivastav was wearing a black bra beneath a yellow blouse. Agastya sneered at Menon (startling him a little), that would be a hilarious dress sense in Trinity, but it's OK in Madna, no? ----------
'How old are you, sir?’ 'Twenty-eight. 'Agastya was twenty-four, but he was in a lying mood. He also disliked their faces. 'Are you married, sir?' Again that demand that he classify himself. Ahmed leaned forward for each question, neck tensed and head angled with politeness. 'Yes.' He wondered for a second whether he should add 'twice'. 'And your Mrs, sir?' Agarwal's voice dropped at 'Mrs'; in all those months all references to wives were in hushed, almost embarrassed, tones. Agastya never knew why, perhaps because to have a wife meant that one was fucking, which was a dirty thing. 'She's in England. She's English, anyway, but she's gone there for a cancer operation. She has cancer of the breast.' He had an almost uncontrollable impulse to spread out his fingers to show the size of the tumour and then the size of the breast, but he decided to save that for later. Later in his training he told the District Inspector of Land Records that his wife was a Norwegian Muslim.
Well well…these are excerpts from English August…where Chatterji tells the story of this Agastya Sen, a young civil servant posted for his training in a nondescript district in India. And I am not trying my hand at writing a review of this novel. There are plenty in the internet. What fascinated me is the role of the ‘Mrs’ (the bitter halves-as they say) of these Babus depicted in the novel.
“We will have to speed up things as I have to pack my stuff for the forthcoming holidays and go to the market to shop for some important stuff.”
Isn’t this the much-conceived image of a bureaucrat’s wife enjoying the pleasure of bossing around the fleet of servants? Well…that’s what Suchita Malik wanted to prove wrong in her maiden attempt ‘Indian memsahib.’ In India, being the wife of a bureaucrat comes across as the best fortune (unfortunately, this mindset is rampant even today). She tried to highlight the wives struggle… involved in adjusting one’s career, routine and even social circle according to the husband’s status. Indian Memsahib: The untold story of a bureaucrat's wife... depicts the roller-coaster journey of Sunaina, a bureaucrat’s wife. (But as one reads the book, one discovers.. more than the untold story of the wife, it’s actually Raghu, her husband’s life being described for most of the book—the most common problem with Indian wives, can’t stop discussing their husbands).
(Unlike English August, people hardly know about this Indian Memsahib. Nevertheless, have to say, the latter gave a better description of the ‘Mrs’ of the August *servants*)
I am…and with that am facing the following queries day in and day out-
How much I can afford
The down payment
The loan
How to qualify for a loan (most important)
Closing costs
…..and I don’t remember others (after all ..am just attempting to become a first-time home buyer).
Oh! Mr. Biswas …you can’t even imagine…how much I can relate to your dream of building a House that you desperately wanted to call your own and your hurt, your pain…when your attempts to build a House of your own failed (twice)…when you were always short of cash …when your pretty practical wife knowing your financial condition stayed at her mother’s place with the kids (Thank God! I don’t have a pretty practical hubby yet ;-)).
But Mr.Biswas…you did manage a House of your own towards the end of the novel…and like you, nothing gave me more happiness when you finally moved to the place of your own and was indebted to none.
(How I wish to manage a place of my own like you—A House for Ms. Chetia)
As I was staring at the Radha Krishna calendar (courtesy mom-few months back, when I was at home for my field work, with a saas boo hoo soap at the backdrop, mom said..nah ..commanded[maybe she got inspired by the soap and mistook me for her boo hoo] ‘you are carrying this calendar to your hostel, girls should have some bhakti bhav-now, that’s another story, the retaliation drama, that would need a separate post) a thought came to my mind…why do I hear some buzz…some shrill shouts, it seems the bajrangs and shivs are heading towards me. But how can they?? The thought's still in my mind...am yet to open my Pandora’s box.
Uff …enough of these dals and senas…can’t permit them to control my thoughts (what an irony,…a common man is forced to think twice, actually..much more than that before putting forward one’s views. Yes gulal [the movie-no footnoting required], you were right-democracy ki truly baj gayi band…no freedom of thought- you see).
Coming back to my thought, which starts with my staring at the Radha Krishna calendar. I think, by now even you people know that my thought has some business with Radha Krishna. Yes, indeed…its them. Whenever we talk of a loving couple, we say Radha Krishna ki jodi. Whenever we talk of immortal love, its again Radha Krishna. But Krishna didn’t marry Radha. And Radha married Ayanaghosh/Chandrasena (thank God! its just one as according to some texts, Krishna had 16,108 wives, of which eight were chief-including Rukmini, Satyabhama,Jambavati). I guess, as they didn’t register marriages those days, we are not in a position to trace the exact record.
Now, as a mere mortal am asking…what was the exact relationship between Radha and Krishna. Technically, as both of them were married, the word paramour does come to the scene. (oops! unintentional blasphemy..pardon me)
Our society doesn’t approve relationships outside marriage to be legal. If proved, a person would be held guilty and punished. And this is the same society which swears on Radha Krishna’s relationship.(confusing contradiction)
There might be some logic behind Krishna's not marrying Radha (please enlighten me on this..).But why do we worship and swear on a relationship which had been an extramarital one?
(unlike other posts, couldn’t find an answer to this..)
Remember…the thin cotton-saree-clad Kalyani (Nutan) asking for a dark skin in this beautiful song from Bimal Roy’s Bandini.
Gone are those days…its not that I had doubts…after all since ages we have been proving our fixation towards fair skin (Kalyani was an exception, but you see…that’s just a movie).
I guess you guys have checked the desi version of Ponds Flawless White…actually I don’t have much access to the thing called television, heard it on the radio…and made it a point to see the video of the advertisement…its called Ponds White Beauty kabhie kabhie pyar mein—featuring Bollywood stars Saif Ali Khan, Priyanka Chopra and Neha Dhupia. The drama goes as..Priyanka and Saif were once together, then after 3 years…Priyanka is shown carrying a halfheart shaped locket (needless to mention, the other half of the locket was with Saif) and along with that flame for him. Saif proposes Neha, but he also has feelings for Priyanka (more after seeing her white glowing skin…). The complete advertisement comes in 5 episodes…now in the final video…we witness… a mesmerized Saif after seeing Priyanka’s glowing white skin in the escalator…follows Priyanka (but not before getting a tight slap from Neha)..and with that followed the usual senti stuff…rona dhona and manana…and the happily ever after kind…
So, I guess…even you guys have this in mind that all this time what was keeping them apart?
Pop goes the answer-Comparatively ‘dark-skinned’ Priyanka (in polite words-wheatish complexion) lost out to the ‘fair-skinned’ Neha. But with Ponds help (a glowing fair skin), she got her man…err…love back.
Dhingra Children’s Classics—there runs a rapid snapshot in my mind…a little fat, stout, square chocolate box like book…generally, in red, yellow, blue, green…the Jugani book stall…the only shop, where one can buy English classics and novels…along with the Hardy Boys, Nancy Drews, Secret Sevens, Dreamland publications and not to forget TinTin (for Tinkle, Chandamama, Amar Chitra Katha, Champak-we had this stall called Arunodoi) in a sleepy place called sivsagar…and am talking of 1990-91. And with it…I relive one of the most fascinating episodes of my childhood—The Last of the Mohicans.
I remember the green cover…the picture of the last Mohican inside a square…below that, the name- James Fenimore Cooper and above Dhingra Children’s Classics. And what I don’t remember is that The Last of the Mohicans is a novel set in the 1700s, with the third year of war between England and France for the possession of the continent as the backdrop. I further don’t remember… the massacre of British troops, women and children by General Montcalm's Indian allies after the British surrender of Fort William Henry to the French on 9th August 1757. And I also don’t remember that the theme of this book was the conflict between civilization, savagery, and nature itself…on one hand, the societal obligation to act in a civilized manner and on the other giving in to the primitive urge to brutally destroy the fellow human beings.
I don’t remember these but I still love the book, actually more than the book I was in love with the name of the book (Children love exotic names you see and those days…I guess, I was barely 10-11, so maybe that justifies why I don’t remember so many things;-)). But I do remember Uncas, Chingachgook, Hawkeye, Munro’s daughters, Major Duncan Hayward and last but not the least Magua (they were there in my mind…but after watching its adaptation, the characters with their names have comfortably taken the backseats with their seat belts on in my frontal…nah…temporal lobe). I would like to suggest… if you guys have sweet memories attached with the book (as in when you were a child)…don’t go for the movie. There is a lot of violence in this movie. The violence is not unnecessary given the backdrop of the film. But the gruesome graphical presentation of violence might just take away the childhood charm. Moreover, it was not Cora and Hawkeye but Alice and Uncas…who were in love in the novel. As a child I had this question in mind and unluckily its still there…why did Alice commit suicide?? I would never forget what Tamnund said ‘…..have I lived to see the last warrior of the wise race of the Mohicans’ (boohoo..he had but I haven’t). But I have successfully lived to relive… a little fat, stout, square chocolate box like book…generally, in red, yellow, blue, green…my very own… Dhingra Children’s Classics.
(Personally, I neither know Rashmi nor Vijayshankar…I shudder at the thought …what this lady had to face …the pain, the unimaginable loss…for some others negligence…this can happen to anyone…can be me, can be you…I dedicate this post to Rashmi…and for her cause).
If you have skipped the link…can read the saga here.
A Small Note… and a Request
I hardly know Rashmi. In the 30-odd days since I met her, I have grown to admire her courage and strength of conviction.
As many of you know, I have grown up around doctors, and tend to shy away from lending credence to “hospital horror stories”. As you also know, I tend to be a very unemotional person. And very hard to convince.
So it’s taken me a little over a month to agree to post this. A month in which I myself have presented the medical facts to several leading gynaecologists; met the medical services director of Wockhardt in an attempt to convince the hospital to conduct an unbiased investigation; done a lot of independent reading and research of my own. My conclusion: THIS IS JUST PLAIN WRONG. Please do your bit to see that as many people as possible read it. Circulate it via email, via Facebook, and any other means you can think of. Talk about it. If it can help prevent even one more incident like this, it will have done its job. Hopefully, someone, somewhere will lend their voice to Rashmi’s.
Thanks.
Regards
Vijayashankar.
Rashmi's Story
My name is Rashmi B.T. I am 35 years old, married to an air force officer, Vivek, and have a four year old son, Dhruv, delivered by emergency Cesarean section in 2004. On March 4th, 2009, my life was changed unalterably. I lost a baby that I had carried inside me, completely healthy, for a full 41 weeks.
I understand that doctors are human, that mistakes happen. However, I have come to believe that what happened to me could have been prevented if the doctor and the hospital had provided the most basic level of care and expertise. What's worse, they refuse to take steps to prevent someone else going through the same nightmare, simply because they want to protect themselves from the possibility of litigation - something I am not interested in unless it is the only way to force them to change their protocols.
The Beginning
In June 2008, Vivek and I learnt that we were expecting our second child. The pregnancy was uneventful. I was healthy and fit. Every prenatal visit and test showed that the baby was healthy and developing well. During my 35th week, I decided to consult Dr. Latha Venkataraman at The Nest, Wockhardt's Bannerghatta Road maternity facility to see me through the rest of my pregnancy.
Despite the fact that I had already undergone a C-section, she urged me to opt for a V-BAC (Vaginal Birth After Cesarean Section) or in layman's terms, a normal delivery. She brushed aside my concerns, telling me that a second C-section would be six times more risky and assuring me that a V-BAC would be less risky and almost pain-free.
My due date was estimated as 26 Feb 2009. I visited Dr. Latha on 28 Feb. She wrote on my record: "delivery will be attended by Dr. Latha/Dr. Prabha." Since I had neither met, heard of, nor been examined by Dr. Prabha before, I was concerned. Dr. Latha explained that Dr. Prabha Ramakrishna is another consultant at Wockhardt, and that it was a hospital requirement for her to write both their names down as possible attending doctors for my labor/delivery. However, she assured me that it was just a formality, and that she would be the one to attend to me when I went into labor.
On 3 March, I visited Dr. Latha again. Since I was so far past my due date, I requested that a scan be done to check on the baby.
When I called her to read out the results of the report, she did not want to know anything other than the liquor content, though I specifically asked her if there was any other information she would require from the scan. She told me I could either wait for labor to start or choose a day to come in and have my labor induced.
The Nightmare Begins
I went into labor at 2am on 4 March, and got admitted to the hospital at 5.15am.
By 7.45 am, I was experiencing contractions less than a minute apart. Dr. Latha came and did a quick examination. I was shifted to the labor ward at 8am where I remained until 1.50p.m., under the sole care of nurse Savitha. Dr. Latha was not present at all.
A junior doctor, Dr. Shirley, was available intermittently. She spent most of the time on her cell phone, talking to her husband. She was keen to see him before he left on an 11-day vacation. A Dr. Chetna substituted for her while when she went to see her husband off.
There was no other doctor present. Dr. Prabha was called each time the fetal heart rate fell (this happened a couple of times). She was seeing outpatients and attending two other deliveries simultaneously, so she was only able to come to the labor ward to see me four times, for less than 5 minutes each time.
At 10am, I was given Syntocinon, a drug used to enhance labor; the dosage was increased at 10.45am. At 12.30, there was vaginal bleeding, and the nurse phoned Dr. Prabha, who advised her to "keep a watch". The bleeding reduced, but I began to feel pain of increasing intensity during contractions. Dr. Shirley reappeared at 1.00 p.m., examined me vaginally and announced that I was almost fully dilated and would deliver by 1.30pm. I complained several times of excruciating pain but was told that it was normal. At 1.30pm, Dr. Prabha came in and was told by Dr. Shirley that I was fully dilated and would deliver any minute. Despite that, Dr. Prabha breezed off to visit another patient in the OPD.
I felt no urge whatsoever to push, yet was asked to do so. The stirrup on the delivery table kept breaking off - I was told that this is a recurring problem that "needed attention". At 1.50 pm, the fetal heart rate dropped to 80 beats per minute. Dr. Prabha was called again. She checked the fetal heart rate on the CTG, explained that this was normal when the baby was passing through the birth canal, and asked me to hold my breath and push hard. I felt no sensation in my cervical area, but felt intense pain tearing my stomach apart. I felt like my baby had rolled into my stomach and could see its body pushing up against my ribcage. I was screaming, pointing at my stomach, and telling them that my stomach was hurting, and there was no urge to push. But she told me to "push, push harder". I then heard Dr. Prabha saying "Get the OT ready". She told my husband that she was going to attempt to deliver by forceps - if that was unsuccessful, she'd have to do a Caesarian.
The OT wasn't on standby, wasn't ready. I was numb with pain. They wanted me to get up and move to the operation table. I couldn't move. They eventually slid something under my back and I pushed myself on to the OT table, as there was no transfer stretcher available. I complained of severe shoulder and chest pain. No one paid me any attention; everyone was busy preparing the OT, and the anesthetist was attempting to top up my epidural. The fetal heart rate was never monitored in the OT. Dr. Prabha unsuccessfully attempted a forceps delivery at 2.20 p.m., and then cut me open. I heard a deafening sucking sound, after which I must have passed out.
Later, I learnt that my uterus had ruptured along the scar of my previous Caeserian section. My baby was found floating in my abdomen. He had no heartbeat and he wasn't breathing. He had been deprived of oxygen for a long time - 43 minutes. They "resuscitated" my son and put him on a ventilator.
When I opened my eyes I saw Dr. Latha leave, followed by Dr. Prabha. Dr. Shirley was suturing me while laughing and talking with another nurse. I felt reassured that my baby was okay, even though I had neither seen nor heard him.
"Don't Worry, You Can Conceive Again"
At 3.30pm, a nurse struggled to take my BP reading; the BP apparatus wasn't working and had to be replaced. Dr. Latha met Vivek at the NICU and told him that the baby was doing fine and had to be kept under observation. She also told him that my scar had ruptured, but said that I was okay. At 4.30 pm, my husband repeatedly begged the nurses to give me pain relief. I was then shifted to the ward.
At 9.30 pm the neonatologist told Vivek that the baby had been deprived of oxygen for over 40 minutes, possibly resulting in "some extent" of brain damage. This was the first inkling we had that something had gone wrong.
The next morning, I was given a sponge bath at 6am. I then lay unattended until 2.30 p.m., when Dr. Prabha, Dr. Latha, and Dr. Prakash (the neonatologist) saw me for the first time after the operation. Dr. Latha unceremoniously ripped the dressing off my wound without using any gel or spirit, and pronounced the wound clean.
We were told that our baby would be kept under observation for another 24 hours. Later that night Dr. Latha came in at 9.50pm. Her only words to me: "Don't worry, you can conceive again. Your uterus is intact."
"Do Japa and Tapa To Get Better""
None of the consultants saw me on 6 March. That night, my milk came in, and my breasts became swollen and painful. I asked in vain for assistance. After repeatedly begging for help, I sent Dr. Latha a text message at noon on 7 March. At 4pm, a nurse told me that the doctor had instructed them to use a breast pump to relieve my pain - however, since the hospital didn't have one, I would have to go and buy one.
Dr. Latha finally visited me at 7.30 pm. She confessed that she was unaware that there had been a 43 minute delay in performing my C-section. She also admitted that instructions delivered over the phone could never substitute for personal supervision. She said, and again I quote, "Do some pranayama, japa, and tapa to help you get better."
Throughout my stay, nurses didn't know what medication I had been prescribed. They kept asking me what medication I was to be given. They had to be repeatedly reminded to give me medication.
For the next 13 days, Arnav was in the NICU on a ventilator. Throughout that time, he was completely reliant on ventilator support, his eyes were dilated and non-responsive to light, and there was no sign of movement. After a week, the neonatologist asked me to express milk and said they would feed the baby with a pipe inserted from his nose to the stomach. I did this for the next six days.
On 16 March, we decided to let Arnav go. We requested that he be removed from life support.
"We Would Do Exactly The Same For The Next Patient Who Walks In"
Vivek and I wanted to learn what had gone wrong with such a healthy pregnancy. Basic reading indicated that scar rupture is a well-known risk when you attempt to deliver vaginally after a first C-section, and must therefore be monitored very closely by a doctor if attempted at all.
We met with the hospital administration and the doctors. All we wanted was an explanation. To hear the words, "I made an error in judgment". Instead, we were met with a wall of defensiveness. Dr. Latha said that despite knowing the outcome, she would take exactly the same steps with the next patient who walked through her door.
I decided to get a second opinion. And then a third, and a fourth, and a fifth. Three of Bangalore's best-known gynaecologists (and other doctors too) categorically stated that given my age (35), the estimated weight of the baby (> 4 kilos), and the duration of gestation (>40 weeks), a vaginal birth should never have been attempted, and scar rupture was a logical, obvious outcome.
All reading I have done has backed this up. Even a layperson's book like "What to expect when you are expecting" (pages 363-364) says that abdominal pain during a V-BAC indicates a scar rupture and outlines the procedure for safe delivery of the baby. Given that I was complaining of excruciating abdominal pain, shoulder pain and chest pain, the doctor should have known my scar was rupturing. I should never have been asked to push; it exacerbated the rupture. Nor should I have been given a drug that intensified my contractions. By Dr. Prabha's own admission, she did not know about the rupture until she opened me up.
Several doctors have also told us that keeping Arnav on the ventilator for 13 days was an exercise in futility from the first. At no point were we told that he would never survive if taken off the ventilator - had we known that, we would never have subjected him, or ourselves to two weeks of anguish. All we were told was that he "might be" brain damaged to "some extent" but they couldn't predict how bad it would be.
A Brick Wall of Defensiveness; Discrepancies Galore
When I attempted to engage with the hospital to ask them to change their protocol of treatment based on an unbiased review conducted with the inputs of external gynecologists, I was met with a brick wall of defensiveness. They refused to conduct a fair, transparent investigation, claiming that their internal investigation showed that they had done everything right and that losing the baby was "my destiny". Dr. Latha went so far as to say that since I am educated, I should have been better informed about the procedure.
I don't want to sue them for money. I just want them to change their policies and protocols so that this doesn't happen to someone else. I have been hitting a brick wall for two months, and feel that the only way to make them pay attention is to tell my story to people.
There are many discrepancies and attempts to cover up the hospital's inefficiency (to name a few: baby's weight recorded as 3Kg despite the fact that he was never weighed; post-facto note of fetal heart rate as 180bpm despite the fact that the heart rate was never monitored in the OT; discharge summary says "live term baby extracted" even though Arnav had no heartbeat or respiration at birth; half-hour discrepancy between CTG trace and labor room clock). I asked questions to which I was given ludicrous answers (Eg: Our pediatrician is very experienced, so he can guess the weight of any baby just by looking at it).
We were charged approximately Rs. 2,20,000 by Wockhardt. Of this, we found over Rs. 7000 billed for things that had never been done (spinal anesthetic, an extra day of room rent, food not consumed). We subsequently found more extraneous charges, amongst them an amount billed for tests that were performed on 18 March, two days after Arnav's death.
My Story Has Just Begun...
My uterus is still healing. My back still hurts from the trauma. And my heart aches for Arnav, the baby I will never hold.
More than that, I am filled with the fear that this will happen again. After all, Dr. Latha says she would "do exactly the same again" even though she knows the outcome. And the hospital agrees that she - and they - did everything right.
Wockhardt delivers approximately 80 babies each month. With BP machines that don't work, a delivery room stirrup that's falling off and that has "needed to be fixed for a while", nurses who don't know what medication they are supposed to administer, and one (yes ONE) OT dedicated to emergency deliveries. That OT wasn't ready when I needed it. What guarantee do you have that it will be ready when you need it? Sure, they claim to have nine other OTs in the hospital - but if they are all as woefully unprepared as the one I was in, my story could be yours.
I want them to change their policies, and I won't give up until they do.
I stashed the sleek tiny phone in my kurta pocket and sat in the cab…a melancholic me (after all, was going to the airport to see off an old fren…umm…now…fiancé). He followed me. It was a good thirty minute drive from Aravali to the domestic airport. He took my hand and was rubbing it as he was holding it. We spoke a bit with pauses…ellipsis…a faint try to act funny trying to make the best of a not so happy situation (pardon me for the sappiness…we humans tend to get ‘sappy’ at ‘goodbye’ times).
The situation continued even at the airport…a sad me looking here and there…just to avoid eye contact with him. In order to continue the process of avoiding…I wanted to concentrate at my cell phone. I searched the pocket of my kurta…then purse, hand bag…he called up the cab guy…no… it was not even there. It was time for him to check in. It was a full blown horror when I finally realized it was indeed gone…and the kohl ran down my lower lash line as I got teary eyed (more…thinking about blocking the sim card, FIR to retain the same no., gathering back the contacts, and at the loss of miscellaneous info. stored there).
As I was coming back from the airport, I kept thinking...saying goodbye had maximally been an emotional affair…only the intensity of the emotions vary with the change of individuals. ‘In many respects, its simply time to move on’…I kept repeating these words…ya...to move on to a new phone (can there be better consoling...rather.. comforting words?).
As I was flipping through the pages of today’s newspaper, my eyes rested on the left side of page no. 3—Kamala Das passes away. It was just a week back, after reading Mamoni Raisom Goswami’s book ‘dastawezor notun prishtha,’ (wherein she dedicated a chapter on her relationship with Kamala Das and Das as a person) I was discussing her with a close friend of mine. And after maybe half an hour, we both (me n my fren) agreed that the lady is bold, brainy and beautiful. A lady, without overtly popping up the middle finger (as it has become a norm today), proved that she is beyond the rules contrived by the society.
I admired her, not for the perfect imagery and symbolism in her work… but for her ‘guts’. She brought out in her works those things which society considered to be dirty or taboo, and apparently expected the women to perform those very taboo and dirty things inside the four walls to keep the man happy.
More than prose, I felt more attached to her poetry. The Old Playhouse, The Looking Glass, A hot noon in Malabar, My Grandmother’s House… were beautiful, if not great.
Some called her a poet of ‘love and sex’ and some ‘a confessional poet.’ Some loved her and some hated her. But I bet…there’s hardly anyone who could ignore her.
The colour photographs should have a light background (preferably white) and should show the full face of the applicant frontally (size 3.5 cm * 3.5 cm)…
Apara read these lines for the third time. Without asking anyone ...from the first to the last…Apara hasn’t filled up a form. Is she incapable or has it become a habit…even at the bank, she would confirm …the blue one is for draft, the green one is for depositing money..though in these thirty nine years , she had done it at least more than fifty times…but, till the last column of the form, she makes it a point.. to ask or rather..confirm. Maybe this has become a habit, she surmised.
Block letters. Name in full…as she filled up, she thought…Aparajita Sharma…its been eighteen or is it nineteen years…she has not heard the name Aparajita Trivedi. That was the year she graduated, she was planning of applying for her masters…but Nirbhai’s proposal was too tempting for her Parents too resist…good family, good job…what more can her parents expect. she, by nature, was never a rebel. Thus, she closed all the possibilities of becoming Aparajita Shrivastav…Bimaan…ya Bimaan Shrivastav was after all her classmate…they studied together for seven years…same school, same college…but they hardly ever spoke for more than five minutes. She remembers…his deep, lost eyes which she felt were trying to say something…later on, after marriage, Apara tried finding those unsaid things of Bimaan’s eyes in her husband Nirbhai’s eyes…unfortunately, in all these years, she never found those unsaid things in Nirbhai’s wandering eyes. Apara moved her eyes towards the roadside window…its 10 in the morning…people are busy rushing to their respective offices. Usually, Apara cannot afford time to stand near the window at this hour…she has to prepare Nirbhai’s breakfast, after Naman moved to the other city for his engineering course, its been less hectic. As she was devouring the sight at the road with her hungry eyes…Apara had a feeling that maybe Bimaan would be one among those people…little bald…one-two grey hair…enquiring Aparajita Trivedi’s address at the Mother Dairy…oh! How foolish of him, she chuckled in mild amusement…people know her as Mrs. Sharma or Mrs. Aparajita Nirbhai Sharma. Apara thought …maybe he has cross the road, taken the turn, now some twenty steps, and there he opens the gate…and… the bell rang. Apara stood still for a moment….she needed some fresh air…she thought... and went towards the door to open it…. ‘madam, meter check karna hain…’. Apara silently opened the meter box for them.
Coming back to her incomplete form…Apara realised…she made a mistake…its…Name in full. (Block letters). Surname first….Apara took out another Photostat copy of the form, she has three in her hand bag, she needs this job, and filled— Sharma Aparajita…
