Guest guest Posted May 10, 2011 Report Share Posted May 10, 2011 Such an amazing n v touching article , I read all your letters, you are a gifted writer and hope you will keep writing . Good luck and god bless . Regds Sent from my iPhone > Dear Manish, > > I am reproducing that article here. > > MY SON, THE DOCTOR > > The telegram was simple and terse. “Mother sick. Come immediately.†In those > days, we did not have mobile phones. The only quick way of communication was > by telegram. Quick meant at least a 12-hour delay. > > I had just lost my father a few months ago, so this telegram had come to me > as a shock. I rushed to the head of department, where I was doing my post > graduation, and took the necessary permission. > > Travelling by train, even with reservations, is a bit of a torture. Without > reservations, it is pure hell. But as I sat on a quarter of a seat, > rhythmically shaking my way back home, my mind was not on my physical > difficulties. What did that telegram mean? > > On the one hand, I was terrified. I had recently lost my father. I did not > want to be an orphan. The mere thought scared me stiff. However, on the > other hand, I consoled myself, that the telegram said ‘sick’. If my mother > were very sick, it would have said ‘serious’. She had a touch of > hypertension and a little bit of Diabetes. But these were merely routine > diseases. As a doctor, I knew that they could kill occasionally, but her > levels were never frightening. The only major operation that she had was a > hysterectomy, and that had been long ago. The long journey seemed > interminable that day. > > As the train finally chugged home, I was amongst the first guys to rush out. > Why did the rickshaw man take so long to start his vehicle? Why did that > idiotic cyclist have to drive so irresponsibly, inevitable slowing us down? > Why did all the traffic signals have to turn red at our approach? Why was > the shorter road dug up by the municipal authorities, making us take the > longer route? I kept asking myself questions that had no answers, anything > to keep my mind off the approaching confrontation with truth. > > As I touched home, my aunt woke up and told me that that mother was admitted > in the nearby hospital. She forced me to wash my face, at least, before I > could rush off. > > The cold, sterile and utilitarian atmosphere of the hospital is not meant to > soothe the agitated mind of a relative, but then what can? I finally located > the room where she was admitted. As I barged into the room, there she was > coolly biting into a laddoo. I did not know whether to laugh or to cry. > There I was, rushing post haste, leaving all my work and studies, expecting > my mother to be on an iv drip at least. And here she was enjoying a laddoo! > I was mildly irritated, but a bit relieved too. > > I hugged her and gently taking the laddoo from her reminded her of her > diabetes. She said, “Don’t worry. I ate just one. Mrs. Joshi here has a > wonderful daughter who makes delightful dishes. By the way, Mrs Joshi,†she > said to the adjoining patient, “This is my son, the doctor. Now that he is > here, I shall become well fast.†> > I nodded perfunctionarily at the neighbour, who was middle aged just like my > mother and gave me a wide smile. I guessed that these two old ladies were > already plotting my marriage with Mrs. Joshi’s daughter. But I was more > concerned about my mother’s illness than about my future connubial choices. > > A doctor’s life is full of ironies. As I stared at the case notes of my > mother, I realized that the Gynaecologist, who had taken out her uterus a > few years ago, had blundered. He had tied one of her ureters by mistake, > leading to the stoppage of function of one of her kidneys. I was studying to > be a Gynaecologist and here was my mother suffering from the mistake of one > of my colleagues! The failed kidney had lead to hypertension and she was > scheduled for a kidney removal the next day. (To this day, whenever I > perform a hysterectomy, I am extra careful with the ureters.) > > I felt a bit cheated. This must have been planned a while ago, but I was > informed at the last moment, putting all my studies and plans into a dither. > I told my mother to relax and went to discuss her case with the > doctor-in-charge. He assured me that except for a slightly high level of > sugar (laddoos!) there was nothing to worry, and the operation was expected > to be pretty much routine. > > When I returned to my mother’s bed, there was a strange old man sitting on > the chair. My mom’s face lit up when she saw me. “Come! Come, Kishore! Mr. > Pujari, this is my son, the doctor. Now that he is here, you have nothing to > worry about. Kishore, Mr. Pujari here is a retired bank manager, and he has > this slipped disc, which doctors want to operate. I told him that you just > wait for my son. He will cure you with medicine alone.†> > For every Mum, her child is special. How could I explain to her that I had > just passed my MBBS and pitting me against seasoned Ortho consultants was > like an India Bangladesh match. I knew I was not India. However, I promised > Mr. Pujari that I would look up his X rays before advising him (to follow > his doctor’s advice). “And Mom, keep that laddoo down. You are not even > supposed to look at it.†> > She took a generous bite and said, “When they are made of love, these things > do not harm anyone.†Swallowing the large piece, she added, “I have also > called Nirmala from the next ward. She has this blood pressure, which does > not respond to usual medicine. I told her you could cure her in a jiffy.†> > I decided to return home to rest, before my mother directed all the patients > of the hospital to my ad hoc consulting room by her bedside. > > =.=.=.=.= > I must have slept like a log. All that sudden travel must have tired me. My > aunt was in the hospital with my mother. So I woke up with a start when the > phone began ringing. I glanced blearily at the clock, it said 5 o clock in > the morning. When I picked up the phone, all I could hear were my aunt’s > frantic sobs. Then she managed to say, “Kishore, come down here immediately. > Something is happening to her.†> > I don’t know what I wore, and I do not know how I reached the hospital. It > was all a blur. There was a group of doctors standing around my mother’s > bed. I rushed to her side. One doctor pushed me aside, but I shouted, “I am > a doctor.†> > An orange tube extruded from my mother’s mouth and some one was pumping a > balloon. Someone was hearing her heart sounds and nodding negatively. I > grabbed the stethoscope, but only silence greeted my ears. I put both my > palms on her chest and started rhythmically pumping her with a lot of force. > > There was no time for tears. There was no time for emotions. I was > mechanically pushing, willing with all my being for her heart to start up. I > don’t know how long I kept at this futile exercise, but I remember that I > had to be pulled away from her by the doctors. > > I stood numbly aside, as they started dismantling all the resuscitation > equipment. My aunt was sobbing and telling me that my mother had got up > early in the morning to go to the bathroom and had slipped in the bathroom > itself. I was only half listening. I did not even bother to tell my aunt > that probably my mother had suffered from an embolus, and she had died even > as she fell. > > As they were covering my mother’s lifeless body, I did not feel sad. I only > felt numb. I also felt very frightened. Now I was the oldest in my family. > All responsibility was mine. Would I be able to cope up? > > I went to the hospital phone to inform my relatives. My Uncle assured me > that he would come immediately and he would inform all the others. I slowly > replaced the phone, and walked with slow steps back to the room where my > mother’s warm body was cooling. A voice said, “You have nothing to worry. My > son, the doctor is here.†I looked around, but the corridor was empty. > > Kishore Shah 1974 > > Quote Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
Guest guest Posted May 10, 2011 Report Share Posted May 10, 2011 Wow -That was a lovely article-as all others you have written. Archana' 82 To: mgims From: kshahsky@... Date: Tue, 10 May 2011 11:24:14 +0530 Subject: My Son, the Doctor Dear Manish, I am reproducing that article here. MY SON, THE DOCTOR The telegram was simple and terse. “Mother sick. Come immediately.” In those days, we did not have mobile phones. The only quick way of communication was by telegram. Quick meant at least a 12-hour delay. I had just lost my father a few months ago, so this telegram had come to me as a shock. I rushed to the head of department, where I was doing my post graduation, and took the necessary permission. Travelling by train, even with reservations, is a bit of a torture. Without reservations, it is pure hell. But as I sat on a quarter of a seat, rhythmically shaking my way back home, my mind was not on my physical difficulties. What did that telegram mean? On the one hand, I was terrified. I had recently lost my father. I did not want to be an orphan. The mere thought scared me stiff. However, on the other hand, I consoled myself, that the telegram said ‘sick’. If my mother were very sick, it would have said ‘serious’. She had a touch of hypertension and a little bit of Diabetes. But these were merely routine diseases. As a doctor, I knew that they could kill occasionally, but her levels were never frightening. The only major operation that she had was a hysterectomy, and that had been long ago. The long journey seemed interminable that day. As the train finally chugged home, I was amongst the first guys to rush out. Why did the rickshaw man take so long to start his vehicle? Why did that idiotic cyclist have to drive so irresponsibly, inevitable slowing us down? Why did all the traffic signals have to turn red at our approach? Why was the shorter road dug up by the municipal authorities, making us take the longer route? I kept asking myself questions that had no answers, anything to keep my mind off the approaching confrontation with truth. As I touched home, my aunt woke up and told me that that mother was admitted in the nearby hospital. She forced me to wash my face, at least, before I could rush off. The cold, sterile and utilitarian atmosphere of the hospital is not meant to soothe the agitated mind of a relative, but then what can? I finally located the room where she was admitted. As I barged into the room, there she was coolly biting into a laddoo. I did not know whether to laugh or to cry. There I was, rushing post haste, leaving all my work and studies, expecting my mother to be on an iv drip at least. And here she was enjoying a laddoo! I was mildly irritated, but a bit relieved too. I hugged her and gently taking the laddoo from her reminded her of her diabetes. She said, “Don’t worry. I ate just one. Mrs. Joshi here has a wonderful daughter who makes delightful dishes. By the way, Mrs Joshi,” she said to the adjoining patient, “This is my son, the doctor. Now that he is here, I shall become well fast.” I nodded perfunctionarily at the neighbour, who was middle aged just like my mother and gave me a wide smile. I guessed that these two old ladies were already plotting my marriage with Mrs. Joshi’s daughter. But I was more concerned about my mother’s illness than about my future connubial choices. A doctor’s life is full of ironies. As I stared at the case notes of my mother, I realized that the Gynaecologist, who had taken out her uterus a few years ago, had blundered. He had tied one of her ureters by mistake, leading to the stoppage of function of one of her kidneys. I was studying to be a Gynaecologist and here was my mother suffering from the mistake of one of my colleagues! The failed kidney had lead to hypertension and she was scheduled for a kidney removal the next day. (To this day, whenever I perform a hysterectomy, I am extra careful with the ureters.) I felt a bit cheated. This must have been planned a while ago, but I was informed at the last moment, putting all my studies and plans into a dither. I told my mother to relax and went to discuss her case with the doctor-in-charge. He assured me that except for a slightly high level of sugar (laddoos!) there was nothing to worry, and the operation was expected to be pretty much routine. When I returned to my mother’s bed, there was a strange old man sitting on the chair. My mom’s face lit up when she saw me. “Come! Come, Kishore! Mr. Pujari, this is my son, the doctor. Now that he is here, you have nothing to worry about. Kishore, Mr. Pujari here is a retired bank manager, and he has this slipped disc, which doctors want to operate. I told him that you just wait for my son. He will cure you with medicine alone.” For every Mum, her child is special. How could I explain to her that I had just passed my MBBS and pitting me against seasoned Ortho consultants was like an India Bangladesh match. I knew I was not India. However, I promised Mr. Pujari that I would look up his X rays before advising him (to follow his doctor’s advice). “And Mom, keep that laddoo down. You are not even supposed to look at it.” She took a generous bite and said, “When they are made of love, these things do not harm anyone.” Swallowing the large piece, she added, “I have also called Nirmala from the next ward. She has this blood pressure, which does not respond to usual medicine. I told her you could cure her in a jiffy.” I decided to return home to rest, before my mother directed all the patients of the hospital to my ad hoc consulting room by her bedside. =.=.=.=.= I must have slept like a log. All that sudden travel must have tired me. My aunt was in the hospital with my mother. So I woke up with a start when the phone began ringing. I glanced blearily at the clock, it said 5 o clock in the morning. When I picked up the phone, all I could hear were my aunt’s frantic sobs. Then she managed to say, “Kishore, come down here immediately. Something is happening to her.” I don’t know what I wore, and I do not know how I reached the hospital. It was all a blur. There was a group of doctors standing around my mother’s bed. I rushed to her side. One doctor pushed me aside, but I shouted, “I am a doctor.” An orange tube extruded from my mother’s mouth and some one was pumping a balloon. Someone was hearing her heart sounds and nodding negatively. I grabbed the stethoscope, but only silence greeted my ears. I put both my palms on her chest and started rhythmically pumping her with a lot of force. There was no time for tears. There was no time for emotions. I was mechanically pushing, willing with all my being for her heart to start up. I don’t know how long I kept at this futile exercise, but I remember that I had to be pulled away from her by the doctors. I stood numbly aside, as they started dismantling all the resuscitation equipment. My aunt was sobbing and telling me that my mother had got up early in the morning to go to the bathroom and had slipped in the bathroom itself. I was only half listening. I did not even bother to tell my aunt that probably my mother had suffered from an embolus, and she had died even as she fell. As they were covering my mother’s lifeless body, I did not feel sad. I only felt numb. I also felt very frightened. Now I was the oldest in my family. All responsibility was mine. Would I be able to cope up? I went to the hospital phone to inform my relatives. My Uncle assured me that he would come immediately and he would inform all the others. I slowly replaced the phone, and walked with slow steps back to the room where my mother’s warm body was cooling. A voice said, “You have nothing to worry. My son, the doctor is here.” I looked around, but the corridor was empty. Kishore Shah 1974 Quote Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
Guest guest Posted May 10, 2011 Report Share Posted May 10, 2011 That is a beautifully written piece. So true. the amount of pride a parent has in their child's success. Even today when I go for a walk with Dad in Kothrud all his regular sabziwali, kelawala, batata vada uncle etc know me as his 'mulgi' - the doctor who is in London - America. I cannot for the life of me think why all assume london is in America- is it because most puneris are in america (software)? I am often embarrassed by this introduction but all my protests have not stopped dad. It is always saddening when a loved one dies/is hurt because of something that went wrong. Take care. Malini From: mgims [mailto:mgims ] On Behalf Of Shah Sent: 10 May 2011 06:54 To: mgims Subject: My Son, the Doctor Dear Manish, I am reproducing that article here. MY SON, THE DOCTOR The telegram was simple and terse. “Mother sick. Come immediately.†In those days, we did not have mobile phones. The only quick way of communication was by telegram. Quick meant at least a 12-hour delay. I had just lost my father a few months ago, so this telegram had come to me as a shock. I rushed to the head of department, where I was doing my post graduation, and took the necessary permission. Travelling by train, even with reservations, is a bit of a torture. Without reservations, it is pure hell. But as I sat on a quarter of a seat, rhythmically shaking my way back home, my mind was not on my physical difficulties. What did that telegram mean? On the one hand, I was terrified. I had recently lost my father. I did not want to be an orphan. The mere thought scared me stiff. However, on the other hand, I consoled myself, that the telegram said ‘sick’. If my mother were very sick, it would have said ‘serious’. She had a touch of hypertension and a little bit of Diabetes. But these were merely routine diseases. As a doctor, I knew that they could kill occasionally, but her levels were never frightening. The only major operation that she had was a hysterectomy, and that had been long ago. The long journey seemed interminable that day. As the train finally chugged home, I was amongst the first guys to rush out. Why did the rickshaw man take so long to start his vehicle? Why did that idiotic cyclist have to drive so irresponsibly, inevitable slowing us down? Why did all the traffic signals have to turn red at our approach? Why was the shorter road dug up by the municipal authorities, making us take the longer route? I kept asking myself questions that had no answers, anything to keep my mind off the approaching confrontation with truth. As I touched home, my aunt woke up and told me that that mother was admitted in the nearby hospital. She forced me to wash my face, at least, before I could rush off. The cold, sterile and utilitarian atmosphere of the hospital is not meant to soothe the agitated mind of a relative, but then what can? I finally located the room where she was admitted. As I barged into the room, there she was coolly biting into a laddoo. I did not know whether to laugh or to cry. There I was, rushing post haste, leaving all my work and studies, expecting my mother to be on an iv drip at least. And here she was enjoying a laddoo! I was mildly irritated, but a bit relieved too. I hugged her and gently taking the laddoo from her reminded her of her diabetes. She said, “Don’t worry. I ate just one. Mrs. Joshi here has a wonderful daughter who makes delightful dishes. By the way, Mrs Joshi,†she said to the adjoining patient, “This is my son, the doctor. Now that he is here, I shall become well fast.†I nodded perfunctionarily at the neighbour, who was middle aged just like my mother and gave me a wide smile. I guessed that these two old ladies were already plotting my marriage with Mrs. Joshi’s daughter. But I was more concerned about my mother’s illness than about my future connubial choices. A doctor’s life is full of ironies. As I stared at the case notes of my mother, I realized that the Gynaecologist, who had taken out her uterus a few years ago, had blundered. He had tied one of her ureters by mistake, leading to the stoppage of function of one of her kidneys. I was studying to be a Gynaecologist and here was my mother suffering from the mistake of one of my colleagues! The failed kidney had lead to hypertension and she was scheduled for a kidney removal the next day. (To this day, whenever I perform a hysterectomy, I am extra careful with the ureters.) I felt a bit cheated. This must have been planned a while ago, but I was informed at the last moment, putting all my studies and plans into a dither. I told my mother to relax and went to discuss her case with the doctor-in-charge. He assured me that except for a slightly high level of sugar (laddoos!) there was nothing to worry, and the operation was expected to be pretty much routine. When I returned to my mother’s bed, there was a strange old man sitting on the chair. My mom’s face lit up when she saw me. “Come! Come, Kishore! Mr. Pujari, this is my son, the doctor. Now that he is here, you have nothing to worry about. Kishore, Mr. Pujari here is a retired bank manager, and he has this slipped disc, which doctors want to operate. I told him that you just wait for my son. He will cure you with medicine alone.†For every Mum, her child is special. How could I explain to her that I had just passed my MBBS and pitting me against seasoned Ortho consultants was like an India Bangladesh match. I knew I was not India. However, I promised Mr. Pujari that I would look up his X rays before advising him (to follow his doctor’s advice). “And Mom, keep that laddoo down. You are not even supposed to look at it.†She took a generous bite and said, “When they are made of love, these things do not harm anyone.†Swallowing the large piece, she added, “I have also called Nirmala from the next ward. She has this blood pressure, which does not respond to usual medicine. I told her you could cure her in a jiffy.†I decided to return home to rest, before my mother directed all the patients of the hospital to my ad hoc consulting room by her bedside. =.=.=.=.= I must have slept like a log. All that sudden travel must have tired me. My aunt was in the hospital with my mother. So I woke up with a start when the phone began ringing. I glanced blearily at the clock, it said 5 o clock in the morning. When I picked up the phone, all I could hear were my aunt’s frantic sobs. Then she managed to say, “Kishore, come down here immediately. Something is happening to her.†I don’t know what I wore, and I do not know how I reached the hospital. It was all a blur. There was a group of doctors standing around my mother’s bed. I rushed to her side. One doctor pushed me aside, but I shouted, “I am a doctor.†An orange tube extruded from my mother’s mouth and some one was pumping a balloon. Someone was hearing her heart sounds and nodding negatively. I grabbed the stethoscope, but only silence greeted my ears. I put both my palms on her chest and started rhythmically pumping her with a lot of force. There was no time for tears. There was no time for emotions. I was mechanically pushing, willing with all my being for her heart to start up. I don’t know how long I kept at this futile exercise, but I remember that I had to be pulled away from her by the doctors. I stood numbly aside, as they started dismantling all the resuscitation equipment. My aunt was sobbing and telling me that my mother had got up early in the morning to go to the bathroom and had slipped in the bathroom itself. I was only half listening. I did not even bother to tell my aunt that probably my mother had suffered from an embolus, and she had died even as she fell. As they were covering my mother’s lifeless body, I did not feel sad. I only felt numb. I also felt very frightened. Now I was the oldest in my family. All responsibility was mine. Would I be able to cope up? I went to the hospital phone to inform my relatives. My Uncle assured me that he would come immediately and he would inform all the others. I slowly replaced the phone, and walked with slow steps back to the room where my mother’s warm body was cooling. A voice said, “You have nothing to worry. My son, the doctor is here.†I looked around, but the corridor was empty. Kishore Shah 1974 Quote Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
Guest guest Posted May 11, 2011 Report Share Posted May 11, 2011 Dear Kishor,Very heart touching article!VK Gupta76 Subject: My Son, the Doctor To: mgims Date: Tuesday, 10 May, 2011, 5:54 AM  Dear Manish, I am reproducing that article here. MY SON, THE DOCTOR The telegram was simple and terse. “Mother sick. Come immediately.†In those days, we did not have mobile phones. The only quick way of communication was by telegram. Quick meant at least a 12-hour delay. I had just lost my father a few months ago, so this telegram had come to me as a shock. I rushed to the head of department, where I was doing my post graduation, and took the necessary permission. Travelling by train, even with reservations, is a bit of a torture. Without reservations, it is pure hell. But as I sat on a quarter of a seat, rhythmically shaking my way back home, my mind was not on my physical difficulties. What did that telegram mean? On the one hand, I was terrified. I had recently lost my father. I did not want to be an orphan. The mere thought scared me stiff. However, on the other hand, I consoled myself, that the telegram said ‘sick’. If my mother were very sick, it would have said ‘serious’. She had a touch of hypertension and a little bit of Diabetes. But these were merely routine diseases. As a doctor, I knew that they could kill occasionally, but her levels were never frightening. The only major operation that she had was a hysterectomy, and that had been long ago. The long journey seemed interminable that day. As the train finally chugged home, I was amongst the first guys to rush out. Why did the rickshaw man take so long to start his vehicle? Why did that idiotic cyclist have to drive so irresponsibly, inevitable slowing us down? Why did all the traffic signals have to turn red at our approach? Why was the shorter road dug up by the municipal authorities, making us take the longer route? I kept asking myself questions that had no answers, anything to keep my mind off the approaching confrontation with truth. As I touched home, my aunt woke up and told me that that mother was admitted in the nearby hospital. She forced me to wash my face, at least, before I could rush off. The cold, sterile and utilitarian atmosphere of the hospital is not meant to soothe the agitated mind of a relative, but then what can? I finally located the room where she was admitted. As I barged into the room, there she was coolly biting into a laddoo. I did not know whether to laugh or to cry. There I was, rushing post haste, leaving all my work and studies, expecting my mother to be on an iv drip at least. And here she was enjoying a laddoo! I was mildly irritated, but a bit relieved too. I hugged her and gently taking the laddoo from her reminded her of her diabetes. She said, “Don’t worry. I ate just one. Mrs. Joshi here has a wonderful daughter who makes delightful dishes. By the way, Mrs Joshi,†she said to the adjoining patient, “This is my son, the doctor. Now that he is here, I shall become well fast.†I nodded perfunctionarily at the neighbour, who was middle aged just like my mother and gave me a wide smile. I guessed that these two old ladies were already plotting my marriage with Mrs. Joshi’s daughter. But I was more concerned about my mother’s illness than about my future connubial choices. A doctor’s life is full of ironies. As I stared at the case notes of my mother, I realized that the Gynaecologist, who had taken out her uterus a few years ago, had blundered. He had tied one of her ureters by mistake, leading to the stoppage of function of one of her kidneys. I was studying to be a Gynaecologist and here was my mother suffering from the mistake of one of my colleagues! The failed kidney had lead to hypertension and she was scheduled for a kidney removal the next day. (To this day, whenever I perform a hysterectomy, I am extra careful with the ureters.) I felt a bit cheated. This must have been planned a while ago, but I was informed at the last moment, putting all my studies and plans into a dither. I told my mother to relax and went to discuss her case with the doctor-in-charge. He assured me that except for a slightly high level of sugar (laddoos!) there was nothing to worry, and the operation was expected to be pretty much routine. When I returned to my mother’s bed, there was a strange old man sitting on the chair. My mom’s face lit up when she saw me. “Come! Come, Kishore! Mr. Pujari, this is my son, the doctor. Now that he is here, you have nothing to worry about. Kishore, Mr. Pujari here is a retired bank manager, and he has this slipped disc, which doctors want to operate. I told him that you just wait for my son. He will cure you with medicine alone.†For every Mum, her child is special. How could I explain to her that I had just passed my MBBS and pitting me against seasoned Ortho consultants was like an India Bangladesh match. I knew I was not India. However, I promised Mr. Pujari that I would look up his X rays before advising him (to follow his doctor’s advice). “And Mom, keep that laddoo down. You are not even supposed to look at it.†She took a generous bite and said, “When they are made of love, these things do not harm anyone.†Swallowing the large piece, she added, “I have also called Nirmala from the next ward. She has this blood pressure, which does not respond to usual medicine. I told her you could cure her in a jiffy.†I decided to return home to rest, before my mother directed all the patients of the hospital to my ad hoc consulting room by her bedside. =.=.=.=.= I must have slept like a log. All that sudden travel must have tired me. My aunt was in the hospital with my mother. So I woke up with a start when the phone began ringing. I glanced blearily at the clock, it said 5 o clock in the morning. When I picked up the phone, all I could hear were my aunt’s frantic sobs. Then she managed to say, “Kishore, come down here immediately. Something is happening to her.†I don’t know what I wore, and I do not know how I reached the hospital. It was all a blur. There was a group of doctors standing around my mother’s bed. I rushed to her side. One doctor pushed me aside, but I shouted, “I am a doctor.†An orange tube extruded from my mother’s mouth and some one was pumping a balloon. Someone was hearing her heart sounds and nodding negatively. I grabbed the stethoscope, but only silence greeted my ears. I put both my palms on her chest and started rhythmically pumping her with a lot of force. There was no time for tears. There was no time for emotions. I was mechanically pushing, willing with all my being for her heart to start up. I don’t know how long I kept at this futile exercise, but I remember that I had to be pulled away from her by the doctors. I stood numbly aside, as they started dismantling all the resuscitation equipment. My aunt was sobbing and telling me that my mother had got up early in the morning to go to the bathroom and had slipped in the bathroom itself. I was only half listening. I did not even bother to tell my aunt that probably my mother had suffered from an embolus, and she had died even as she fell. As they were covering my mother’s lifeless body, I did not feel sad. I only felt numb. I also felt very frightened. Now I was the oldest in my family. All responsibility was mine. Would I be able to cope up? I went to the hospital phone to inform my relatives. My Uncle assured me that he would come immediately and he would inform all the others. I slowly replaced the phone, and walked with slow steps back to the room where my mother’s warm body was cooling. A voice said, “You have nothing to worry. My son, the doctor is here.†I looked around, but the corridor was empty. Kishore Shah 1974 Quote Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
Guest guest Posted May 11, 2011 Report Share Posted May 11, 2011 पà¥à¤°à¤¿à¤¯ किशोर, खूप दिवसांनी मेल उघडला तर तà¥à¤à¤¾ आईवरच लेख वाचायला मिळाला. आपले सà¥à¤°à¥à¤µà¤¾à¤¤à¥€à¤šà¥‡ दिवस ...आईशी à¤à¤¾à¤²à¥‡à¤²à¥à¤¯à¤¾ गपà¥à¤ªà¤¾...पीजीचà¥à¤¯à¤¾ काळात तà¥à¤à¥à¤¯à¤¾à¤µà¤° आलेला ताण .... सगळं काही डोळà¥à¤¯à¤¾à¤¸à¤®à¥‹à¤°à¥‚न गेलं...तू लिहिताना सगळं कसं जिवंत होत. मà¥à¤•à¥à¤‚द (१९à¥à¥ª) > > > Dear Manish, > > I am reproducing that article here. > > MY SON, THE DOCTOR > > The telegram was simple and terse. “Mother sick. Come immediately.†In > those > days, we did not have mobile phones. The only quick way of communication > was > by telegram. Quick meant at least a 12-hour delay. > > I had just lost my father a few months ago, so this telegram had come to me > > as a shock. I rushed to the head of department, where I was doing my post > graduation, and took the necessary permission. > > Travelling by train, even with reservations, is a bit of a torture. Without > > reservations, it is pure hell. But as I sat on a quarter of a seat, > rhythmically shaking my way back home, my mind was not on my physical > difficulties. What did that telegram mean? > > On the one hand, I was terrified. I had recently lost my father. I did not > want to be an orphan. The mere thought scared me stiff. However, on the > other hand, I consoled myself, that the telegram said ‘sick’. If my mother > were very sick, it would have said ‘serious’. She had a touch of > hypertension and a little bit of Diabetes. But these were merely routine > diseases. As a doctor, I knew that they could kill occasionally, but her > levels were never frightening. The only major operation that she had was a > hysterectomy, and that had been long ago. The long journey seemed > interminable that day. > > As the train finally chugged home, I was amongst the first guys to rush > out. > Why did the rickshaw man take so long to start his vehicle? Why did that > idiotic cyclist have to drive so irresponsibly, inevitable slowing us down? > > Why did all the traffic signals have to turn red at our approach? Why was > the shorter road dug up by the municipal authorities, making us take the > longer route? I kept asking myself questions that had no answers, anything > to keep my mind off the approaching confrontation with truth. > > As I touched home, my aunt woke up and told me that that mother was > admitted > in the nearby hospital. She forced me to wash my face, at least, before I > could rush off. > > The cold, sterile and utilitarian atmosphere of the hospital is not meant > to > soothe the agitated mind of a relative, but then what can? I finally > located > the room where she was admitted. As I barged into the room, there she was > coolly biting into a laddoo. I did not know whether to laugh or to cry. > There I was, rushing post haste, leaving all my work and studies, expecting > > my mother to be on an iv drip at least. And here she was enjoying a laddoo! > > I was mildly irritated, but a bit relieved too. > > I hugged her and gently taking the laddoo from her reminded her of her > diabetes. She said, “Don’t worry. I ate just one. Mrs. Joshi here has a > wonderful daughter who makes delightful dishes. By the way, Mrs Joshi,†she > > said to the adjoining patient, “This is my son, the doctor. Now that he is > here, I shall become well fast.†> > I nodded perfunctionarily at the neighbour, who was middle aged just like > my > mother and gave me a wide smile. I guessed that these two old ladies were > already plotting my marriage with Mrs. Joshi’s daughter. But I was more > concerned about my mother’s illness than about my future connubial choices. > > A doctor’s life is full of ironies. As I stared at the case notes of my > mother, I realized that the Gynaecologist, who had taken out her uterus a > few years ago, had blundered. He had tied one of her ureters by mistake, > leading to the stoppage of function of one of her kidneys. I was studying > to > be a Gynaecologist and here was my mother suffering from the mistake of one > > of my colleagues! The failed kidney had lead to hypertension and she was > scheduled for a kidney removal the next day. (To this day, whenever I > perform a hysterectomy, I am extra careful with the ureters.) > > I felt a bit cheated. This must have been planned a while ago, but I was > informed at the last moment, putting all my studies and plans into a > dither. > I told my mother to relax and went to discuss her case with the > doctor-in-charge. He assured me that except for a slightly high level of > sugar (laddoos!) there was nothing to worry, and the operation was expected > > to be pretty much routine. > > When I returned to my mother’s bed, there was a strange old man sitting on > the chair. My mom’s face lit up when she saw me. “Come! Come, Kishore! Mr. > Pujari, this is my son, the doctor. Now that he is here, you have nothing > to > worry about. Kishore, Mr. Pujari here is a retired bank manager, and he has > > this slipped disc, which doctors want to operate. I told him that you just > wait for my son. He will cure you with medicine alone.†> > For every Mum, her child is special. How could I explain to her that I had > just passed my MBBS and pitting me against seasoned Ortho consultants was > like an India Bangladesh match. I knew I was not India. However, I promised > > Mr. Pujari that I would look up his X rays before advising him (to follow > his doctor’s advice). “And Mom, keep that laddoo down. You are not even > supposed to look at it.†> > She took a generous bite and said, “When they are made of love, these > things > do not harm anyone.†Swallowing the large piece, she added, “I have also > called Nirmala from the next ward. She has this blood pressure, which does > not respond to usual medicine. I told her you could cure her in a jiffy.†> > I decided to return home to rest, before my mother directed all the > patients > of the hospital to my ad hoc consulting room by her bedside. > > =.=.=.=.= > I must have slept like a log. All that sudden travel must have tired me. My > > aunt was in the hospital with my mother. So I woke up with a start when the > > phone began ringing. I glanced blearily at the clock, it said 5 o clock in > the morning. When I picked up the phone, all I could hear were my aunt’s > frantic sobs. Then she managed to say, “Kishore, come down here > immediately. > Something is happening to her.†> > I don’t know what I wore, and I do not know how I reached the hospital. It > was all a blur. There was a group of doctors standing around my mother’s > bed. I rushed to her side. One doctor pushed me aside, but I shouted, “I am > > a doctor.†> > An orange tube extruded from my mother’s mouth and some one was pumping a > balloon. Someone was hearing her heart sounds and nodding negatively. I > grabbed the stethoscope, but only silence greeted my ears. I put both my > palms on her chest and started rhythmically pumping her with a lot of > force. > > There was no time for tears. There was no time for emotions. I was > mechanically pushing, willing with all my being for her heart to start up. > I > don’t know how long I kept at this futile exercise, but I remember that I > had to be pulled away from her by the doctors. > > I stood numbly aside, as they started dismantling all the resuscitation > equipment. My aunt was sobbing and telling me that my mother had got up > early in the morning to go to the bathroom and had slipped in the bathroom > itself. I was only half listening. I did not even bother to tell my aunt > that probably my mother had suffered from an embolus, and she had died even > > as she fell. > > As they were covering my mother’s lifeless body, I did not feel sad. I only > > felt numb. I also felt very frightened. Now I was the oldest in my family. > All responsibility was mine. Would I be able to cope up? > > I went to the hospital phone to inform my relatives. My Uncle assured me > that he would come immediately and he would inform all the others. I slowly > > replaced the phone, and walked with slow steps back to the room where my > mother’s warm body was cooling. A voice said, “You have nothing to worry. > My > son, the doctor is here.†I looked around, but the corridor was empty. > > Kishore Shah 1974 > > > Quote Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
Guest guest Posted May 11, 2011 Report Share Posted May 11, 2011 I usually avoid writing such heavy articles. Even today, whenever I read this article about my mother, I cannot function for at least half an hour and tears flow automatically from my eyes, though it has been such a long time. That is why I prefer my lighter side, which is the best antidote for all the grief in this world. Thank you: Raju Shah, Malini , Manish Kothari, Aasawari ,Ravin ,Ashok, Gajendra , VK Gupta, Anu Gupta , Mukunda, Archana and Fatima as well as everyone else who has silently read my articles. Thank you for making my Mother's day so special. Kishore Shah 1974 Quote Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
Guest guest Posted May 11, 2011 Report Share Posted May 11, 2011 Very heart wrenching story...........and so sad but true.............. regards aasawari91 still coping with her loss........... ________________________________ To: mgims Sent: Tue, 10 May, 2011 11:48:34 PM Subject: RE: My Son, the Doctor  That is a beautifully written piece. So true. the amount of pride a parent has in their child's success. Even today when I go for a walk with Dad in Kothrud all his regular sabziwali, kelawala, batata vada uncle etc know me as his 'mulgi' - the doctor who is in London - America. I cannot for the life of me think why all assume london is in America- is it because most puneris are in america (software)? I am often embarrassed by this introduction but all my protests have not stopped dad. It is always saddening when a loved one dies/is hurt because of something that went wrong. Take care. Malini From: mgims [mailto:mgims ] On Behalf Of Shah Sent: 10 May 2011 06:54 To: mgims Subject: My Son, the Doctor Dear Manish, I am reproducing that article here. MY SON, THE DOCTOR The telegram was simple and terse. “Mother sick. Come immediately.†In those days, we did not have mobile phones. The only quick way of communication was by telegram. Quick meant at least a 12-hour delay. I had just lost my father a few months ago, so this telegram had come to me as a shock. I rushed to the head of department, where I was doing my post graduation, and took the necessary permission. Travelling by train, even with reservations, is a bit of a torture. Without reservations, it is pure hell. But as I sat on a quarter of a seat, rhythmically shaking my way back home, my mind was not on my physical difficulties. What did that telegram mean? On the one hand, I was terrified. I had recently lost my father. I did not want to be an orphan. The mere thought scared me stiff. However, on the other hand, I consoled myself, that the telegram said ‘sick’. If my mother were very sick, it would have said ‘serious’. She had a touch of hypertension and a little bit of Diabetes. But these were merely routine diseases. As a doctor, I knew that they could kill occasionally, but her levels were never frightening. The only major operation that she had was a hysterectomy, and that had been long ago. The long journey seemed interminable that day. As the train finally chugged home, I was amongst the first guys to rush out. Why did the rickshaw man take so long to start his vehicle? Why did that idiotic cyclist have to drive so irresponsibly, inevitable slowing us down? Why did all the traffic signals have to turn red at our approach? Why was the shorter road dug up by the municipal authorities, making us take the longer route? I kept asking myself questions that had no answers, anything to keep my mind off the approaching confrontation with truth. As I touched home, my aunt woke up and told me that that mother was admitted in the nearby hospital. She forced me to wash my face, at least, before I could rush off. The cold, sterile and utilitarian atmosphere of the hospital is not meant to soothe the agitated mind of a relative, but then what can? I finally located the room where she was admitted. As I barged into the room, there she was coolly biting into a laddoo. I did not know whether to laugh or to cry. There I was, rushing post haste, leaving all my work and studies, expecting my mother to be on an iv drip at least. And here she was enjoying a laddoo! I was mildly irritated, but a bit relieved too. I hugged her and gently taking the laddoo from her reminded her of her diabetes. She said, “Don’t worry. I ate just one. Mrs. Joshi here has a wonderful daughter who makes delightful dishes. By the way, Mrs Joshi,†she said to the adjoining patient, “This is my son, the doctor. Now that he is here, I shall become well fast.†I nodded perfunctionarily at the neighbour, who was middle aged just like my mother and gave me a wide smile. I guessed that these two old ladies were already plotting my marriage with Mrs. Joshi’s daughter. But I was more concerned about my mother’s illness than about my future connubial choices. A doctor’s life is full of ironies. As I stared at the case notes of my mother, I realized that the Gynaecologist, who had taken out her uterus a few years ago, had blundered. He had tied one of her ureters by mistake, leading to the stoppage of function of one of her kidneys. I was studying to be a Gynaecologist and here was my mother suffering from the mistake of one of my colleagues! The failed kidney had lead to hypertension and she was scheduled for a kidney removal the next day. (To this day, whenever I perform a hysterectomy, I am extra careful with the ureters.) I felt a bit cheated. This must have been planned a while ago, but I was informed at the last moment, putting all my studies and plans into a dither. I told my mother to relax and went to discuss her case with the doctor-in-charge. He assured me that except for a slightly high level of sugar (laddoos!) there was nothing to worry, and the operation was expected to be pretty much routine. When I returned to my mother’s bed, there was a strange old man sitting on the chair. My mom’s face lit up when she saw me. “Come! Come, Kishore! Mr. Pujari, this is my son, the doctor. Now that he is here, you have nothing to worry about. Kishore, Mr. Pujari here is a retired bank manager, and he has this slipped disc, which doctors want to operate. I told him that you just wait for my son. He will cure you with medicine alone.†For every Mum, her child is special. How could I explain to her that I had just passed my MBBS and pitting me against seasoned Ortho consultants was like an India Bangladesh match. I knew I was not India. However, I promised Mr. Pujari that I would look up his X rays before advising him (to follow his doctor’s advice). “And Mom, keep that laddoo down. You are not even supposed to look at it.†She took a generous bite and said, “When they are made of love, these things do not harm anyone.†Swallowing the large piece, she added, “I have also called Nirmala from the next ward. She has this blood pressure, which does not respond to usual medicine. I told her you could cure her in a jiffy.†I decided to return home to rest, before my mother directed all the patients of the hospital to my ad hoc consulting room by her bedside. =.=.=.=.= I must have slept like a log. All that sudden travel must have tired me. My aunt was in the hospital with my mother. So I woke up with a start when the phone began ringing. I glanced blearily at the clock, it said 5 o clock in the morning. When I picked up the phone, all I could hear were my aunt’s frantic sobs. Then she managed to say, “Kishore, come down here immediately. Something is happening to her.†I don’t know what I wore, and I do not know how I reached the hospital. It was all a blur. There was a group of doctors standing around my mother’s bed. I rushed to her side. One doctor pushed me aside, but I shouted, “I am a doctor.†An orange tube extruded from my mother’s mouth and some one was pumping a balloon. Someone was hearing her heart sounds and nodding negatively. I grabbed the stethoscope, but only silence greeted my ears. I put both my palms on her chest and started rhythmically pumping her with a lot of force. There was no time for tears. There was no time for emotions. I was mechanically pushing, willing with all my being for her heart to start up. I don’t know how long I kept at this futile exercise, but I remember that I had to be pulled away from her by the doctors. I stood numbly aside, as they started dismantling all the resuscitation equipment. My aunt was sobbing and telling me that my mother had got up early in the morning to go to the bathroom and had slipped in the bathroom itself. I was only half listening. I did not even bother to tell my aunt that probably my mother had suffered from an embolus, and she had died even as she fell. As they were covering my mother’s lifeless body, I did not feel sad. I only felt numb. I also felt very frightened. Now I was the oldest in my family. All responsibility was mine. Would I be able to cope up? I went to the hospital phone to inform my relatives. My Uncle assured me that he would come immediately and he would inform all the others. I slowly replaced the phone, and walked with slow steps back to the room where my mother’s warm body was cooling. A voice said, “You have nothing to worry. My son, the doctor is here.†I looked around, but the corridor was empty. Kishore Shah 1974 Quote Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
Guest guest Posted May 11, 2011 Report Share Posted May 11, 2011 Thanks Aasawari and all those who phoned and SMSed me. Kishore Shah 1974 -------------------------------------------------- Sent: Wednesday, May 11, 2011 2:22 PM To: <mgims > Subject: Re: My Son, the Doctor > Very heart wrenching story...........and so sad but true.............. > > regards > aasawari91 > still coping with her loss........... Quote Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
Guest guest Posted May 11, 2011 Report Share Posted May 11, 2011 Dear Kishoreda, This one never fails to touch my heart. I remember reading it long back. But somehow I felt compelled to read it again. Belated Happy mother's day! Renuka '84 Subject: My Son, the Doctor To: mgims Date: Tuesday, May 10, 2011, 12:54 AM  Dear Manish, I am reproducing that article here. MY SON, THE DOCTOR The telegram was simple and terse. “Mother sick. Come immediately.†In those days, we did not have mobile phones. The only quick way of communication was by telegram. Quick meant at least a 12-hour delay. I had just lost my father a few months ago, so this telegram had come to me as a shock. I rushed to the head of department, where I was doing my post graduation, and took the necessary permission. Travelling by train, even with reservations, is a bit of a torture. Without reservations, it is pure hell. But as I sat on a quarter of a seat, rhythmically shaking my way back home, my mind was not on my physical difficulties. What did that telegram mean? On the one hand, I was terrified. I had recently lost my father. I did not want to be an orphan. The mere thought scared me stiff. However, on the other hand, I consoled myself, that the telegram said ‘sick’. If my mother were very sick, it would have said ‘serious’. She had a touch of hypertension and a little bit of Diabetes. But these were merely routine diseases. As a doctor, I knew that they could kill occasionally, but her levels were never frightening. The only major operation that she had was a hysterectomy, and that had been long ago. The long journey seemed interminable that day. As the train finally chugged home, I was amongst the first guys to rush out. Why did the rickshaw man take so long to start his vehicle? Why did that idiotic cyclist have to drive so irresponsibly, inevitable slowing us down? Why did all the traffic signals have to turn red at our approach? Why was the shorter road dug up by the municipal authorities, making us take the longer route? I kept asking myself questions that had no answers, anything to keep my mind off the approaching confrontation with truth. As I touched home, my aunt woke up and told me that that mother was admitted in the nearby hospital. She forced me to wash my face, at least, before I could rush off. The cold, sterile and utilitarian atmosphere of the hospital is not meant to soothe the agitated mind of a relative, but then what can? I finally located the room where she was admitted. As I barged into the room, there she was coolly biting into a laddoo. I did not know whether to laugh or to cry. There I was, rushing post haste, leaving all my work and studies, expecting my mother to be on an iv drip at least. And here she was enjoying a laddoo! I was mildly irritated, but a bit relieved too. I hugged her and gently taking the laddoo from her reminded her of her diabetes. She said, “Don’t worry. I ate just one. Mrs. Joshi here has a wonderful daughter who makes delightful dishes. By the way, Mrs Joshi,†she said to the adjoining patient, “This is my son, the doctor. Now that he is here, I shall become well fast.†I nodded perfunctionarily at the neighbour, who was middle aged just like my mother and gave me a wide smile. I guessed that these two old ladies were already plotting my marriage with Mrs. Joshi’s daughter. But I was more concerned about my mother’s illness than about my future connubial choices. A doctor’s life is full of ironies. As I stared at the case notes of my mother, I realized that the Gynaecologist, who had taken out her uterus a few years ago, had blundered. He had tied one of her ureters by mistake, leading to the stoppage of function of one of her kidneys. I was studying to be a Gynaecologist and here was my mother suffering from the mistake of one of my colleagues! The failed kidney had lead to hypertension and she was scheduled for a kidney removal the next day. (To this day, whenever I perform a hysterectomy, I am extra careful with the ureters.) I felt a bit cheated. This must have been planned a while ago, but I was informed at the last moment, putting all my studies and plans into a dither. I told my mother to relax and went to discuss her case with the doctor-in-charge. He assured me that except for a slightly high level of sugar (laddoos!) there was nothing to worry, and the operation was expected to be pretty much routine. When I returned to my mother’s bed, there was a strange old man sitting on the chair. My mom’s face lit up when she saw me. “Come! Come, Kishore! Mr. Pujari, this is my son, the doctor. Now that he is here, you have nothing to worry about. Kishore, Mr. Pujari here is a retired bank manager, and he has this slipped disc, which doctors want to operate. I told him that you just wait for my son. He will cure you with medicine alone.†For every Mum, her child is special. How could I explain to her that I had just passed my MBBS and pitting me against seasoned Ortho consultants was like an India Bangladesh match. I knew I was not India. However, I promised Mr. Pujari that I would look up his X rays before advising him (to follow his doctor’s advice). “And Mom, keep that laddoo down. You are not even supposed to look at it.†She took a generous bite and said, “When they are made of love, these things do not harm anyone.†Swallowing the large piece, she added, “I have also called Nirmala from the next ward. She has this blood pressure, which does not respond to usual medicine. I told her you could cure her in a jiffy.†I decided to return home to rest, before my mother directed all the patients of the hospital to my ad hoc consulting room by her bedside. =.=.=.=.= I must have slept like a log. All that sudden travel must have tired me. My aunt was in the hospital with my mother. So I woke up with a start when the phone began ringing. I glanced blearily at the clock, it said 5 o clock in the morning. When I picked up the phone, all I could hear were my aunt’s frantic sobs. Then she managed to say, “Kishore, come down here immediately. Something is happening to her.†I don’t know what I wore, and I do not know how I reached the hospital. It was all a blur. There was a group of doctors standing around my mother’s bed. I rushed to her side. One doctor pushed me aside, but I shouted, “I am a doctor.†An orange tube extruded from my mother’s mouth and some one was pumping a balloon. Someone was hearing her heart sounds and nodding negatively. I grabbed the stethoscope, but only silence greeted my ears. I put both my palms on her chest and started rhythmically pumping her with a lot of force. There was no time for tears. There was no time for emotions. I was mechanically pushing, willing with all my being for her heart to start up. I don’t know how long I kept at this futile exercise, but I remember that I had to be pulled away from her by the doctors. I stood numbly aside, as they started dismantling all the resuscitation equipment. My aunt was sobbing and telling me that my mother had got up early in the morning to go to the bathroom and had slipped in the bathroom itself. I was only half listening. I did not even bother to tell my aunt that probably my mother had suffered from an embolus, and she had died even as she fell. As they were covering my mother’s lifeless body, I did not feel sad. I only felt numb. I also felt very frightened. Now I was the oldest in my family. All responsibility was mine. Would I be able to cope up? I went to the hospital phone to inform my relatives. My Uncle assured me that he would come immediately and he would inform all the others. I slowly replaced the phone, and walked with slow steps back to the room where my mother’s warm body was cooling. A voice said, “You have nothing to worry. My son, the doctor is here.†I looked around, but the corridor was empty. Kishore Shah 1974 Quote Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
Guest guest Posted May 12, 2011 Report Share Posted May 12, 2011 Thank you very much, Renuka Kishore Shah 1974 -------------------------------------------------- Sent: Wednesday, May 11, 2011 7:18 PM To: <mgims > Subject: Re: My Son, the Doctor > Dear Kishoreda, > This one never fails to touch my heart. I remember reading it long back. > But somehow I felt compelled to read it again. Belated Happy mother's day! > Renuka '84 > Quote Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
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