Some of them are spiritual, some are atheists, some are politicians, some are unemployed, some are handsome and some are not. But the moment they register their ID's and are given an MRN Number, they all carry the same label, "patients". Some are identified by the bed number, some by the labels on the bed head charts, some by the disease, some by their physical appearance, and if ever, rarely by their names.
"bed 21A needs to be sent for dialysis at 10.00 am and 7B needs a repeat renal profile, previous blood sample was clotted".
"take congestive cardiac failure at the acute cubicle to ICU now and Bring that thin indian OP poisoning female back. "
"What's the name of the DHF that passed away? I need to fill up the Death certificate."
Most walk in through those glass doors, some are wheeled in. Some have enough cash for the expensive investigations and treatment, some borrow from somewhere. Some come prepared for the ward admissions, some come through the emergency dept. Some come whole, some come minus a limb or two, some come awake and alert, some drowsy and delirious. All come with Hope. Some for a longer life, some a healthier one, some to just bring back a new little healthy one.
Coming here, Believing in the magic of medicine, believing in strangers with some prefix, believing that this sterile hostile building is your sanctuary, and a place to heal yourselves. Believing someone who is as human as you are, can cure you, can take away your pain, can make you better than you already are.
You Surrender your wealth in exchange for a better health, you surrender you self to me, allowing my needles and scalpels to violate that very body you need me to save. You mount your boulder of hope on my shoulders, weighing me down, rendering me helpless. Looking down the corridor I see more faces with hopes, impending deaths lying in a row, promises waiting to be broken by a person who doesn't know herself anymore.
Another promise I don't want to break, another's hope I don't want to kill, another certificate of death I don't want to fill. My pen hovers over the "cause of death" column, tempting me to write my own name in it. There's heaviness in my chest, there's pressure pounding in my head, the air is thick with unhealed sickness, the days are weighing me down. I don't want to be here no more.
Then why are yesterdays' some teary, some smiling and some relieved "thank you doctor" make me come back again for more tomorrows..... hoping against all hopelessness that I can deliver something more.
