Vandana Mahajan
Consultant Anesthesiologist,
SevenHills Hospital, Marol Maroshi Rd, Shivaji Nagar JJC, Marol, Andheri East, Mumbai, Maharashtra 400059, India
It’s been an overwhelming 15 days!
When I announced to my kids and hubby over dinner that I was accepting the offer of an in-charge of a COVID ICU... there was a pin drop silence. Ishaan- my son looked at me with his large limpid eyes full of questions. And being the disinhibited child he is, asked me outrightly, “Mumma, will you be able to save my life if I get COVID? I don’t want to die.” I got a grip over myself, and in a firm no-nonsense tone told him “Don’t talk rubbish. Nothing will happen to you or your Mumma. We have everything there for our safety. Don’t pester me to order you a pizza next time if you have your head full of such thoughts!”
And every day since then has been a roller coaster of emotions. Fear, pride, strength, helplessness. Being away from my family and just moving between my ICU and hotel, my patients have become my current family. I know their sons and daughters, brothers and sisters by first names. I tell them stories the patients can’t tell them.
“Do you know Hassan tried to bribe me with 530 rupees, squeezing discreetly into my hand, asking to be sent home?” I complained to his brother Iqbal who calls daily.
And I angrily snatched the mobile from the hand of a patient giving me the filthiest of abuses talking to her son “Sonu, yeh log mereko bhookha maar denge!” (Sonu, these people will starve me to death) complaining about tube feeds when she was craving anda-pav. But Sonu filled my heart with pride telling me how much confidence he had in us, and apologized on her behalf.
When my very first patient was about to be intubated, I made the mandatory professional phone call to his son informing him about his father being put on the ventilator. He was a 75 year old man who had lost sensorium to communicate or breathe effectively. There was a silence on the phone after I broke the news. His son said in a shaky voice. “We have not spoken to him since 5 days, can we just talk to him a last time?” All the professionalism in my voice was out of the window. I asked in a shakier voice “You didn’t speak to him since he’s admitted? He is not in a condition to talk now!” He said “No, his phone is not being answered” He died two days later, without any good byes. I was filled by guilt and have been personally charging patients mobile phones and urging them to stay connected. Inspite of knowing, that half of them will complain how awful we are. And how many times a day we prick them with needles or deny them food.
And when I do go home after a vigorous hot bath to scrub off every virus, and wear the N95 respirator at home, my son begs to sleep with me. “I'll wear a mask and sleep with you. Kuch nahin hoga. Main aapka baccha hoon na?” (Nothing will happen to me. I'm your baby after all) and my daughter-Ishika asks my permission every time before she hugs me or comes close to me.
When I took this up some colleagues told me “Tu yedi jhaali aahe!” (you’ve lost your sanity) Yes may be. “Main to pehle se hi yedi hoon!” (I was like that even long before). Others told me, “You will regret this soon”. Yes, I might... but let’s write about that then.
One day at a time. That’s how we all are living right now.