WOUNDS OF HOPE

WOUNDS OF HOPE

The wind was harsh as a surgeon’s knife cornering mankind to the embrace of warmth and wool.   Laxman was consoling the winter shivers by sleeping beside the fiery campfire in the tiny hamlet of tribal Orissa. Suddenly, he threw a convulsion and fell into the fire.  The rebellious brain, by dead habit, did not attend to the thermal injury his body was suffering, till the somnolent villagers could salvage this mentally retarded child. His right arm got totally burnt and the elbow joint was exposed. Maggots made their cottages in the putrefied flesh. The ignorant parents brought this child of utter neglect to the hospital 20 days after the mishap.

The first look at the wound, as the attending doctor triggered many feelings in me. Hope was not one of them. I had to explain the parents that the child would need intense ulcer care- the inclement insects had to be flushed out, the dead tissue had to be excised, the wound needed to be cleaned, before a skin graft could be placed and covered in a POP cast. The treatment would require money; more than money, the motivation to keep going and not give up in the middle, exploring easy options from herbal medicine and witch doctors. The parents of Laxman had neither of them. Money we could waiver. But where could we get the motivation? We anyway tried! After much cajoling we got them admitted in the surgical ward. They chose to be in the dark interior that very much reflected their state of mind. The best of doctors began their work on the child. A paediatrician came and examined for the cause of the seizures. A surgeon came and cut off the dead tissue around the wound. A physician came to adjust the right doses of antibiotics. A counsellor for motivating the family, a technician to offer physiotherapy, a batch of enduring nurses who would dress the oozing wound to bring back the colour of life- all began their contributions.

The toughest part of medicine is not popping pills and potions but to keep the patient on the bed till he finishes his treatment. In this part of the world, they wait to just gather strength to get back to the chores of life. Complete physical, mental and social well-being without any mere absence of infirmity or disease is an obscure thought for them. Laxman’s family was no different. He was not expected to go places. He was not the breadwinner of the family. His presence only enhanced a burden on them. Or maybe, so we thought! After three days, just as the maggots could be swept out, the parents began the fatal tune-“Hame jebu babu!”(We’ll leave sir!). They promised that they would come for dressing the wound daily to the hospital- three kilometres from their home. These words were not new in the wards of Ashakiran. This was the cliché most of the defaulters used. We threatened the parents to give a written consent and leave the place.

The mother of that child had something in her that the rest of the hospital lacked- hope. She became the epitome of perseverance from that day on. Bothi, the 40 year old lady who sold locally brewed alcohol would walk 6 kms a day with her 7 year old in her arms with a gait of no less than a freedom fighter, for getting the wound dressed. The person who saw that small flame of tenacity in the hospital was Dilip, the OP assistant who would clean the wound and change dressing. Initially, doctors would come and examine the ulcer. Later, just the writing of prescription became the ordeal. In that manner, Bothi and Laxman were coming to the hospital faithfully, even on Sundays sometimes to the chagrin of the staff in the emergency department. Few months passed when Dr. Molly, the consultant dermatologist had a look at the wound. She was surprised and immediately captured this success story of hope in the precious pixels of a camera. The initial look at the ulcer made me spellbound. Pink, clean contracted and layered wound greeted us as we opened the nth dressing. That humbled me in an instant and encouraged me in the next.  The fruits of perseverance were before my very eyes. The mother took her child and left as if nothing had happened. I slowly walked backed to the dungeon, sorry my room! I lie on my bed and recollected the days from the time I first encountered that ugly looking handicapped child with saliva drooling from his mouth.

Why do we judge so quickly? Why do we close our minds to any chance of divine healing? Why does it become so difficult as healthcare professionals to offer hope? Why do we just write off some wounds as incurable even before we tend to them?  The low key tribal woman and her son gave this medical doctor’s ego a thorough beating. I immediately got down to my knees and asked God for forgiveness. There are some things impossible for science. But with God, all things are possible. Even as I write this, a traumatic paraplegia lies on his death bed in the ward. And I, as a duty doctor will do all the other things in the night rounds, except offering hope. Why? Am I afraid that my projection would go wrong? Am I worried that offering hope will increase my responsibility over the patient? We lose the patient not when he dies, but when we lose hope that he would recover. Even then, what is wrong in death? Why are we so afraid of it? Don’t we believe that it is just a passage to a greater glory in store? Is it not a cosmic necessity to reach the place we are eternally destined? In the meantime, Bothi and Laxman would continue to walk across the office to the hospital where a poster appealingly says- ‘Little progress a day yields great results!’