IBIC, Vasant Kunj
The Indian Spinal Injury Centre in Vasant Kunj, New Delhi, is a state of the art super-specialty hospital situated right at the heart of the city. A home for all the wheelchair-bound sufferers and a pantheon for all those who still fight to get back on their feet. Being a paraplegic myself, this hospital feels nothing less than a home away from home, and I am a regular at this place.
Post injury, after my surgery, I was sent here for rehabilitation. I spent around two months as an in-patient, until I could be deemed independent, well, almost. All thanks to the amazing environment at the rehabilitation department and the awesome staff at the centre, I could do my time with a smile on my face. Here, everybody from the ward boy to the gentlemen high up the ranks thrives on comforting us, the patients. Especially the ones on wheels.
A Mellow Monday
It must have been 11 in the morning on the 2nd of July. As per my prior appointment, I was at the hospital to sort out my physiotherapy schedule and it took me precisely 15 minutes to do so. I was asked to wait until noon for a confirmation on my new schedule. So there I was, with 45 minutes to spare in this huge place.
Usually I would have preferred a regular chit-chat over coffee with friends. And when I say friends at the hospital, it doesn't necessarily mean fellow patients. Many of my pals are therapists and many are regular hospital staff members, which also includes the not so osy nurses. So obviously, I had more than one reason to frequent that place.
But that day, for some reason, I chose to head to the cafeteria all by myself. The one situated at the other end of the hospital, bang opposite the emergency ward.
Everything seemed perfect there. Freshly mopped floors, air-conditioners running at full blast, no signs of the usual hospital clamour, the cafe serving my favourite espresso with brown sugar, and Pink Floyd singing to me through my Sennheisers. I ordered my piping hot brew and looked for a cosy corner to park my wheelchair. A nice spot adjacent to a huge glass window, overlooking the garden outside, seemed just perfect. I moved there, parked my ride and made myself comfortable.
Wherever coffee is grown, sold, brewed or consumed, there will always be lively controversy, strong opinions, and deep thinking.
With every sip, the trance I was in kept getting deeper. Funny, how a cup of coffee and amiable background music could make you daydream. Then again, it was Floyd I was talking about. Things couldn't have gotten better.
Until...
The Van Arrived
After 10 to 15 minutes of random gazing through the window, I saw a white ambulance darting towards the porch right next to our wing. The atmosphere suddenly felt intense. Floyd lost its transcendental effect and my coffee lost its stiff flavour.
Ambulances don't go well with me.
Being an emergency and trauma centre nearby, ward boys and nurses were quick to rush out and proceed with preliminary preparations. Seconds later the van's door flung open and a panic-stricken gentleman could be seen yelling at the staff to rush things up. His loud cry trembled with agony, speaking volumes about his feebleness. The staff were quick to immobilize and transfer the patient to a stretcher, and some random bystanders helped rush it to the emergency room.
Even though I had no clue what was happening, my empathetic alter ego was gravely praying for the victim's well-being. I had that sinking feeling which kept advising me against inquiring further, but it was too weak to stop me. Overwhelmed with curiosity and concern, I got rid of the coffee and moved my wheelchair to the aisle separating the emergency ward from the main hallway.
The people waiting outside the emergency ward stood with clasped hands and moist eyes. They looked emotionally crushed, as if they already knew that the damage was done and were now simply awaiting a miracle. People were pouring in and the atmosphere reeked of agony.
I was very much unsettled by them.
Everybody, except the little kid waiting outside the ward, looked exasperated. The little one was busy gazing at my wheelchair. I must have been the first guy on wheels he had ever seen. He slowly walked past the distressed people queued outside and came up to me. With a bewildered look on his face, he asked me, "Hello, why does your chair have wheels?"
Humoured by his sheer innocence, all I could come up with was, "Because I find chairs with wheels better looking than the ones without them." He was baffled by the whole idea. After answering a couple more of his angelic questions, I finally managed to ask him, "Why are you here?"
Pointing towards the emergency room, he said:
"My mom is in there... pretending to be asleep. She doesn't want me to go to my friend's house and hence is pretending to be asleep."
My heart skipped a beat. Not knowing what to say, all I could come up with was, "Don't worry, she will get up in a while and take you to your friend's place."
The Mourning
While talking to the kid I noticed the same panic-stricken gentleman from earlier walking towards the visitors lobby, moist eyes fixed on the boy beside me. His son. My fear came to life when I heard a loud cry from the room. The husband who had been by his wife's side throughout was now sitting silently in the lobby with tears in his eyes. It was clear to me that the lady had crossed over. The once silent room now echoed with deep mourning. It was heart-wrenching, and the kid next to me still could not figure out that he had just lost his greatest admirer in life.
What I heard next haunted me for weeks. It was the husband, talking to his father-in-law on the phone, with a broken voice:
"Dad, your daughter is no more. She has gone, leaving me and Adarsh alone. I am finished."
Misery
His voice still echoes in my head, making me realise that life has its own twisted way of carrying on. For a person who has just lost a life partner, life loses its charm and becomes a burden. The pain that one goes through is unparalleled to anything we can imagine. You have to go through it to know it.
No amount of pacifying could console a shaken soul.
I moved out of that aisle as soon as I could. I did not have the courage to look into the eyes of the kid. I felt uncomfortable seeing so many people lament. I felt miserable, but strangely, only for a while. That feeling of misery died off as soon as I reached home and cuddled with my dog.
I have learned that life has weird ways of imparting knowledge. It teaches us to move on and to never look back. This ability to move on, to not dwell in the past, could take us miles professionally. But sadly, when it comes to our own personal life, things don't go down the same way. Losing a loved one could emotionally crush you, but it doesn't last forever. No matter how close the relation or how big the loss, the emotional trauma eventually takes a back seat.
Something none of us could change.
Sad but true. That is the way of life.