Page 164 - FATE & DESTINY

FATE & DESTINY

“What kind of X-ray is that?”
“It’s a test performed to help diagnose disorders of the digestive system such as intestinal obstruction,
using X-ray.” Dr. Jacob smiled at us. “In this procedure, the patient swallows a chemical called barium
before the stomach is X-rayed so that we can see the organs on the monitor. For a kid, the barium is
mixed with berry flavored liquid. The patient has to lie on the bed for the radiographer to take X-ray
images. The barium moves through the digestive system. It has to pass through to the large bowel for a
normal patient. The X-rays show clear traces of intestinal obstruction.”
I gaped, listening to his precise explanation. “I see it. Okay, doctor.”
“You must make an appointment for this.”
“We will.”
The Barium Meal X-ray appointment was five days later, but diarrhea attacked Rinchen. We rushed him
to the radiographer, but a lengthy queue of patients waited for their turns. His vomit exasperated us.
“Oh, dear!” said Choki, “when are they going to take our baby in?”
“I have no idea,” I said. “I am getting hysterical.”
One hour later, a man said, “Rinchen Zangpo.”
I rushed in. “Yes, yes, doctor. You should hurry, please.”
“Lie the baby here,” he said. “Wear this gown. Um, hope your wife is not pregnant.”
“No.”
“Okay, hold the baby.”
Just as we laid the baby on the bed, loose motion flowed out from the stoma and messed the linen. The
room smelled of reeking stool. I was guilty of it, but the radiographer and his junior carried on the test
imperturbably. Rinchen’s body trembled, and he squirmed hard to get free. His terror-stricken eyes blinked
at me.
“Rinchen, don’t you move, please,” I said, nudging his cheek with my nose. “I am right here with you.”
He winced as the radiographer injected the barium meal through the stoma. And tiny drops of tears
dripped from the edge of his shrunken eyes. When I didn’t pick him up, he steadily stared at me.
That reminded me of the heart-wrenching scene of a cow in a slaughterhouse. As the callous butcher
positions the cow’s head on the anvil to be slit, it squirms and moos in terror. Tears drip from its eyes.
Alas! The poor animal flicks her legs and soon stops moving. That’s it.
“Oh, dear!” said Choki. “Please don’t cry.”
“It’s almost done, baby,” said the radiographer. His tone was polite and soothing. “Don’t cry, please.”
But the baby cried. His chest thumped as he gripped my collar. I embraced and stroked his hair again.
And every time the radiographer changed his position, he jerked.
After the test, the radiographer screened the report and said, “You can wait outside. I will call the
surgeon.”
Dr. Jacob arrived after ten minutes. “How did the test go?” he asked.
“The radiographer said he would talk to you, doctor,” I replied.
“I will see. You can wait here.”
Ten minutes later, Dr. Jacob came out and said, “Your baby has an intestinal obstruction.”
“Oh, really, doctor? Now what?”
“We must perform surgery.” He had a calm tone of voice. “You can admit him in the evening if you
want to.”
“We have to, doctor,” I said.
He scribbled a note and gave it to us. “Show this paper at the pediatric ward. They will admit the baby.
We’ll operate on him after the Christmas holidays, okay?”
“Any time, doctor.”

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