Page 132 - FATE & DESTINY

FATE & DESTINY

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.”
We carried the baby to the pediatric ward on the seventh floor right away. The general ward was next to the
triage and the single cabin far at the end.
“This is the bed,” a tall dark nurse said.
I glanced at the empty cabin and said, “Can we book the cabin?”
“The cabin is a bit expensive.”
“And how much for a cabin?”
“Eleven hundred.”
“And how much for this bed?”
“Nine hundred.”
“Shift my baby to the cabin.”
“I can’t. Your LO won’t pay for the cabin.”
“Don’t worry. I will pay rest.”
“Ask the LO.”
I talked to the LO over the phone. He consented and briefed me on the referral guidelines and the entitlement of
a patient.
“Please shift my baby to the cabin,’ I said. “The LO agreed.”
“Paka?” she said.
“Double Paka.”
Diarrhea subsided with each passing day. A week later, Dr. Jacob visited the baby with a team of surgeons. There
were five, all budding geniuses. Dr. Sampath Karl led the team. All the team members wore amicable smiles on their
faces. I got a tremendous sense of camaraderie as Dr. Jacob grinned and spoke to me politely.
“How is the baby doing?” he asked.
“He is doing well, doctor. Diarrhea has subsided.”
“Good. We’ll have one more test before the surgery, okay?”

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