Vikas died yesterday morning at around 1 AM. He had just turned 28 a few days back. I had seen him only once- lying unconscious on his hospital bed, connected to tubes that were intended to try and keep him alive. And yet, his departure hit hard.
His death wasn't that surprising, or unanticipated either. Afterall, he had been in a very bad accident and from what I heard, was in very bad shape when brought to the emergency room. His brain was coming out of his skull, his face was smashed with very remote chances of retaining the use of his eyes and fractures in his lower limbs.
My first brush with him came when I, as the clinical biochemist at the hospital, was contacted regarding the feasibility of conducting certain tests for his blood and urine samples. Since they were tests seldom required in routine usage at our hospital, I provided the option of outsourcing the same to another lab with which we had a memorandum of understanding.
A few days later I got a call from my uncle telling me that the son of a friend of his had been in a terrible accident and was admitted in the same hospital I was working in and if I could meet the father and maybe console him that things would be all right? I agreed to meet the gentleman.
Vikas's father was a distinguished looking gentleman. He was in his late 50s, immaculately dressed and very soft spoken. I sat with him in the canteen with a cup of tea and asked about the patient and his situation. He told me about the surgeries done, the ones planned, about the support from friends of Vikas's and from the institute where he was studying. I got Vikas's name and particulars and promised to keep in touch with him.
I tried to meet the gentleman once every 2-3 days and spend some time with him. Based on the limited information available to me via his treating doctor and the lab reports that I had access to, I tried to put up a clear picture in front of the anxious parent. This is where I had the unique perspective of an in-between person. I wasn't the treating doctor, but I wasn't completely unaware of his records either. The parents turned to me if they could not understand something the treating doctor had said or to expound further on what was happening with their son. The added fact that we were from the same community and spoke the same language helped. Infact, the father used to address me as bhanja (nephew).
Long was the period of hospital stay- extending beyond four months. There were instances of hope- a response to verbal commands, a tightening of the grasp on the finger, coming off from the ventilator. These were punctuated by bouts of despair- a difficult to eradicate fungal infection the treatment to which was costly, multiple bacterial infections, infection of the operated site. The only thing constant was the composure of the father. I often thought of what my reaction would be if I were to find myself in such a situation and couldn't envisage the same. Yet here he was, plodding along, calm and composed, arranging funds for the ever increasing hospital bill, scampering to get medicines not available in the hospital pharmacy and hoping, against hope.
The highest point in Vikas's hospital stay came almost two months after his accident. He was off ventilator, shifted to the High Dependency Unit (HDU) and then subsequently to the ward. That is where I saw him the only time I laid eyes on the boy. Lying on his bed, scars following multiple operations on his skull, face and legs. His father sat close by, keeping his vigil, and hoping.
The slide followed soon. On my next visit, I was told that Vikas had stopped breathing and needed to be resuscitated and had to be shifted to the ICU again. Further bouts of infection followed, his blood pressure started falling, he started labouring for breath. The treating doctor called me and told me that my patient- for he had become "my patient" to all hospital staff that knew of my regular visits to his parents- wasn't doing too well and maybe the end was near.
The end came around 7 days later. The boy struggled. His parents watched. I watched hope drain from their faces. They couldn't bear witness to the struggles of their only son- gasping for breath, undergoing multiple transfusions, getting increasing doses of medications intended to bring up his falling blood pressure. And then he left.
I got a call from one of the hospital staff at around 8 AM yesterday informing me about the death. I won't lie. The first reaction was that of relief. Now, at least there was some closure. The parents did whatever they could, the doctors and nursing staff did their best. There was nothing more they could do.
But there were legal formalities involved. Almost the whole day was wasted completing them, running to some magistrate's office getting signatures while the ambulance waited to carry Vikas's dead body to his home. The father asked me whether the body would decompose while the formalities took time. I assured him that the mortuary was temperature controlled and the body should be fit to undertake the 14 hour journey needed to get them home.
Vikas's departure from the hospital haapened in an ambulance- confined in a body bag- at around 4 PM. But before that, the father went around thanking everyone- his friends, the hospital staff and his relatives from Shillong. That was the only moment in the four month ordeal that he broke down- a frail, old man, mourning the loss of his only son at a place far from home. I sighed as the ambulance went out of the hospital gate.
I came home and took out the collection of Nepali poems that the father had written and had gifted a copy to me. I just held it in my hands and thought about that fine gentleman. About the sacrifices he made and the hardships he endured. Without losing his composure. Bar once- at the end.
And that is why Vikas's departure hit me hard. For it is the living that suffer.
