A Visit to the
Doctor in the Nervous Nineties
by Vijai Pant
“He is
having slight congestion in his chest,” I
told the doctor, my soft tone ensuring that dad
does not hear it. My dad, probably like all dads
and aged persons, never likes the idea of telling
the doctor a great deal.
“It’s
OK to talk of symptoms, but why go beyond that,”
he would often say.
So, hazarding
a guess about the ailment as a layman is a
complete ‘No! No!’ His visit to a
doctor is as much about getting cured as a litmus
test of the doctor’s professional competency.
The doctor,
probably tired at the fag end of the day,
suppressed a yawn, but my 92 years old dad was
quick enough to notice it. He gave me an
admonishing look for having brought him to
someone who apparently seemed quite disinterested
in his work, or, specifically in his patient’s
well being.
The
examination, with a torch enlightening the dark
caverns of his toothless mouth, while my dad
momentarily resembled the male version of Kali,
with his tongue protruding out, was over in a
jiffy. Thereafter, the languid movements of the
stethoscope took over, but unluckily for the
doctor, this too did not last long enough to
satisfy my father that the job had been well done.
“Everything seems normal. Just ensure that
he takes due precaution in this chilly weather.
And yes, only lukewarm water,” the doctor
concluded, handing me the prescription, the paper,
more or less unsullied. He added, as an
afterthought, “For his age, your father
appears extremely fit.” However, the way it
was said the compliment looked more like a
complaint, an exception to the universally
accepted rule of old age and infirmity going hand-in-hand.
It made me wonder whether I should apologise to
this middle aged pro for bringing to him a ninety
something man, with all faculties intact.
The
prescription, without any medicines, was handed
over to me. The doctor smiled. It was message for
us to leave. But dad was not done yet. He stayed
put.
Like any smart
consumer, he wanted value for money- the
consultation fee- and value here meant more of
the doctor’s time.
“Doctor,
why am I having a wheezing sound while breathing,”
he queried.
The doctor who
had already rung the bell for the next patient,
tried to dismiss the query with, “I’ve
explained it to your son,” obviously not
happy with this unexpected hold-up.
But my dad
seemed in no hurry to leave.
“It’s
nothing. It happens in old age. Don’t worry.
You’ll be all right,” the doctor coaxed
wanting to get rid of him.
“You mean
to say all old people have it and that too
without any reason,” father was not liking
the fact that knowledge was not being shared.
“Well!
You can say that,” the doctor retorted
completely exasperated at the whole thing.
“Please
take him away,” he almost pleaded with me.
I forced dad
to get up and with a disgruntled look he left the
doctor’s chamber, muttering.
Although he
grumbled all the way home and chided me for
wasting time, energy and money, I was happy
inside that there was no major health issue.
More than my
father it is me who gets panicky and worried due
to his being in the nervous nineties, because
after all a century is a century.
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