Surgery
My host, Yuvraj, a tall, slender, friendly gentleman in his thirties, told me a young man, Ravindra, lived in the next apartment and was looking for work. Yuvraj recommended him as driver and companion during the operation. It turned out I needed a resposible adult with me at all times during the hospital stay; up to three days and two nights. I had hired Ravindra to drive me around a few times as I searched for a music store where I could get my old violin fixed, and in search of interesting photos. One day we drove to several famous places but they all restricted photography. We drove for four hours through narrow, serpentine streets and saw a million people on the way. It was a wasted day toiling for little in the tightly choked, dingy city.
I had heard there were fifteen million humans crammed into Bengaluru but I don’t see how anyone could have an accurate figure. It had been growing rapidly for thirty years. I don’t know how anyone got anything done in such a place, or what they were all doing. The music shops we found after tortuous journeys were both shut. The train station was an impenetrable fortress. Ravindra knew some good places for coffee and supplies but I was lost and felt stifled.
In Nepal and India there was an old-world custom not to mention a price in bargaining. It was exasperating to an Australian who was used to at least an indication of what was a fair price. I would ask Ravindra how much he wanted to drive me somewhere and stop off somewhere for a coffee and so on and he would avoid the question. When pressed he would say “It’s up to you”. No amount of cajoling could persuade him to give a broad idea of the correct price. Eventually when I paid him after our first exhausting journey I gave him less than the price of the petrol.
I wasn’t thinking straight, but he hadn’t given me any indication and I was tired and frustrated. Ten minutes later his off-sider came to my door and tried to explain how little I had given. I sort of understood him but when I asked for a price he again demurred, looked away, shuffled around and refused to answer me. I had had enough. Later I realised what had happened and went to Ravidra’s door to apologise and pay him about ten times as much as before and I noticed, as I counted out the notes, his changing expression. This was the way to find out the expected fee. Keep counting until he smiled. I was glad I had figured that out, finally. It was driving me mad.
The tests went on, at the hospital now, and more doctors advised me to give up smoking because it would improve the recovery period. Then I had to see the financial officer. I had been told by the doctor the operation would cost around 80,000 to 100,000 rupees. This was getting up around 1,800 Australian dollars, which was half what it would cost in Australia as far as I could find out. The finance officer agreed with the higher figure, and I would need money on the day. It turned out on the day it would cost a minimum of 1.2. My original doctor had told me with a smile that this was also negotiable but I had no chance to bargain. 1.2 was the bare bones price with a shared room and bathroom and only one night for recovery. I accepted, but I only had 80,000. She agreed, with some hesitancy, that I could settle the rest later.
I had read that people could leave hospital the same day after a hernia operation. Next day was normal. I didn’t want to stay longer than overnight. I would be given a general anaesthetic, the kind where they put a mask over your face and you get totally knocked out. I was conflicted about this because it had happened to my mother during a test for skin cancer, which meant she lost her memory, as she was in her eighties, and it would take many months for her to get it back. I was sixty eight so it wouldn’t affect me in that way, but I couldn’t help wondering, what good could it do you, if it has an effect like that on older people? My poor dear mother, may she rest peacefully, never got over it, but that is another story.
Somehow, on the day, the price got up to 1.4 lakh rupees but the morning was a blur. Ravindra was ready to go fairly early – he was not a morning person – and we set out on a now familiar, complex, convoluted journey through dozens of lanes and alleys to the hospital which was only five miles away. Ravindra was really a delightful person. He was a gentle giant, softly spoken, impeccably respectful, I couldn’t have found a better person to help me. I was amazed that he didn’t mind sleeping at the hospital on the narrow bed provided for him, but he was unperturbed.
After sitting in a cold corridor for an hour in a tiny smock I was wheeled in, knocked out and suddenly I was back in my room with a strange sensation in my genitals. There was a plastic tube inserted into my penis. No doubt this was mentioned in the small print I neglected to read in the papers various people had given me, but it was a surprise to me. My consciousness came back gradually and I realised how uncomfortable I was. There were several metal staples in the skin around my stomach . There was a stent in my arm for fluids and drugs and I think they added a little extra pain killer after a while. I was drowsy and dozed on and off though the night, with a lot of back pain from my constricted position.
In the morning I was desperate to get out of there and especially to get this stupid tube out of my prick. It was there because you could not control your bodily fuctions after the anaesthetic and the fluids dripping into your arm apparently dripped out that tube. It felt like I was urinating slowly, constantly, with no ability to to do anything about it. I was a bad patient, very bad, with my only saving grace being that I wouldn’t waste too much of their time. I started demanding to be released. A doctor pointed out that I didn’t even know if I could walk yet. I hadn’t realised that I was allowed to walk with all the attachments on me. I sorted them out, got up and walked to the window. It felt great. I was ready to leave. She would have to consult the surgeon first.
I demanded the duty doctor remove the tube. I had showed it to Ravindra to demonstrate the unbearable indignity I was suffering. I wasn’t sure if I he understood exactly what I was saying, though his English was quite good. I probably shouldn’t have showed him. I wasn’t in normal state of mind, still under the influence of the anaesthetic. The lady doctor put on gloves and liftd my smock. She seemed reluctant but determined and efficient. She said “Take a deep breath, this is going to hurt.” I glimpsed Ravindra out of the corner of my eye. Grimacing with narrow eyes he watched grimly on. The doctor held my penis firmly in her left hand, the tube in her right, and gave a sudden tug. It hurt a little but I was so glad it was out. I think it hurt Ravindra more than me. I felt sorry for all I’d put him through.
After an hour or so the surgeon arrived and I sat up expectantly. He was an intelligent, perceptive man. He remarked that the way I sat up showed I was ready to go home. He was impressed. He told them to let me go. He was carefully groomed and never looked the least bit concerned about anything, like an airline pilot, but the others all looked worried. After he left they shook their heads and said I couldn’t go. I had to pay first. Then they showed me the bill. It had gone up to 180,000 rupees! They had a list of four items they had added. They also wanted cash; credit card was no good. I would pay, of course, but I had to get home first, and to an ABN. I could only get about a third of that out of my ABN per day but I had 1500 Australian dollars at home, locked in a suitcase, and a gold chain. We could work it out.
No, they told me, we couldn’t work it out. I would have to pay the full amount before they would let me go. I was stunned. They threatened to get the police involved. They told the duty doctor not to remove the stent from my arm until I paid. Up until now all the medical staff had asserted their independence of the financial side. Not any more. The young woman looked unhappy, conflicted, but she complied. I sat down as they came and went and talked with Ravindra. I thought they must see sense eventually. While I was there I couldn’t possibly pay, even if I was a billionaire, because I couldn’t get to a bank. They didn’t relent though and Ravindra had an idea; Yuvraj. As first I said no but he reassured me that Yuvraj could afford it and it could be done quickly. He called him and arranged it. I was stunned again; this time at Yuvraj’s generosity. He hardly knew me, didn’t know my financial situation, but he put up one lakh rupees for me. After half an hour I was out and I felt fabulous.
After we negotiated the crowded, narrow streets one last time I managed to get up the single flight of stairs to my apartment easily enough. I just had to move very slowly and carefully. At last I was home. I made a coffee and had a smoke on the balcony. Surgery was over and it had gone well. I would walk freely again.
Travels to Nepal 