To have medical situations during the pandemic can be bothersome, as was my nagging back pain for the last few days. Everyone who has access to Google and WebMD is an unqualified doctor, often trying a one-up on the duly qualified doctors. I am no exception.
My wife, a greater google doctor than me, started with medications, paracetamol and the likes, ointments like Volini and made me do odd postures watching Yoga Day activities by politicians. The last part only aggravated the problem leading me to my doctor.
He turned me in a revolving stool (I must look at its price on Amazon for its ease of turning), doubting if I had a spine at all. Satisfied that I still possessed one went on to press each vertebra. Nothing happened until I laughed loudly, feeling tickled as he pushed his hands under both my armpits, my wife admonishing in her usual manner with her eyes, ‘stop it silly.’
A few calcium and vitamin tabs for the moment would do, and I am dismissed. I feel let down as not even an X-ray is prescribed. What if my wife thinks that I’m pretending to put off any short visit by my mother-in-law? I cannot argue and meekly exit, like a voter cursing himself after casting his vote to a person he did not favour the most.
The pains do not subside but increase, prompting me to return from my work soon. Over to the next doctor; he is my family physician and knows my body better than his. He advises an MRI and fixes a slot at a nursing home. I’m not too fond of visits to nursing homes and hospitals during Covid times. Though it was reserved for only oldies above 60 years of age during my jab times, things seem to have changed as I hear some jingle and some giggle from the youths assembled for the vaccination, which cheers me up.
The paperwork over, I’m led to a changing room, despite my feeble attempts to convince them that I don’t change and I’m what I am, and even my wife is used to accepting me as I am. No, I must change over to a pyjama, for whatever reasons. The waist is family size and could have easily accommodated my wife, our two children besides me and leaving a little space for the society.
I hate the MRI tunnels. They are bizarre. It seems a space coffin and I, a prisoner. Under the watchful eyes of my wife, I am slid inside. Like the one used in fencing, a cage covers my face, earplugs to muffle the loud sounds. It bothered me little, as I had already removed the hearing aids. There was one glitch. My face started itching, and I longed to address the unreachable nose and jaw. It’s going to be a war of nerves in the next fifteen or twenty minutes, a challenge to my perseverance, the spirit of a fightback, and overcoming all human sensitivities by elevating to a higher yogic plain. Will I win or succumb to the small hair in my nostril, which was dancing merrily like the small Jerry in Tom & Jerry series?
I tried to think away. The circumference of the tunnel led me to think, what if a person is obese and gets stuck inside? The thought brought waves of laughter. If someone was admonishing, I could not hear it. The noise was a mix of drums, Bass and clarinets. Perhaps the manufacturers added ‘tasha’, the flat Indian percussion drum. The body gets rusted when idle for too long. My leg seemingly had a cramp, or at least I thought so. I was constantly moving my toes to disengage from any imaginary stiffness. My wife later telling me that she was worried about my toe movements. I assuaged her that worry only when there is no movement, and I started enjoying the music in the tunnel.
The doctor later spoke to me; there is wear and tear to the vertebrae. The rest was all Arabic, and I have to Google. Maybe a belt, which will improve my social standing to get an up slot in the queues. Bye for now.
Sampath Kumar
