Medical professionals are fed up with the ever increasing “VIP syndrome”

Ever since the dawn of civilization, man has been interested in categorizing self .In this 21st century , the scenario has not much changed  . The classes are different though. Money makes power and power makes VIPs. This was in yesteryears. Today, a sum total of all celebrities, MLAs and ministers their uncles, aunts and relatives make the  VIPs list complete .The common man left behind are the only exceptions from this category

 What is  VIP Syndrome ?A 'condition' caused when a very important person (VIP) by virtue of fame, position or claim on public interest disrupts the normal course of patient care in a hospital.

                                                                                                                              Segen's Medical Dictionary. 

Every  Medical  professional , whether it be doctors, nurses or physiotherapists pledge that they would provide universal care to  their patients irrespective of cast, creed and social status;  during the  divine occasion of graduation .In rea,l this doesn’t happen. Look at what happens in a corporate hospital in a city like Bangalore.

Scene 1 : A VVIP patient (rather customer in today’s terms ) gets admitted ,they rush the person to an ultra-deluxe  ward, switch on the idiot box  and appoints a  nurse to attend him holistically ,so that he doesn’t feel left out in the crew .The VIP may have got admitted with a common cold whereas, a patient with an acute MI if unlucky enough to arrive at the same  hospital the same day then they would have to wait till the VIP is checked for all possible complications for the next ten years .A  normal person gets admitted to a private room ,charges vary , so do the facilities and care (understandable), but here there would be one single nurse to look after 6 to 7 patients and a doc for the whole floor. The consultants would peep in when the church bell rings in the morning and then seldom do we find them ,these patients (not customers ) too pay a huge amount though no stars are attached  to their category  .Expectations would be high and the medical team fails to meet them but all are least bothered .

Scene 2: The same hospital, a talk by a supervisor to the newly joined staff. She explains that, one has to attend the patient according to priority,  all of us nodded our heads we learnt this in our professional  ethics. We left our mouths wide open, when she told us the priority is based on the VIP status .

Scene 3:A cardiology patient after his heart surgery 15 th day demands a bed bath .The nurse refuses and explains to the patient that it is unwanted moreover taking a full bath in bathroom is more beneficial but she  had to give an explanation for not accepting the red marked customer’s order .

Scene 4: The same place, Hospital protocol clearly states that-“ the patient file should never be shown to the patient or the patient party” .Mr.X belonging to the red category(known to the minister), arrives to the hospital  and demands the file (patient record). Poor thing the nurse refuses saying it is against rules. She is shouted at by the VIPs and later the management asks her to submit the documents .Where goes the protocol? Vanished in thin air? Rules exist only for the common man ?.All these go unanswered.

Scene 5: Doctors act differently with VIPs . They know their decisions will be scrutinized not only by hospital administrators looking over their shoulders but also by the press and public. Doctors who would normally ask, "What's the best care for a 76-year-old man with a malignant glioma?" instead wonder, "What do we do now that our MP  has a malignant glioma? They would have to deal with all the doubts that arise from the customer after his brutal rape of the Google search engine.

Scene 6: VIP syndrome affects not only the treatment, but also testing decisions. If Ms Aiswarya a school teacher asks for a  CT scan  she  doesn't  need, doctors simply say, "No, Ms Aiswarya." But Aishwarya  Rai Bachan can get any CT she wants.

Its high time we shake ourselves out of the rut and react to this ever increasing graph of VIP syndrome.

The enigmatic misery of a typical Indian labour

“SEX”, the taboo word, was always on the heat of discussions with fellow girls, omnipresent in all late night talks in my hostel days from school to college. All girls competed with each other in expressing their ignorance in this matter though the truth was we knew it thorough like our names.

“How was I born?”; never clicked a thought in mind all my imagination and interest was glued onto the “manufacturing process”, and hence the supply chain was neglected in my thought process, until the third year of my graduation in nursing

Nursing studies was a package of sweaty afternoon boring lectures and jam-packed, at times interesting, morning clinical sessions.

 “Labour is the process of bringing out the foetus and the products of conception.” All of us had our mouths wide open during one such afternoon lecture on labour. The coloured picture of widespread legs, blood shed and high pitched screeches (like that in regional movies) ran through our minds. Many of us whispered deep in our mind, “mom you are great.” This is quite contradictory to what we usually said “I can’t believe it, my parents did that and I was born. Yuck!

All of us were quite excited as well as tensed when it was the time to break the ice for our midwifery postings. It was in a renowned government hospital in Karnataka. This place was the only hope of light for the economically poor class of the state, who usually never visited a hospital. Here you have the right to get labour service by paying Rs. 100 or 150. But the truth is painful to discuss.

There were night prayers said so that we wouldn’t be the first one to be tagged to the labour room. (Each one of us prayed hard)

All students a batch of fifty, ( forty one girls and nine boys), stood like convicts. We had our eyes bulged out, white uniforms drenched in perspiration, and faces turned pale like that of ghosts. The day of verdict was never supported by my dame luck. There was pin-drop silence in the hall when the tutor announced the names. I could feel my bladder getting filled with fear. I held my pelvic muscles tight, and controlled my urge to micturate. It was myself and Glory in the labour room!!! I felt like I am going to have a cardiac arrest when I heard my name. We looked at each other. Tension and fear in our eyes brought a smile of helplessness. I took a deep sigh.

The next day, myself and Glory met outside the labour room – hands crossed and prayed hard like how we used to do when there was an India-Pakistan match. Anybody who glanced at us might have thought we were praying for our labour.

The labour room promulgated signs of cry and pain deep in our tummies. It was a plain hall with eight tables, four on each side. Seperated by cheap curtains hung on a rope (the dirtiest I have ever seen in my entire life). Except for this setup, it reminded me of a dirty laundry room with blood soaked clothes everywhere.

The moment we entered the vision pathway of the nursing supervisor, we were called by her: “You two come forward. Start carbolizing the tables, footrest and walls.” We just looked around , tables were drenched in blood and amniotic fluid. It smelled like a butcher shop. Faeces and urine on some added more spice to the scene. I begged to my vomiting center medulla not to give a shower and controlled my urge to puke.

We looked at each other with dismay in our eyes. Recovering from this state, we requested for two sets of gloves. The senior staff looked at us like we demanded a huge dowry to get married to her daughter. Then came a janitor, like an angel sent from heaven, literally we saw a hallow around her head when she handed over two gloves to us. It was like a huge mercy she showed on us. All those who have undergone nursing studies must have experienced this either as a student, intern or a staff nurse. We asked for carbolizing solution; usually propanol or sodium hypochloride. It was Glory who asked, I stood behind her. The reply came as a thunder: “Use soap and water. Take the scrubber too.”

The tigress in me and Glory woke up, but we couldn’t reach much as we were students. It was more than umpteen times I have dreamt of coming to the front looking straight into the supervisor’s eyes and say “We are nurses; not servants”. Each time I see the dream I reach a safety level like how a heroine reacts after a perfect shot. I guess my dream leaked out of my brain like frothing beer or my two minutes of workless thoughts have done the magic. The supervisor screamed: “Out you both. Get lost!” as if the government hospital was her husband’s property. But deep inside, I was relieved to get out of this pigsty.

With our heads held high, we walked past the eight tables, like how Rajnikanth does a slow motion in his action movies. All eyes fixed on us. Mothers in labour, doctors, PG students, ANMs and all. When we were nearing the second table, we heard mother cry in pain. A nighty, dark brown in colour, folded above the hips. Legs bent to the stomach, separated wide apart. A touch in the abdomen gave a rigid vibration that we usually feel at a pub when the jockey slips the disc. A black line is visible in the vagina, pushing against the labial folds. A new life was trying to establish self.

I could hear my midwifery lectures playing in my ears. “Second stage of labour, explulsion of the foetus.. provide mother comfort, support.. apply liberal episotomy if needed. The cry became intense. Glory rushed to the supervisor and said, “Sister head is seen”. “They have not paid,” the reply came. “But she has the clearance,” Glory shot back. The supervisor got up from the seat and stared blank at us and walked off.

Glory rushed to a PG student and told her. She was cool and said with a smile, “I am attending this case now. Would you manage? I will tell you what to do.” She agreed with a firm nod, confidence in her mind was visible on her face. Love, compassion, and passion too..

“Diya wear a glove” she screamed.

I felt a shudder through my spine. I am usually bold at doing procedures. But this time I could feel  butterflies in my stomach. But still I wore the glove in fraction of a second and supported the perineum of the mother, held baby’s head. Vagina expanded, the baby’s head was thrusting and it looked like it would tear off the vagina. “Apply an episotomy,” the PG student said. Glory took the surgical blade and with trembling hands cut through the sides. Flesh was seen, blood trickling down. Mother cried, but not for this pain. But the labour pain. I felt a pain down in my stomach too.

Mother pushed hard at regular intervals, trying to get the foetus out of her womb. The only thing in her mind at that time would be to get this little spark of life out of her. The little thing for whom she took great care for one year, ate extra, drank extra, prayed hard and longed so much. Now all she wants her is to get rid of it.

The baby’s head was out and in twisting motion like that in whirlpool we delivered the shoulders and then the legs. Clamped and cut the cord. The newborn was not as pretty as we expected. Covered with blood and fluids . The baby was slippery like a fish. Glory showed the baby to the mother. She looked at the child and said with a smile “Girl”. We do this so that later they won’t come back and bargain for a male child. Glory took the child to the resuscitation room and cleaned the baby. Now it looked like the one in Johnson&Johnson advertisement. I held the baby close to my bosom. It exhibited its sucking reflex. I felt a change in my estrogen and progesterone levels. I longed to have a baby of my own, to curdle and feed my little soul. ( Opps then I remembered marriages are hell with perky adds like this). But married or unmarried, every woman should undergo labour just to experience the thunder of having a baby. Just this flash of thought if expressed to my parents, they would put me into a jail of restrictions, hence I buried it in my mind.

I wonder how men feel when they have a baby of their own. I have to discuss with someone. But believe me or not men (male nurses) find it very hard to attend labour and three cheers for all those who do it.

Photo courtesy: oliviermartins

7 reasons why I want to remain a maiden

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I pledge to remain a maiden. Not because I want to die a virgin. But, I dread to kill myself strangling on wedlock.  Marriage, I feel, is like the advertisement of fairness cream – it makes you purchase with high expectations; but once you have used them, you are never satisfied.

For those who claim they are happily married: I seldom find people (especially women) who are happy married. Now don’t think this is another insane feminist penning down plagiarized thoughts. Let me cut the crap and cite the reasons..

1.  When proposals pop in like mushrooms in a soggy forest, girls are expected to behave (rather act) matured. A girl who looks like a 12th grade child is made to do everything under the sun to make her look hot. Alas! Seldom do people realize that one can’t replace mangos on a mango tree with jack fruits, no matter how hard you try. In similar way, overweighed girls are expected to turn lean overnight.

Above all, till then you were expected to be like a prayer recited in a church, known to all like as holy and divine. On contrary, when a guy comes to check you out, you are expected to send radio waves and turn him to your frequency. One has to sit beside ‘the man of the day’ and serve tea like a geisha, flash an innocent smile, answer a few questions and touch the forehead half a dozen times like you have never sat face to face with a full grown man. The session will end with a cheesy smile and an ogle.

2. Later you will have to stand like a manikin amidst a score of obese aunts, whose waterbed-like bodies look as if it may explode anytime, dressed in glittering sarees that resemble pyrotechnics during diwali. They would poke fun at your tummy or adjudge your boobs sag, while they could easily feed a five year old standing erect. They would compare you with their salad days like drawing a column of differences between Mallika Sherawath and Helen. Towards the end, the verdict would be not bad, neither good.

Next they would slip on to educational qualifications and every uncle would have a point to make. They would do this artistically by sipping the coffee and emptying the snack racks. Towards the end, a statistical analysis would infer that the girl is lucky to have this boy.

3. After all the above mentioned rituals, you will get to visit a new house which would be tagged as yours (even if you dislike it). It’s like getting a tumbler free with a tea dust packet – but here, you are not allowed to touch the glass. Everything is new from the aluminum pressure cooker to the nude man lying beside you, who would be acting so strange and giving an impression that he is researching to find a counter theory for relativity.

Your maiden name is cut off, family name replaced. It’s like learning alphabets from the beginning and still all say it’s normal.

4. Marriage will turn you from a tigress to a caged tigress. Your husband would be like a CFL tube lit when he praises his colleague’s pink t-shirt; but would never give nod of approval even when you are unanimously declared as hot by all. Your favourite outfit would lose its place in your wardrobe and it would be piled with drab sarees.

You, who may be the best performer at your workplace, are expected to excel in bhindi fry (lady's finger) making. In spite of turning the mid night oil for years and securing laurels, Phds, and finally a job, you will be expected to keep an account of what you spend (from your own salary) and report it to your husband who wouldn’t even have a clue of how much he spends on cigarettes per day.

5. Your husband may be a drunkard who drinks all through. If at all in the intimate moments after love making (a rarity), you would reveal a story where you enjoyed a chilled beer with your buddies at college or you dared to take a sip from his drink when he was sleeping. The holy man would then give a shocked look at you like you have a hallow around your head. The very next day, a bunch of relatives would arrive and start a detailed study on your character and past. The inference of the study along with some cooked masala would be the spice for all upcoming functions and tea parties in the next couple of months, or may be years!!!

6. Later when you set pace with your married, life and added luxuries, you would be marked in red if you initiate a play. Even when you are warm inside for the carnal desire, never dare to hint it through gestures. Mind you, you may land in trouble. Your expected role is to be a play doll and express joy even when your mate ends the match abruptly and turns over snoring like a pig.

7. Last but not least. Never would one be able to express openly what is in her mind. Repression and suppression would be the best defense mechanisms to adopt if you ever dream to be an ideal wife. Happy married life to all spinsters!!!!

Photo courtesy: Angelina :)