The stitches have been removed from the spot where the skin graft was done on Lekha's left foot. The last of the Oxygen therapy is gonna be carried out tomorrow and the doctor has hinted that we could go back home after that. We have been looking forward to that moment when we could leave the hospital premises for good.
One should be happy in the normal course but isn't there a hint of hardness deep within me? Probably the prospect of change - even though it's tending to normalcy - is the factor that's the cause for the melancholy.
It has been three weeks and I haven't left the premises over the last fortnight ever since the surgery was carried out. In other words, our existence has been confined to a small room of the hospital completely insulated from the outside world, the combined effect of the television, the cellphones and the internet notwithstanding.
The daily routine was bland but life began at a half past 5 when I went about my chores during which the nursing staff on duty would slip in to record Lekha's temperature and blood pressure. After a morning cup of tea - fetched from the canteen extension counter on the same floor of the building - Lekha had to be got ready before the doctor's customary morning rounds. Since the orders were that she shouldn't use her left foot, a combination of the usage of a wheelchair and a steel stool was devised by yours truly to overcome the immobility factor.
And at some point of time, during the day time, Lekha used to be taken for the Oxygen therapy for a period of an hour and a half. The rest of the time was taken up to run errands for fetching the medicines from the dispensary or for completing the paper work towards official formalities.
We used to watch our favourite programmes on television and the lights of our room used to be the last to go off at about a half past 11. And yes, I did catch up on a bit of reading too.
It's this interlude of three weeks - when I did nothing worthwhile - that I'm feeling sad about going away from. Dear me!
Tailpiece.
It's been a whale of an experience, I must admit. I've made friends with a lot of patients and their bystanders in the course of my interaction. The doctor and the nursing staff explain things to me, without losing their cool, for all the silly queries that I have.
One should be happy in the normal course but isn't there a hint of hardness deep within me? Probably the prospect of change - even though it's tending to normalcy - is the factor that's the cause for the melancholy.
It has been three weeks and I haven't left the premises over the last fortnight ever since the surgery was carried out. In other words, our existence has been confined to a small room of the hospital completely insulated from the outside world, the combined effect of the television, the cellphones and the internet notwithstanding.
The daily routine was bland but life began at a half past 5 when I went about my chores during which the nursing staff on duty would slip in to record Lekha's temperature and blood pressure. After a morning cup of tea - fetched from the canteen extension counter on the same floor of the building - Lekha had to be got ready before the doctor's customary morning rounds. Since the orders were that she shouldn't use her left foot, a combination of the usage of a wheelchair and a steel stool was devised by yours truly to overcome the immobility factor.
And at some point of time, during the day time, Lekha used to be taken for the Oxygen therapy for a period of an hour and a half. The rest of the time was taken up to run errands for fetching the medicines from the dispensary or for completing the paper work towards official formalities.
We used to watch our favourite programmes on television and the lights of our room used to be the last to go off at about a half past 11. And yes, I did catch up on a bit of reading too.
It's this interlude of three weeks - when I did nothing worthwhile - that I'm feeling sad about going away from. Dear me!
Tailpiece.
It's been a whale of an experience, I must admit. I've made friends with a lot of patients and their bystanders in the course of my interaction. The doctor and the nursing staff explain things to me, without losing their cool, for all the silly queries that I have.
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