flashquake Nonfiction

INTENSIVE CARE
by Swapna Goel

"Mr. Mullick! Wake up. Mr. Mullick! Breathe deep." Slowly Mr. Mullick tries to peep through eyelids that refuse to open. Draws in air and the ventilator records a better score. Our man in white coat clucks in satisfaction and moves on Leaving behind a shriveled form hidden beneath hospital sheets.

The peep widens into a horrified stare as the pupils take in the jungle of pipes and wires ensnaring his wasted frame. Mr. Mullick screams as loud as he can through the mask. No sound emerges, the beep of machines continue to signal all is well. Petrified, he lunges at the monsters on his bed, desperate to free himself. I shiver when I see his fear, so palpable; it seems to jump out of him. I rush to restrain him, but stop. I'm just a visitor to this ward, I remind myself. As I watch in horror the feeder pipe plastered on his nose comes undone and hangs limp right under his eye. He wrenches it out and squirms in pain unaware that they shoved it down till his tummy. Going crazy, he begins to peel the mask strapped across his cheeks. I cover my mouth and rush to get a nurse.

"Look Doctor, if this is how he's gonna behave you gotta strap him down. See, he broke my nail." Mr. Mullick's eyes dart in panic from the nurse to the doctor as they talk across his bed. The shrunken face turns to the doctor with a silent plea. "We have to do our job, Mr. Mullick. If you pull out the tube, we'll just have to put it back in. And that hurts. So be a sport, you're doing just fine." Giving the old man a pat that fails to soothe, he switches over to another patient.

I stand rooted by my dad's bedside, the hand that stroked his forehead suddenly still. "Your dad is serious. But Mr. Mullick on the corner bed is worse. If he has a chance, so does your dad." Reassurances muttered by the nursing staff gnaw heavy on my conscience.

Much later I gather enough guts to walk up to Mr. Mullick's bedside. Calmed by the injection he has dozed off, his gaunt head threatening to fall off the upright bed. With nervous fingers I cradle his face and slide it back to the pillow. His eyes fly open, limpid black pools of pain and I look back, helpless. I loosen the bandages that tie his arms to the bed and wipe the sweat off his forehead. A lone tear journeys down to his mask, and I discern lips curving in an attempt to smile round the tube stuck down his mouth. The wonder tube helps him breathe, but forces his jaws apart. I open my mouth wide to breathe, within seconds it dries up. Parched, I long for a drink. My frail companion has been this way for hours, maybe days. A big load thrusts up my throat and I lose control, my cries jolting the beeping critical care unit. A flurry of coats and stethoscopes descend on me and within seconds I am hauled out of the ward.

"But sir, she knew Dr. Ghosh, he allowed her in," clarifies a nurse. "Next time keep these visitors off my patients. The old man was disturbed as hell. If he conks off, I'll get sued, not her," the doctor shouts back.

I wait out in the sunny corridor and wonder where I went wrong. As I glance back at the now-closed door, I wince. On it is written in bold letters, INTENSIVE CARE UNIT. I seem to have trouble reading it. Or believing.

Six hours later, Mr. Mullick follows me out of the ward. Two nights later, my dad does the same. Did they miss human warmth in the cold world of medicine and opt for God's sunny pastures? Would they have recovered under a more caring staff rather than intensive medical care? So many questions they left behind.

Copyright 2003 by Swapna Goel

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