I celebrated my 40th birthday with some apprehension about my health going for a toss. As if by coincidence, my knees began to buckle and crackle.
I sought out the most popular orthopaedist in town. After examining my knees he pronounced the dreaded “arthritis” word. However, he said it was in the initial stages, prescribed some medicines and predicted that I might have to go for a knee replacement surgery if the oral treatment proved ineffective. The tablets were not ineffective; my knee pain disappeared.
To my chagrin, the discomfort then shifted to my stomach, which bloated and boluses of air got kicked around like footballs within my tummy. Looking for quick medical attention, I met a not-so-popular doctor in the vicinity of where we lived. He ordered immediate stoppage of all the tablets that had been prescribed, taught me a few exercises and laughed away the idea of implants. Years have rolled by. I continue to move around with the knees I was born with.
A few years later, when a chance scan discovered a fibroid in my uterus, a senior gynaecologist opted for the removal of the affected organ. I feared the consequences, and the doctor quipped that I didn’t need it at that age: its presence or absence mattered little. By this time I was seasoned enough to go for second opinions. I chose a younger and upcoming doctor, who explained that while cysts were common and normally harmless, intervention was required only if they grew larger. Periodic medical scans to determine the status of the growth were recommended.
I still have both my uterus and the fibroid, which stays in its original size ever since it was imaged.
I was at the threshold of my fifties and beset with loss of energy and hot flushes, obvious signs of menopause. I sought medical help and was more than happy to learn that oestrogen supplement can relieve me of my problems. Along with the prescription for the hormone, I received a recommendation for a mammogram.
My super-alert antennae perked up and I queried the doctor about the connection between hormone therapy and the mammogram. “Oh! It’s just a routine check-up to know your condition. The hormone treatment has a negligible tendency to cause cancer. Normal people have nothing to worry about.”
I thought to myself, “what if I decide to endure the pain without opting for the dubious remedy?” Endure I did, until the symptoms died a natural death, along with my menstruation cycle.
I became a sexagenarian. I retired from my nine-to-five job of many decades and took to my long-time passion of teaching. This time, my throat decided to play the villain. My voice and my tongue became hoarse and dry respectively. I sought out an ear, nose and throat specialist for succour. I walked into his swanky clinic; survived the scrutiny of liveried attendants and hours of waiting before getting to see the masked specialist. He greeted me, masked, counselled me, still masked, and dismissed me. I strained to make out his face and muffled words. He gestured me to an examination seat, sprayed a liquid inside my buccal cavity and sent an endoscope down my throat, all within a few minutes.
Wow... technology... gone are the days the doctor had to move his face dangerously close to the patient’s mouth to examine the larynx. Within seconds, the scope came out and so did the verdict. “Due to ageing,” he announced, “your voice box stops moving and the salivary glands are drying up. I advise you to speak less and to sip water frequently.”
Little did he realise that he had thus tolled the death knell to my post-retirement pastime.
To cut a long story short, another physician diagnosed the source of my problems to be not the wind but the food pipe, and restored the voice and the salivation. I now continue with full-throated lectures, perhaps tormenting my students.
chitra_seeyem@yahoo.co.in
