Today turned out to be a long day. Longer than most that I can remember.

It felt that way for a variety of reasons… The cell phone next to me hardly rang; not even the annoying intrusions of people selling insurance, villas, apartments, broadband, personal loans, vehicle loans, education loans, home rentals, pest control, cab services, driver-on-call… none of them. No calls from family or friends. More than once, I reached out for my phone involuntarily, as if in anticipation of a call just making its way through cellular traffic and gazed at the wallpaper for that call to register on my screen. The camels in the desert riding into the setting sun seemed unmindful. Nothing moved. Time stood still.

The doorbell too was silent. It was the driver’s day off. The cook (noun!) had finished early and left for the day. The laundry man wasn’t due. The security guard did not knock with complaints or requests. The flower-seller left a small packet dangling from the door making no noise at all. There was no prospect of the cooking gas cylinder being delivered. No electrical, or plumbing complaints. No Amazon deliveries. No courier packets. No knock on the door from neighbours seeking a chit-chat or a bowl of yoghurt starter. My sister too, a regular, didn’t call or show up, recovering from all the caregiving she had offered.

The house was bare. Daughter, new to London, is settling down. We are still in this game of ‘who should be calling whom’, the upshot of which was I hadn’t spoken to her for 48 hours. My mother lives mostly in another room in the house when she is not in deep contemplation of the Gods. It is easier to care for her than to converse. My wife… I don’t know where she has been for a while now. That is not true. We know. She is not around.

Lying on my back, it wasn’t easy watching TV or the computer screen, or reading. There wasn’t much I could do. Binge-watch I was told. It seemed such a waste of time. I couldn’t.
I couldn’t sit for long. I’ve been told not to. Not to walk beyond the bare necessary paces. No work- outs. The day I left hospital last week, relieved and impatient, I was told, “Give it a few more days. Come for a review after a week and then after that, maybe we can consider you moving gradually to a more normal routine. Until then, rest”.

My butt is already sore, my brain is unconsciously working on a long to-do list, including fresh plans for a trek next year, in place of the gruelling one I was set to go on for through much of next month.

I could walk within the house with greater ease than the week before. With no one at the door at any time, it was only the odd trip to forage in the kitchen or to the loo to make space for the next input. It was a sunny day, a Sunday. There was just the occasional roar of a motorcycle or the insistent honking of a car or bus. Missing was the unceasing sounds of cars, buses, trucks, ambulances, bikes and scooters in the background, something inescapable on a typical weekday. When the numerous birds announced their return home, it broke the silence, the stillness, and briefly, the solitariness. The tired sun, after a long day quickly retired. The lights in the house came on. There were still the hours of the evening. They passed, quietly.

Irony.

The days in the hospital were hectic.

Most wards in Indian hospitals that I know are noisy. This one wasn’t. It was made up for by busy-ness. Well before six am, it was time for a lab technician to draw a blood sample. A nurse followed a little later to draw another blood sample. Then came the ward attendant to make my bed. He showed up sometime later to scrub me and help me with a change of clothes. Tea service followed. The janitor got busy thereafter making multiple trips, first to mop the floor, then to clean the washroom and one more time to replace the disposal bags in the bin. In the meanwhile, it was the turn of the nurse to step in and take my BP readings and temperature. All this high intensity traffic, and it was not even 8 am. In the midst of this, a change of guard was quietly executed. My brother-in-law headed home after the night’s stay and a friend came to take his place. The canteen boy brought breakfast, reappeared soon after to take the empty tea flask from the early morning service. He showed up again a little later to collect the breakfast tray, now empty. The nurse showed up to hand over the morning dose of medicines. Somewhere in the middle of all this, someone came and delivered the day’s newspaper. While poring over the newspaper for an hour, awkwardly, uncomfortably with one hand while the other hand is tied down by intravenous duties, the nursing supervisor trooped in to check on the quality of services. She took in the IV regulator with the ‘bullet’ delivering the drug, had a look at the IV canula, gave a broad smile and left.

Mid-morning, it was time for my friend to leave and my sister to take over. She would cheerfully report on the happenings at home (mostly nothing to cheer about), inquire after me, and busy herself in the 10×10 feet room moving things from here to there. It was the turn of the hospital dietician to show up and check if the food being served was agreeable. She told me that because of my DVT, items with vitamin K was off the table. It was the first solid evidence that there was some method in the menus. The Ward Supervisor came and went. She wanted to check if everything was okay. She didn’t stay long enough for an interaction. The in-patient relations executive too came and went. Soup arrived when I felt like a snooze.

My meal followed.

Not to be deprived, I settled down for a nap. Only to be woken up by the resident doctor. Two golden questions: How are you today? How is the pain? It wasn’t clear my response registered. After a quick visual survey of my body, the doctor made an exit. Call me old-fashioned, but without the doctor’s use of the good old stethoscope and being told to alternate between holding my breath and breathing normally, I felt cheated. I didn’t complain though.

More interruptions. More blood samples taken.

There were phone calls too.

A knock on the door. Evening tea service. Always prompt. It was served along with 2 Marie biscuits wrapped in aluminium foil. I am not sure why. Probably has something to do with it looking hygienic. It was soon time for my surgeon to show up. He did. He assured me that he was indeed monitoring my condition over telephone every few hours. I just had to rest. The rest would follow.

Sunset brought my friend over, and my sister left for home. Animated chatter would ensue till there was a knock on the door and dinner arrived. Post-dinner, there was silence, followed by television. A change of guard again. My brother-in-law was back to stay the night and my friend said her goodbyes and left. The nurse trooped in with medicines. She made a couple of visits later to fix / adjust the IV. It was now time to wind down. Nurses continued to tip-toe at regular intervals during the night to check on the IV levels. I knew it. The door latch would make a sound.

Looking back, the hospital stint was hectic. There was human presence all hours, and conversation during waking hours. I couldn’t move much but there was so much happening around me. Back home, there was space. There was light and cross-ventilation. There was my own bed. There was the silence. Of the Sunday. Home.

Deep Vein thrombosis (DVT) is a tricky fella. It crept in with no warning. I felt crippled the first couple of days. Complications arising from it could be fatal. Interesting how one suddenly discovers people in the family and circle of friends who have suffered it or have anecdotes about others who have suffered DVT, recovered, or died. DVT is more prevalent than I imagined.

Being active, I believe, is more important than being gym-fit. Which means not being glued to one’s chair for hours and making sure that during long flights the body (and legs importantly) get exercise. Hopefully you will read up more and protect yourself.

Feeling alone and at a loose end is probably not a bad thing. See. I got this piece done!

Image from ClipartWiki.

This article originally appeared on my Facebook page.