A Cough

Morning hardly dawned out of the smog. Despite being an early riser, I woke up at nine. “Good, khuf, karhk…. karhk…. Morning,” I said. A dry cough had been chasing my sleep out for several nights. The cold last night made things no better. It was Monday. I already had an appointment fixed with an ENT specialist in a famous multi-specialty hospital. My father accompanied me. We went with the hope of finally ending the drought in my throat.

As we entered the hospital, we were directed to the admission counter to get a new patient ID card for the first timers. Then, we entered the lobby. It was a busy environment, echoing the rhythmic flipping of the cash at bill counters, digital screens flashing the token numbers, the constant buzzing of nurses and doctors around while the cleaning staff mopped the floor repeatedly once someone crossed. Out-Patients seemed to wait for eternity, growing pale by minute, as their friends and family members were made to fill out endless application forms. Since I was blessed with an appointment, we luckily bypassed such a cumbersome procedure.

After verifying my appointment, we were shown our doctor’s room. He did not notice us as he was looking down at his notepad, waiting for the next patient. When we got a little closer, sensing a patient, he straightaway asked what the problem was. As I tried to reply, the cough interrupted me. He paused for a moment and looked up, and slowly nodded as he remembered my previous consultation with him in his private clinic.

Wasting no time, he gave me a list of tests to be taken. We took all the tests across a couple of floors. On our return to his room, he guided us to the 3^rd floor, giving a new list of some more tests. And we needed the payment receipt for those new ones too, for which we had to visit the cash counter, yet another time!

On showing the receipt in reception, we were directed to yet another diagnostic lab. On my way to the lab, I realized that this floor had a similar number of young doctors, presumably trainees, like the outpatient ward. They all looked well-dressed, with the usual white coats, a stethoscope around their neck, and a mask, though some had it hanging below their chin.

When I entered the lab, I was asked to leave my footwear outside. My father was told to wait in the waiting room. As the lady trainee was preparing the monitor, I stood beside her, nervously staring at those sharp, glaring instruments. Suddenly, I heard the clacking of some heavy boots, marching towards the sterile lab in haste. In came two other trainees – a male and a female.

The guy asked the lady trainee on the monitor about the test as the other one asked me to lie in the operating bed, and rest my head on the headrest. As he picked up a long, thin, tube-like instrument, my brows furrowed and eyes widened in panic. It was an endoscope. As he came closer, my body started to stiffen. Without any warnings, he guided the endoscope into my nose. I seized the rails of the bed, braced my feet with all my strength, and bit my teeth so hard, but didn’t make any sound. As he was chatting with two other lady trainees about his college assignment, he drove the endoscope further. Tears rolled down my face as I tightly closed my eyes, yet he never cared to look. But suddenly he could drive no further. Yet he didn’t quit. Every time he tried again to push deeper, I felt a sharp, icy shock deep down my intestine. He looked at the monitor and murmured, “A crooked nose!” after which, he finally showed me mercy and withdrew the endoscope.

I went to the waiting room, wiping the tears before entering. My father eagerly asked, “How did the test go?” I slowly nodded my head, showing a thumbs up, while silently hiding the pain to myself. As we waited, we saw those trainees with my test reports, consulting their senior doctors. After a long buzz, that same trainee, that guy, came and sat near me. Eagerly we stared at him. With a mean look, he said, “Look, you have a deviated septum.” Puzzled by what it meant, I asked, “Sir, May I beg your pardon?” He exhaled a heavy, exasperated sigh before repeating, “Your nose is bent. Your nasal passage is swollen because of it. That is why you struggle to breathe. If it goes untreated, your condition will become critical.” After a brief pause, he added, “You will need surgery immediately.”

For a brief moment, my father and I were frozen. We stared at each other a couple of times. I wondered if I should remind him that I had come to treat my dry throat, not for the cold that I had caught just a day before. Meanwhile, he dragged his chair, got a little closer, and, with bulging eyes, insisted, “It is an emergency. So, you will need to get admitted right now.” I desperately grabbed my father’s hand over his lap. Sensing my nerves, my father replied to him, “Please let us go home to get his mother’s blessing before the surgery.”

We somehow managed to get out to the car park. I breathed a sigh of relief. My father asked me to call our doctor. He attended my call only the second time. I told him about the whole incident and asked him if we could meet now. With an icy sigh, he replied, “We will discuss once I return.” When I insisted again, he said with a deep, heavy voice, “I am admitted to the same hospital for the same reason. We will meet once I am discharged.” I cut the call and never rang again!