Six years ago, I had a full body medical check up at a very popular hospital in Bangalore. Not only me, but my wife too. We were staying with our daughter in Bangalore. It was not in my nature to visit a doctor for any minor ailments. I avoid treatments unless I really had to. But my daughter insisted on us to have a check up, probably considering our old age. I decided to heed to her advice. We were not on any continuous medication for any ailments and a body check up need not be a matter of concern.
All the required tests and scans took two days to complete. At the end of the second day, we were summoned before a doctor to enlighten us on their findings. There was nothing much seen on the test reports of my wife except that she had a chance of thyroid development for which some medication was prescribed. Then came my turn. He went through my reports, fixed his glare on me and put this question, “do you drink alcohol?”
I was not an addict, but I do drink alcohol. After all, I am an ex-serviceman given with the privilege of tax free liquor by the Govt. I enjoy it at home at times. I take a small dose regularly, if it is available with me. Often I don’t, as I am not crazy for it or procure it every month.
I answered that I do take a small dose once in a while.
He cautioned, “You should stop the habit at once. Not even a drop should you take hereafter. Because you have a fatty liver.”
I nodded, but didn’t take his advice seriously. This was not the first time I heard about my fatty liver. 35 years before that, I was told of my fatty liver when I got diagnosed for a recurring fever which eventually turned out to be malaria. In fact, I didn’t really know then what a fatty liver meant. I considered that my body itself is a bit fatty and so could be my liver too. No one then had warned me on my drinking habits and I didn’t have any problems on account of that at any time before. So what can that happen now which had not caused me any problem for the past 35 years. I kept the doctor’s advice to myself and left it at that.
Six years went by. We had been with our daughter once again as often and were ready to return after spending this year’s Onam with them. Even the tickets to return home were booked well in advance. A week prior to the date of return, I had a flow of blood while urinating. Immediately, my son-in-law took me to the same hospital where I had a medical check up six years ago. I thought the bleeding could be due to urinary track infection. The streaming of blood had stopped by then and did not happen again. Nevertheless, the doctor advised a CT scan to know the cause of blood flow. A tumour was detected on my liver. Further scans and tests followed which confirmed that it is cancerous and need to be removed immediately through a surgery. I did consult with some other eminent doctors too who also confirmed it and told me that surgery is the only option for me. “Do not waste time or else it could get spread and then even a surgery won’t be helpful”, I was warned.
Finally I reached the same doctor who had warned me against drinking six years ago. All the reports and scan videos were shown to him. He went through them carefully. He didn’t recognise me. But he put the same question to me which he had asked six years ago, “Do you drink?”
“Yes, but occasionally.”, I said.
“The surgery won’t be much useful, unless you totally desist from drinking alcohol hereafter”, he said.
I agreed to give away that habit for ever.
“Not even a drop”, he said the same words once again.
“I know that I have a fatty liver……”, I began.
“No”, he cut me short. “Now you have a cirrhosis liver. It is worse than a fatty liver”, he corrected me.
“Can there be a medication for reversing it?”, I asked. It was a question almost out of a sort of desperation and helplessness. I had the doubt on whether my age would stand a major surgery.
“No”, his reply was Curt. “The tumour has got to be removed. As for the cirrhosis, it may not worsen further if you stop alcohol intake completely”, he explained.
I agreed for the surgery and the date for it was fixed.
* * * * * * * * *
Inside the operation theatre, a team of doctors surveilled over me.
“Shall we go ahead?”, the doctor asked me when they completed the preliminaries.
I requested them to let me know what the time was then. I just wanted to know how long it would take for the surgery to complete. “It is ten minutes to nine”, one of them replied.
“Okay, go ahead sir. I am ready”, I announced.
I was asked to sit down and bent forward. I did so. I could sense a needle pinching me on my back. I knew, as I was told, that it was for administering anaesthesia. And in that very moment, everything went out of my consciousness. The next moment I know, I was lightly slapped on my cheeks by someone and I opened my eyes.
“It is all over. Everything is completed.”, the doctor told me. I was immediately shifted to ICU. And there I saw the time. Almost seven hours it had taken. And for me, it was as if those seven hours had just passed in a moment. I was as good as dead for those seven hours. That was my first experience of anaesthesia.
Slowly, the pain began its work. There were multiple tubes running from different parts of my body. I don’t want to elaborate much on the pain and sufferings I underwent. Tubes were taken off in a week. Slowly and steadily, things began to improve.
All the same, I dearly paid the price for ignoring a doctor’s advice six years ago.
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