Added: Saman Wiedeman - Date: 21.10.2021 02:30 - Views: 45377 - Clicks: 6132
It was a common practice among the villagers. They placed a doctor and God on the same pedestal, blamed them when things went wrong and worshipped them when something went right, and this gentleman, had come to me two days back with symptoms of constipation. I guessed my prescription had worked. I threw away my lota, tucked in my dhoti.
I was by now getting frustrated with this useless explanation. This person had brought in the dead body, dragging it all the way on a blue tarpaulin sheet. My simple question to him was, where had he found the corpse? Getting back to some serious work, I walked to the corpse who had been moved onto a stretcher by now. He was an old guy, in his seventies, I guessed. The numerous wrinkles that ran into each other on his pale face suggested the same. He was dressed in the typical transparent white kurta and dhoti.
After checking for a few seconds, as expected, there was no pulse. There were no injury marks on his body, nor there were any obvious s of poisoning, it was almost safe to say that it had been a natural death. I have informed his son, he is coming here. And the very next moment, a huge looking guy dashed into the examination room with other three smaller fellows trundling behind him.
Now came the difficult job for me, but I had to do it. How did this happen? Doctor injection stories could he just. You do something, doctor, please…. The only thing I could really do at that moment was issuing a death certificate, but I kept mum. Angering the villagers was not good for the health of the hospital.
And this was no time for sarcastic jokes and by now I had begun sweating heavily, my arms were hurting in the tight grip of this big man. Finally, the guy who had delivered the corpse interrupted. He proved to be my savior.
I almost smiled at this stupid question. Everybody tuned their he to look outside as we heard a shrill cry. As soon as she reached her husband, she started crying heavily, beating on his chest, in a typical Indian womanish way, making it look as if she was giving some kind of cardiopulmonary resuscitation, that too to a dead person.
It was amazing how much strength this frail old woman had. The beats were so hard that the stiff corpse shook each time she thumped. Let me rest in peace. I felt a pang of sadness. Just then, the hefty guy came to me and asked for the Death Certificate. Usually, my practice would be to tell the relatives to go to the district hospital for getting the death certificate, as the post mortem was done only there. Most of the times the relatives would find it too difficult to travel till district hospital and get a post mortem done, and invariably I would end up accepting some bribe, in exchange for the death certificate without the post mortem, declaring it a natural death.
But this time, I was in no mood for a referral, and also the death seemed to be a natural one, so I quickly handed them the certificate, after getting an ECG done from the private clinic in the village. Taking that, they moved the body out of the hospital in what was a sad procession. Even my nurses got involved and stood by the door, dabbing the corners of their eyes with handkerchiefs as they watched Doctor injection stories procession go out of sight.
Banka district has been famous for its people, their braveness, and that is probably the reason I encounter many injured patients every other day. I had ed here because I had to support my family, and also partly because it was getting difficult for me to crack the post-graduate course entrance exams. It was 8. I started walking out of the hospital to my room. I had to get ready for the morning OPD which usually started at am, though sometimes after am. That was because sometimes the peon failed to wake me up. My sleep had quickly become immune to the sound of the doorbell and the poor guy had to find new ways to wake me up.
Mostly he would try to poke me with a stick through the window near my bed. That usually worked.
She was a 25 year old, fair, north Indian beauty. I chuckled, wondering how those clothes would dry in time. It was an embarrassing moment for her, and she did what most beautiful girls do.
I had always been a sarcastic kind of guy in college and never gave anyone straight answers, and that habit had persisted here too. Watching all this from the adjacent room, with a wicked smile, was the Pharmacist Chandi Prajapati, a short-statured 42 year old man, in his customary striped, off-white shirt and a black pant which rose up to his umbilicus, and fell a few inches short off his ankle, with a black belt supporting it.
When I waved to him, he replied by waving to me with a smile, showing his reddish-black, stained teeth, a result of Doctor injection stories years of betel nut chewing. They were mostly the same old cases everyday with the exception of a few whom I would refer to the higher centre. Most of them had the problem of GBA i. Half of their ailments would get cured just by pricking them. The general Indian rural folk are more or less infatuated with injections and are always more than willing to expose their butts for a prick or two, as if it were some pious deed and it would absolve them of all their ailments.
It is the same situation with i. But then the patients would invariably come back and stand before me, begging for an injection. I was fed up of this habit of the villagers but could do nothing as I knew that somewhere down the line it was surely the fault of some injection wielding doctors who had instilled this belief among the easily convinced villagers. I once thought of inventing some injection vending machine where a person could press the ailment button and stand touching their buttocks to a place from where a needle would come and pierce their flesh.
Some patients were the real actors.
One such was an old lady, who I saw heard was arguing in full swing with the peon over some issue, but as soon as she entered my cabin, her backbone bent over almost twice as it was earlier, bending showing the weakness, and making constipated faces. I would think it a waste of time arguing with such aunties, so I would silently prescribe them something. But, I broke my silence when she came back and requested for the last thing…the eye drops, to keep at home for emergency.
Is this the way you talk to an old woman. He is not right. Just like there comes a Sunday after every six dreary days of the week; after watching so many uninteresting patients, comes the moment when someone enters the cabin who brightens up the dull proceedings, an eye soother, a beautiful girl, the best among the available lot and a patient too.
This time, it was Rachna, a local girl. As soon as she sat on the chair and handed me her case paper, the first thing I did was to memorize her name, age and her village, for further reference. Even she was interested in me as I was a doctor. He gave me some medicines, after having that my fever would subside, but just for some hours, after which I would feel Doctor injection stories same again.
After listening to the symptoms, I started with examination. To start with, I asked for her right hand, to which she shifted her small handkerchief from right to left hand, and shyly kept her hand in my hand. I held her soft fair hand and felt for the pulse. I was nervous; because even in college I hardly spoke to any girl, so forget about holding hands. Then I looked over her forehead to check for fever and also for the kumkum, to confirm whether she was single or not, and then her deep bluish- black eyes for the pallor.
Her Doctor injection stories were normal, but as per her history, I suspected it to be a case of malaria. I mean you will be cured, just take the medicines and one injection, and yes, do the blood test too, ok? I, smiling again, held her hand, I never left a chance.
Ok for you, I will do it myself, will that be ok, now smile. She took the hint in my tone and gave me a shy smile, and moved outside the cabin with me, while I talked to her about her college, her home. The laboratory was an isolated place in the hospital, the perfect place to be with a fine specimen of the opposite sex. But alas, all I was supposed to do was prick those soft, pink fingers. We both sat in front of each other. Then I took a slide and a lancet to prick her. I held her ring finger and swabbed it with spirit.
Holding her finger in one hand and the lancet in the other, how I wished I had an engagement ring instead of lancet in my hand.Doctor injection stories
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