A Shock, a City-Wide Medical Yatra, and the Wisdom of Beer Friends

About a year ago, right around this season when Bengaluru pretends to be both cold and warm in the same hour, I started feeling a strange, uneasy sensation at the tip of my forefinger. It appeared whenever I stretched up to latch the top bolt of the door or leaned down to pick up my socks.  As any optimistic Bengalurean would, I ignored it, hoping it would quietly take an auto and disappear.

Instead, within a week, it upgraded itself from vague discomfort to a sharp, shock-like jolt. Even drying my hair began to feel like risky business.

Now, this was unusual for me. I’ve always considered myself reasonably health-conscious, the kind who goes for a 4–5 km jog every morning, does a half-hour workout, and then destroys all the effort by heading straight to a Darshini with my walking group.  Honestly, breakfast at a Darshini was always sumptuous, and I often used “cultural responsibility” as my excuse.

My mother, in her usual no-nonsense tone, told me to take it easy with my exercise. I did, for a week. Nothing changed.

By the third week, I realised this needed real medical attention. A close friend’s daughter, a general physician, conveyed through her father that I should see an orthopedist. Meanwhile, my brother took matters into his own hands and called a neurosurgeon friend, who generously gave me an appointment that same evening.

I messaged the neurosurgeon saying I already had an orthopedist appointment. In a medical miracle, he replied instantly, saying the issue fell under his area. If any patient ever needed clarity, this was not helping.

That evening, my brother and I met him. After examining me, he recommended an MRI of the cervical spine. I dutifully went, spent a hefty amount, and returned with a report that had enough scientific jargon to qualify for a PhD.

The neurosurgeon looked at it and casually said, “This is very good for your age.”  I didn’t know whether to feel relieved or offended.

He then referred me to a famous orthopedist, calling him right in front of me. I remembered then, this was exactly what my friend’s daughter had said in the beginning.

The next day, after 45 minutes of waiting in his clinic, the orthopedist saw me for precisely 2 minutes. He politely introduced himself, mentioned he treated international cricketers, and sent me for a nerve conduction study.

I returned the next day with the report. He said everything was “fine” but, noticing my worried face, suggested a minor surgery to “snap the nerve”. When I nervously asked if it could be done immediately, he told me to think about it for a week.  Any decision involving snapping nerves deserves at least seven days of contemplation.  He prescribed physiotherapy at his clinic in the interim.

At this point, I’d spent ₹20,000 and collected more doctors than solutions.

The following day, four of my closest friends came over for our monthly half-day gathering, beer, nostalgia, and the usual Bengaluru-style free advice. I told them my saga and mentioned I had to leave early for physiotherapy.

One of them, halfway through his beer, casually asked, “What’s your Vitamin D and B12 level?”  I proudly said I had checked Vitamin D a year ago, it was 32, and I had never checked B12.  He looked at me the way a teacher looks at a student who hasn’t done homework for six months.

Two of them immediately told me to get the tests done.  The third added with unnecessary seriousness that I should also go for Cholesterol and CT Angio tests, thanks to post-Covid mysteries.

Between free medical advice and excellent beer, physiotherapy suddenly lost its urgency.  I booked Vitamin D, B12 and Cholesterol tests for the next morning.

Another friend, blissfully unaware of the gravity, laughed on the phone and said, "With that very forefinger, how many people have you poked and prodded with your sarcasm?" 

By evening, the reports came, and my Vitamin D and B12 were so disastrously low that the cholesterol apparently took it upon itself to rise to the occasion. Vitamin D was 9 (normal 30 - 70), B12 was 148 (normal 200–850), and cholesterol was a jubilant 245.

I even went in for an ECG, mainly to convince myself that I was being “proactive,” since a CT Angio needed a specialist’s prescription and I assumed this would be the opening ritual. The doctor glanced at the report, declared everything perfectly normal, and asked why on earth I was planning a CT Angio. In that moment, my long-held theory that doctors order extra tests for some side earnings quietly packed its bags and left.

When I showed him my vitamin results, he calmly prescribed Vitamin D, B12, and one tablet for cholesterol. No drama, no big terms, no complicated scans, just simple biology.

Within a month, the shock sensation reduced.  By the end of three months, it vanished completely.  My vitamin levels and cholesterol returned to normal.

When I met the doctor again, he simply nodded and said, “Expected.”  It was the polite medical equivalent of “What else did you think would happen?”

And then it struck me, I had zigzagged across Bengaluru consulting specialists, staring at MRI reports, and discussing nerve-snapping surgeries, when all I needed was a simple vitamin test.

The right advice had come not from high-profile doctors or machines humming like rocket engines, but from three friends holding beer bottles.

Naturally, I thanked them.  And in true Bengaluru spirit, we celebrated with one more round, doctor’s orders not required.

Sometimes the solution isn’t in the city’s best hospitals but in the quiet wisdom of friends, good humour, and a chilled beer on a relaxed Bengaluru afternoon. And yes, when the body complains, check your vitamins before your spine.

Stories, not instructions. Experiences, not advice—medical or otherwise. Data, only what the internet quietly gathers anyway. Proceed with equal parts curiosity and common sense.