The New Meeting Places : Checking Out Isn't Like Checking In
Today, after crossing sixty, life seems to have quietly changed the venue.
Hospitals have become our new meeting places.
Recently, I accompanied my 91-year-old uncle for his eye check-up. As we waited outside the consulting room, I suddenly spotted one of my mother's cousins. It had been years since we had met. We chatted, clicked a photograph and I promptly sent it to the family WhatsApp group.
One of them responded, "What a coincidence!"
I couldn't resist replying,
"After sixty, it is no longer a coincidence. Those are the joints where we catch up with one another."
The pun was appreciated, but the thought lingered.
Earlier we exchanged invitations to weddings.
Now we exchange recommendations for cardiologists, ophthalmologists and MRI centres.
The invitation card has simply changed its format.
That conversation reminded a friend of an incident which, even today, makes him wonder whether he had checked into a hospital or accidentally boarded an express train whose destination kept changing every few hours.
He had visited an orthopaedic surgeon friend who welcomed him with enough bondas, bhajjis and other fried delicacies to satisfy both hospitality and cholesterol.
Late that night, however, his stomach decided to protest.
Being the considerate gentleman that he was, he didn't want to ring up his host. If the doctor himself was perfectly fine, it would only make the poor fellow feel guilty for his generosity.
Instead, he quietly walked into a nearby clinic.
The doctor administered an injection.
Before he could complete the billing formalities, both his hands started trembling violently.
The clinic wisely referred him to a nearby multi-speciality hospital.
It was well past midnight.
The duty doctor took a little while to arrive. My friend later joked that she had probably been enjoying a nice sleep, or perhaps an interesting television programme.
Whatever the reason, the moment she saw him, she knew exactly what had happened.
She crushed a tablet between her thumb and palm, asked him to swallow it without even waiting for water and, within minutes, the tremors disappeared.
He silently thanked his stars.
"This," he thought, "is what a multi-speciality hospital is all about."
He got up to leave.
The hospital had other plans.
He was informed that the senior consultant had to examine him the next morning before discharge.
Fair enough, he thought.
It was nearly three in the morning anyway.
The next morning he woke up...
...in the ICU.
Apparently, he required observation.
The irony was impossible to miss.
Most patients around him required assistance even to turn in bed.
He, on the other hand, was happily walking around the ICU, chatting with fellow patients and occasionally helping them whenever he could.
After twenty-four hours he graduated to the ward.
He assumed discharge was finally around the corner.
Two days later, a specialist walked in.
My friend smiled, expecting discharge papers.
Instead, the doctor cheerfully announced that his appendicitis surgery had been scheduled for the following morning.
It was only then that my friend wondered whether everyone was discussing the same patient.
He called another doctor friend in a different city.
The response was immediate.
"If you have spent three days comfortably in hospital with hardly any pain, it hardly sounds like acute appendicitis. Come out. If you genuinely require surgery, I'll be there in a couple of hours."
He got himself discharged, against medical advice, and went home.
Listening to him reminded me of another episode in our own family.
My cousin had been admitted to another reputed multi-speciality hospital.
The doctors advised that he required a pacemaker.
Neither he nor his wife refused treatment.
They simply requested a couple of day's time to think about it.
The answer was a firm "No."
Discharge was not advisable.
The delay stretched on.
The anxiety grew.
There even came a point where both of them began wondering whether they were being deliberately kept there until they agreed to the procedure.
My uncle called me.
I reached the hospital, understood the situation and requested that my cousin be discharged immediately.
The reply was polite.
"The doctor has to approve it."
Half an hour passed.
Nothing happened.
I checked again.
"The doctor is busy."
It was obvious that politeness alone wasn't moving the file.
I calmly said,
"I'll wait for one more hour. After that, I'll simply walk out with the patient. You may do whatever you think is appropriate."
Remarkably, a process that had remained frozen for hours suddenly discovered remarkable efficiency.
Within forty minutes we were driving home.
The discharge summary carried the words AGAINST MEDICAL ADVICE in bold capital letters.
The story, however, had a very different ending from the previous one.
We sought a second opinion at another multi-speciality hospital.
The cardiologist examined my cousin and said something that instantly restored our confidence.
"Yes, he definitely needs a pacemaker. But this isn't a race against the clock. Go home, discuss it with your family and get admitted on any day convenient to you."
There was no pressure.
There was no coercion.
Just reassurance.
A couple of days later my cousin was admitted, underwent the procedure and has been doing well ever since.
Looking back, the two hospital stories had completely different endings.
In one, perhaps an unnecessary admission became longer than it needed to be.
In the other, the surgery was absolutely necessary, but the communication before it wasn't.
That, perhaps, is where the real lesson lies.
As patients, we become anxious when we don't understand why we are being admitted, shifted to the ICU, denied discharge or advised surgery.
Doctors, understandably, often see only the medical urgency and assume that patients will trust their judgement.
Somewhere between those two viewpoints, communication quietly packs its bags and leaves the room.
It would be unfair to paint every private hospital as one that merely milks patients.
It would be equally unfair to give the entire system a clean chit because of a few reassuring experiences.
Growing older teaches us many things.
One of them is that hospitals are no longer places we visit only when life takes an unexpected turn.
They have quietly become our new meeting places.
Some leave us grateful.
Some leave us wiser.
And a few leave us wondering whether the most difficult procedure was the treatment...
...or simply getting discharged.
Perhaps, like every other institution run by human beings, hospitals too are only as good as the people we happen to meet that day.
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.
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