Believe me; obstetricians have even more adrenaline than a roadrunner. This was one of the first lessons I learnt in my gynaecology posting when I was in second year (MBBS). My first posting in gynaecology was therefore very ‘invigorating’. The sights and sounds in obstetrics and gynaecology are so beguiling that you may well miss the ‘Miss Universe’ pageant.
It was a lazy Friday afternoon. I still don’t know why we were waiting in the labour room (!); apparently a registrar had told a ‘sincere’ batchmate to spread the message in the batch that a female was about to deliver. Hence, we should wait to see the procedure after which she would take a lecture on ‘normal labour’.
Suddenly, out of nowhere, a houseman came rushing towards the (very) attractive registrar. “4 cm… its 4 cm now!” he shouted. After a little thought, we guys figured out that he could be talking about only one thing. We decided to wait and watch. I glanced at my watch. It was 2:00 pm sharp.
The patient’s husband was anxiously waiting outside. He somehow managed to shuffle to and fro on a busy hospital floor. Going by his looks, anyone with brains enough to just survive could have mistaken him for Suppandi. His elder son was barely 10-12 years old but seemed to have more grey matter than his father. We were seated outside the labour room and waited for something obvious to happen. The registrar gave us a scornful look as our faces displayed ultimate levels of frustration and tedium. Interns were bored too and were trying to control their (postprandial) desires with great difficulty.
Then it happened! I had almost been asleep, but weird, unheard-of sounds woke me up instantly. I saw the houseman run towards the registrar shouting “10cm… this is it... finally its 10cm!!!” It was then we realised that he was not talking about the thing what we had figured out.
The interns followed close behind the registrar and the desperate houseman as if hell had broken loose or a skunk had let go. I sensed a disaster, an apocalypse or maybe just a love triangle; only to be reminded by a batch-mate that the same woman we had talked about was ready to deliver. I heaved a sigh of relief and sat back to relax again while a crowd of students gathered in front of that woman. I almost despaired at the lack of integrity among my fellow batch-mates who had gathered in front of the woman, totally absorbed as if it was a scene from a Gothic drama. Out of sheer curiosity, I too decided to peep in and find out more.
“Arre bai kar kar kar kar… abbe kar na (slap on the tummy)… aise… kar kar kar kar (another slap)…” shouted the registrar. “Aye intern, pitocin fast kar, jaldi kar… pitocin, pitocin…kar kar kar kar…” she continued without a pause. “Mama, cotton gheyun ye lavkar…” she screamed in another direction. “Arre bai kar kar kar (almost threatening the female with fingers pointing suggestively)… kar kar kar kar kar” she continued as the female moaned and caught the flustered registrar’s attention. “Episiotomy de re… (Khach khach khach) Sister… sister… lavkar ya… arre bai karna… kar kar… (another slap on the tummy),” she continued to yell.
The commotion continued for another 15-20 minutes. We hardly blinked. We waited in rapt attention. The resident was sweating profusely. The houseman and the intern looked exhausted. But the houseman’s enthusiasm to assist his vivacious registrar kept him going. The intern too continued to run around getting more and more cotton from God-knows-where.
Finally the baby girl was delivered. I heaved a sigh of relief again and glanced at my watch. It was 5:00 pm sharp.
The elder son was already celebrating and singing some gibberish on top of his voice which went, “aalaa re... aalaa re...” His father was in high spirits too. They hugged each other with profound joy. They talked about how they would get new clothes for the new arrival. They talked about how they would teach him to walk (probably they had not noticed that it was a girl). They argued endlessly on who would get to subsequently potty-train the kid. I stopped listening.
The registrar had not finished yet. She now stood in an awkward position and tried to repair the episiotomy incision. “Aye bai, thamb na thoda… (khach khach khach)” she sutured the wound in no time. “Arre… arre aata aavaj nako…” she continued to scold the poor woman.
However, the elder son caught my attention again when he saw a tense look on his father’s face and expressed his astonishment loudly.
“Kaay jhaalaa Father?” he asked in his broken English-cum-Marathi and helping his dad understand what he said by his actions.
“Kay name thevaychaa?” the ‘father’ asked with immeasurable tension on his face and in a
similar exotic language.
In fluent Marathi, elder son replied that he had heard of an English proverb that goes, “Child is the father of man”. So they should name the child ‘baap’, he explained matter-of-factly. They would then be able to show off to the entire chawl their vast knowledge of the English language and people would then look up to them. The ‘father’ instantly agreed and patted his son’s back lovingly. I stopped listening again.
Meanwhile, the ‘baap’ was taken by a neonatologist to a separate room.
The registrar, meanwhile, was too tired to take a lecture at 5:30 pm. We had borne enough of obstetrics as well. She got the hint early and we decided to leave for good, leaving the houseman and intern overjoyed.
As I walked towards the exit, the sounds of “kar kar kar…” were still ringing in my ears. This time I tried, but couldn’t stop listening.
Disclaimer: This article is an exaggerated satire of the architecture that exists in our hospitals. No part of this article represents/resemble any particular individual(s)/group(s) and it is purely fictional. The author sincerely appreciates the fantastic job done by the medical and paramedical staff of hospitals in India given the limited resources. The description of the patient, relative(s) and the process of labour are purely fictitious and has does not remotely relate to the institution of marriage/childbirth. The author's over indulgence is not meant to hurt any concerned party's sentiments. If any sentiments/ sensibilities are hurt, it is purely unintentional.
3 comments:
It seems in the gyn department it is the resident's labour which ends up delivering the baby!
Hilarious about the father being the child of man! No wonder we're such a patriarchal society! :D
But you don't need to sugar-coat your article with that disclaimer! Let everyone know, don't be afraid call it as you see it. The emergency is in Pak, not here :D
And the gynaec residents at KEM surely don't deserve all that "I know they do a great job in the circumstances" jazz. You might need internship to change your opinion.
Heh heh.. who knows some deanosaurs also blog?!
I liked the disclaimer... (my tongue protuded in derision)
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