Life in the ICCU

Life in the ICCU “How's the josh?” the doc asked Father, who mumbled something incomprehensible. Sodium and other electrolytes appeared to be low and the nonagenarian could not distinguish between day and night, between tenebrosity and luminosity, between sanity and insanity. This was the fourth occasion that he was admitted into the ICCU in the last few months. The doctor persisted. Father looked askance; a glazed look in his eyes. He had slumped in bed that afternoon, with BP and pulse not registering. And the oxygen monitor read an ominous zero. For the first time, I saw a flushed look on my mother's face. It was red, not radiant. As devout Hindus, she, my wife and my sister who had come over from Boston switched on the Hanuman Chalisa, the Rudram and the Lalita Sahasranamam in quick succession. The Gods were invoked on the pretentious gizmos to resuscitate a person who appeared to be choked. “How's the josh?” the doctor enquired once again. Prana levels were ebbing. The patient’s josh was revived partially with the help of a saline drip. With repeated pestilence there was atrophy of veins. But perhaps Almighty God, my unflinching faith in H.H. Sri Sri Ravi Shankar and the resonance of the mantras conjured a Mandrake like magic and he was wheeled in an ambulance to Heartline. “How's the josh?” Father had recovered partially and a feeble smile played on his emaciated face. Father was administered the Holter Monitor test and the doctor was of the opinion that he would be discharged the next day. “How's the josh?” Our josh was spirited and we felt relieved. I placed a photograph of the Gods below his pillow beseeching them to be his guardian angels. But the following day the frail body was inflicted by septicaemia. Blisters had formed on his feet as they were exposed to high temperatures when a hot water bag was placed to alleviate pain. Father in the hazy and muggy state felt that a patient on the adjacent bed was his brother who refused to engage in a conversation. My uncle had cracked a century four years back and cast his mortal remains just a few months back. This perhaps had had a deleterious effect on Father’s mind and body. How did our fabled Rishis live for hundreds of years? Pranayama, diet, meditation and no antipathetic or Sisyphean thoughts. That was their josh and the elixir of their lives. Gandhiji once famously said that he would live up to 125 years. That was his josh - his diet, Kriya Yoga learnt from Paramahamsa Yogananda and daily evening Satsangs. His Holy Grail of course was non-violence. “How's the josh?” the doctor asked Father to bolster his courage and conviction. But soon the entourage of specialist doctors recommended a CT scan. The nonagenarian was wheeled out from the hospital to a CT scan centre. That is the state of medicare in the country. Fortuitously the CT scan report suggested atrophy and nothing worse. The result was slowed down reflexes and an inability to swallow food orally. He is now being fed through a nasal pipe. The stripling youngster serving Father is quite distraught that this is the only way to feed him. Father remains incoherent, with an unchanging distant and forlorn look in his eyes. Life in the ICCU for the patient is pathetic and for the kith and kin who attend to him is depressing. We are keeping a vigil outside the hospital, with prayers on our lips and trying to fortify our josh. “How's the josh?” Well, we attempt to keep it unflagging for optimism is the only key to overcome any misadventure in life.