Sick with indignity
I was whisked into the local government hospital, with my learner permit application in hand. The task before me was to get a doctor to quickly sign off that I am capable of distinguishing between the colors of green and red, and that I wouldn't faint on my way to the local grocery store. I envisioned that I would need a full-body check up.
Upon entering the spartan premise, bumping into somber patients and attendees, I was directed to the portal of a room where the doctor was seated. There were four to five women in line, toting shabbily dressed children, all silently waiting for the doctor. Suddenly, I became worried about the prospect of unsterilized needles and of waiting endlessly behind these sick patients.
Of course, I was wrong.
My ever-so resourceful driver took Rs. 50 from my father, and led me to the doctor's desk, seating me on a grass green-steel stool. He explained my situation to the attendant, who took the grease money and brought me to the doctor's attention, who was attending to a patient. The women in line looked at me, neither with envy or disgust, rather, passively, quietly understanding that I was clearly next. My upper-classness helped determine this. I suddenly felt ashamed, and I averted my eyes as they continued to look on beseechingly at the doctor, quietly awaiting their turn.
Of course, there was still the lady with a miserly child in her lap, her other child peeping from behind her black sari. She was explaining her childrens' situation to the doctor in a respectful tone. I watched in curiosity is he furiously wrote up illegible prescriptions on tiny papers with jagged edges, torn from the corners of a notebook. The doctor, a middle-aged man with black hair and glasses, had an impatient and domineering aura about him. I looked around, absorbing the environment - pale yellow walls with chipping paint, a few old almirahs, a sluggish fan, another table, some plastic chairs - and on the doctor's desk - a pad, and a briefcase. I suddenly realized that this office had no medical instruments. The doctor didn't keep a stethoscope in his briefcase - it was filled with several old books and stationary. How was this doctor diagnosing these patients? Is it true, that Indian medicine is so advanced (due to our ancient knowledge of medicine), that we don't need modern day equipment to diagnose diseases? This is what I had once heard.
My ears suddenly perked up as the woman described in a single sentence, "When my son eats, his stomach starts to swell". Before she could even finish, the doctor interrupted, "Take these two tablets, and he will be fine", scribbling rapidly as the woman looked at the paper in confusion. She meekly enquired about the medications and the infection that her son was suffering from. He once again answered, condescendingly, "Like I said, give these two tablets and he will be fine." He was ready to take on the next patient. A stream of questions began to fire rapidly in my mind. Didn't this mother have a right to know what disease her son may have, what these tablets did? Did she not take a day off from work and wait her turn for her son to have a proper check-up? Did she not have the right to describe her son's symptoms to the depth necessary? Was it right, that she had to cower in respectful fear of a man who was clearly making premature diagnoses? It made me realize that the depth of poverty goes beyond money - it reaches the core of a person's self-respect, quietly shredding her dignity away, into tiny bits and pieces. I was reminded about the many stories of missed diagnoses, wrong prescriptions and debt-causing hospital stays from the poor people I had met. Sangeeta Ma'am, a teacher at Saksham, is still paying monthly interest payments of Rs.1000 (her monthly salary), for a Rs. 10,000 loan that she took a year back for her son's hospital stay. The loan - 120% APR. And her son is still sick. Sachin, a student of C. K. Prahlad, had recently told me that in India, 40% of hospital payments leave people in debt. Does being poor strip one of the right to fair and correct medical attention?
To my relief, the doctor then spoke to me a gruff tone, reprimanding me for using circles instead of tick marks in the Yes/No sections. My feeling of induced-superiority was temporarily brushed aside. Within a few minutes, he had gone through my form, asking me some basic questions, finally signing off his affirmation of my medical fitness. As I left, however, I felt the hair on the back of my neck prickle, as unfortunate eyes followed me to the door.
Upon entering the spartan premise, bumping into somber patients and attendees, I was directed to the portal of a room where the doctor was seated. There were four to five women in line, toting shabbily dressed children, all silently waiting for the doctor. Suddenly, I became worried about the prospect of unsterilized needles and of waiting endlessly behind these sick patients.
Of course, I was wrong.
My ever-so resourceful driver took Rs. 50 from my father, and led me to the doctor's desk, seating me on a grass green-steel stool. He explained my situation to the attendant, who took the grease money and brought me to the doctor's attention, who was attending to a patient. The women in line looked at me, neither with envy or disgust, rather, passively, quietly understanding that I was clearly next. My upper-classness helped determine this. I suddenly felt ashamed, and I averted my eyes as they continued to look on beseechingly at the doctor, quietly awaiting their turn.
Of course, there was still the lady with a miserly child in her lap, her other child peeping from behind her black sari. She was explaining her childrens' situation to the doctor in a respectful tone. I watched in curiosity is he furiously wrote up illegible prescriptions on tiny papers with jagged edges, torn from the corners of a notebook. The doctor, a middle-aged man with black hair and glasses, had an impatient and domineering aura about him. I looked around, absorbing the environment - pale yellow walls with chipping paint, a few old almirahs, a sluggish fan, another table, some plastic chairs - and on the doctor's desk - a pad, and a briefcase. I suddenly realized that this office had no medical instruments. The doctor didn't keep a stethoscope in his briefcase - it was filled with several old books and stationary. How was this doctor diagnosing these patients? Is it true, that Indian medicine is so advanced (due to our ancient knowledge of medicine), that we don't need modern day equipment to diagnose diseases? This is what I had once heard.
My ears suddenly perked up as the woman described in a single sentence, "When my son eats, his stomach starts to swell". Before she could even finish, the doctor interrupted, "Take these two tablets, and he will be fine", scribbling rapidly as the woman looked at the paper in confusion. She meekly enquired about the medications and the infection that her son was suffering from. He once again answered, condescendingly, "Like I said, give these two tablets and he will be fine." He was ready to take on the next patient. A stream of questions began to fire rapidly in my mind. Didn't this mother have a right to know what disease her son may have, what these tablets did? Did she not take a day off from work and wait her turn for her son to have a proper check-up? Did she not have the right to describe her son's symptoms to the depth necessary? Was it right, that she had to cower in respectful fear of a man who was clearly making premature diagnoses? It made me realize that the depth of poverty goes beyond money - it reaches the core of a person's self-respect, quietly shredding her dignity away, into tiny bits and pieces. I was reminded about the many stories of missed diagnoses, wrong prescriptions and debt-causing hospital stays from the poor people I had met. Sangeeta Ma'am, a teacher at Saksham, is still paying monthly interest payments of Rs.1000 (her monthly salary), for a Rs. 10,000 loan that she took a year back for her son's hospital stay. The loan - 120% APR. And her son is still sick. Sachin, a student of C. K. Prahlad, had recently told me that in India, 40% of hospital payments leave people in debt. Does being poor strip one of the right to fair and correct medical attention?
To my relief, the doctor then spoke to me a gruff tone, reprimanding me for using circles instead of tick marks in the Yes/No sections. My feeling of induced-superiority was temporarily brushed aside. Within a few minutes, he had gone through my form, asking me some basic questions, finally signing off his affirmation of my medical fitness. As I left, however, I felt the hair on the back of my neck prickle, as unfortunate eyes followed me to the door.
posted by Sarika @ 10:07 AM
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