Eye Doctor

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“It is quite extraordinary,” Swami said as Puttuswamy drove past Town Hall, “that whenever I do some research on a medical problem before going to a doctor, the symptoms I read about suggest that I have got all the diseases listed in their most malicious form.”

Jigneshbhai realised that Swami and his Google doctor had been active all morning. “Did you find anything about blurred vision?” Jigneshbhai asked.

“Yeah, a little bit. It seems blurred vision could be due to many complicated ailments. All of which I could be potentially suffering from when I read about them.” Swami’s worried voice said. “The symptoms correspond with almost all the sensations I have had some time or the other.” His forehead had wrinkles and his eyebrows were twitching.

“Like?” Jigneshbhai teased as usual. And as usual, Swami did not get the sarcasm.

“Long and short sightedness seem to be the natural first thing. But it looks like glaucoma and cataract cannot be ruled out,” Swami said.

“I see,” Jigneshbhai said.

“Imagine my horror when I read that blurred vision could be due to migraine or diabetes too,” Swami continued in all seriousness based on his research.

“That’s bad, you are already on the edge of diabetes. Sorry, on the edge of being prediabetic,” Jigneshbhai said.

“Yeah, that got my attention too. So, I continued reading while I waited for Puttuswamy. And a wave of listlessness and despair took me over when I read that a blurry vision could also be initial stages of brain tumour, stroke, or even multiple sclerosis,” Swami’s voice quivered as he spoke.

“Say that again, multiple sclerosis. Did I hear some slurring? I have heard that slurring could be indicative of a stroke too,” Jigneshbhai added salt and spice to the already heated plate of Swami’s worried head.

“Well, I am not slurring. I checked that before leaving. So, that’s a reprieve,” Swami said.

“Thank God for small mercies,” Jigneshbhai pretended to heave a sigh of relief.

“Actually, after that, I went through all the eye disorders listed there. And only a couple of them seem to be unlikely,” Swami said.

“And may I ask which are those unlucky ones?” Jigneshbhai asked. I thought Swami was joking about this, but to my utter surprise, he was serious.

“Yeah, one is preeclampsia,” he said.

“Wow, you discovered something I have never heard of,” Jigneshbhai exclaimed.

“Yes, because it happens in pregnant women,” Swami said.

“So, that’s ruled out, I guess. And the other one?” Jigneshbhai persisted.

“Hmmm, I forget the other one. Wait, let me recollect,” Swami squinted his eyes and stared into blankness trying to remember. “Nope, lost it,” he added.

I sat and pondered over Swami’s research and analysis. What an interesting case Swami would be for budding ophthalmologist students, I thought. He could be a prized specimen for the class of upcoming eye specialists. No need to see so many patients and waste years of practice. One look into his eyes and you get the knowledge and experience of all ailments in one shot. Just take a look at one patient and collect your degree.

We had started our journey with Swami seeing the brighter side of things. But by the time Swami finished his talk and we reached the clinic; he was a man who could see only darkness all around him.

The waiting area was small but there was no one waiting. It was a small clinic. But it looked like the ophthalmologist was an experienced and senior doctor. I saw on the wall a photograph of the doctor with the Mayor of Ghatembur. And it said, “The Mayor of Ghatembur had his eyes checked here.”

If Swami hit a purple patch in his life, and one day became the Mayor, would such a board be put up on this wall, too? It was an inspiring thought. But then I felt almost every doctor’s clinic in Ghatembur would need such a board. It might be better to put up a few selected boards only in a few clinics that he hasn’t been to. That will be a shorter list like Swami’s shorter list of what ailments he doesn’t have. A board like “Mayor Swami hasn’t been here” would reduce the number of such boards required. By the logic of such boards being rare, they would then succeed in making that clinic famous. “That one on the 4th lane to the right from here, that’s the one Mayor Swami hasn’t been to, yet,” people would say.

The doctor’s assistant called us inside and broke my chain of dreamy thoughts.

“So, what’s wrong with you?” The eye specialist asked Swami when we entered the consultation room.

Swami looked at us and wondered what he should say.

“What’s the problem with your eyes?” The doctor repeated. Swami didn’t speak up despite the repetition. Finally, Jigneshbhai opened up with a smile.

“Sir, it will be easier for him to list what’s not wrong with him. That’s a shorter list,” he said. This gave Swami some confidence to start.

“It could be many things. I realised my symptoms are indicative of…” Swami started mumbling from his recently acquired mental encyclopaedia of eye diseases. But the ophthalmologist cut him short.

“Okay, wait. Just tell me what are your symptoms,” he said.

“I am having blurry vision,” Swami said.

“Since when?”

“Today morning or maybe yesterday.”

“Can you read this?” He lit up a board in front of him. Swami looked up in the mirror ahead and started reading out. “A X O T V…”

“Go to the last line.”

“Small A, capital U, small T, capital H…”

“Okay, that’s enough. Read this,” he said and thrust a small book in Swami’s hand.

“This is a study of spectacles, their uses and abuses in long and short sightedness; and the pathological conditions resulting from their irrational employment by patients above the age of forty…”

“Okay, enough. Sit here,” the ophthalmologist cut Swami’s essay reading short. I must admit that it might not have been a bad idea to let him read it completely. Based on the initial sentence, I suspected that it might have helped Swami. The doctor asked Swami to sit on a chair and peep into a set of lenses on a giant machine.

“Rest your chin fully,” he said and peeped from the other side. “What colours do you see?” he asked.

“Red, green, dark blue, bright yellow, light orange…”

“Colours are enough.”

“Violet, black…”

“Okay, stop.”

The ophthalmologist then asked Swami to lie down on his examination bed. He clutched Swami’s wrist first. Then he suddenly flashed a torch into Swami’s eyes – a cruel thing to do I must admit when he was not ready. And then the doctor hit him on the head with a rubber hammer of some sort – again not a very humane act, I felt. Then he came back to his desk and sat down.

He started writing a prescription and after a few minutes, he handed it over to Swami.

“I am giving you some eye drops. Take them for a few days,” he said.

“Okay, Sir,” Swami was at his studious best sitting in an upright posture.

“Do you work on the laptop and mobile?”

“Yes, Sir. Part of the job.”

“Okay. Reduce it if you can. You have some eye strain. Other than that, there is nothing wrong with your eyes. All you need is a few days of rest.”

“Oh okay, Sir,” Swami said.

“Work from home. Or take a few days off. Take some rest. You should be fine.”

“Okay thanks, Sir.”

I must say it was such a disappointment. When we stepped out, Jigneshbhai looked like a cricket fan who expects his favourite batsman to score a century and has to face the ignominy and the embarrassment of seeing him get out on a first ball duck. The weight of expectations on Swami’s shoulders of coming out with flying colours, which meant a diagnosis of at least some respectable eye ailment, had pulled him down. He was disconsolate on realising that all those expectations were to remain unfulfilled. The ophthalmologist had crashed his dreams to nought.

“Well, there’s nothing wrong,” he remarked looking at the doctor’s prescription as if it were the marksheet of a failed student. As we went towards the car, the initial shock of having no eye ailment had subsided. The terrible jolt of returning from a doctor’s appointment with only a set of eye drops to show had abated.

“Well, I need some rest,” Swami said when Puttuswamy arrived with the car after a few silent seconds of waiting. Those moments had helped him in accepting the inevitable.

“Yes, complete rest for a few days is what you need,” Jigneshbhai said.

“Maybe a few days off. Or a change he said too,” Swami remembered.

“Yes, a change where no thoughts come up. Where the mind is empty. Where you can rest in peace,” Jigneshbhai concurred and then corrected himself. “I mean relax in peace.”

As far as I could recollect, the ophthalmologist had advised rest. Though I didn’t quite remember the doctor advising any change as such, it was a thought that I found useful and worth expanding upon.

“Change? Let’s go somewhere,” I suggested.

The wave of despair that had enveloped the being of my friends went away. The dark clouds were replaced with not just a silver lining but bright sunshine, the kind that we had started our journey to the ophthalmologist with. There was hope after all.

“Yes, we need a change,” both Swami and Jigneshbhai said in unison.

“All this stress of the job on weekdays and house work on weekends is getting to me,” Swami said.

Well, whatever be the reason, the agreement was unanimous. We needed a break; we needed a change. And it was not as if we were being extravagant about it. It was not a prodigal idea only for our sake. It was inevitable. It had to be done. It was Swami’s doctor’s advice. And who can go against doctor’s advice?

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