Sick - Leave!

So I got sick this weekend. It happens here in Chennai. More frequently than I would like but then who likes to be sick? Nothing serious, the usual hacking your lungs out whilst heaving your guts up fayre. In England we would call it 'Gastric flu' or similar. (My ex would call it Man Flu but then she would call anything short of full blown AIDs Man Flu but that’s another story.) Here in India they call it Viral Fever. And that’s because they call every illness here Viral Fever.

And so yesterday I went to the Doctor, to have my Viral Fever diagnosed. Not because I wanted treatment, or medication. Rather I needed to obtain proof in the form of a Medical Certificate so that my employer can mark me down for Casual Leave. Note that's Casual leave, not sick or Medical leave but Casual. What's casual about it exactly? Trying to effect a certain nonchalance as you run for the bathroom yet again? But I digress.

Normally I attend at the PadmaPriya Hospital in Adyar but to be honest, and how can I put this politely, its a bit 'challenged' in both the hygiene and human resources departments.  There’s the MIOT international hospital at Manapakkam but its a bit of a trek and it didn't really endear itself to me when, during the recent Chennai floods, their emergency back-up power generators failed. Human resources ie. Doctors at MIOT decided to take the opportunity for an extended break, leaving the patients in Critical care to fend for themselves. Needless to say those on ventilators and other forms of life support didn’t fare to well, and their situation turned rather quickly from critical to terminal. In the UK government ministers would be hung out to dry – excuse the pun over something like this. Here people apparently are a bit more philosophical. They kind of shrug and in reference to their love ones hastened demise say things like “Ahh well he had a good innings” or  ‘it was probably time anyway’, or “Come on aunty, lets go and have some dosa/idli (insert any food item here).”

Either way I decided I needed that what I needed was a local surgery not a locum, so I took the relatively short walk to the row of shops along Besant Avenue and made some enquiries at the pharmacy who immediately pointed me in the right direction. ie next door. I'd walked right past it, but the reason I’d missed it was because as well being the local surgery, the place was a sort of localized black hole from which not even light could escape. Thereby rendering it invisible.

I walked in from the bright sunshine anyway and peering through the gloom managed to make out a vaguely human like form standing behind what could been a reception desk. I waited a few seconds for visual purple to kick in and confirm that was indeed the case.

The human like form slowly transmorphed into a receptionist and eyed me curiously.

Behind her a poster of a smiling Winnie The Pooh was the closest thing to a welcome.

I tried to smile back, and cleared my throat. (not easy to do at the same time)
Hello. I’d like to see a doctor please

She continued to stare, but didn’t answer. I stared pleadingly back, and repeated a simplified version my request more slowly enunciating each syllable.

‘Doccc-torrrr   Pleeeeze”

She finally came too from her reverie.  
Doktorr  you vant?

Yes please.

Vot its problem?

I’ve got flu.

Another blank look.

Influenza...  Cough cough – (I coughed to exemplify)

Fever ( I mopped my brow)

Ahh! Feeevah?

Yes.

Viraal Feeevah?

Yes I think so.

OK OK. Sit please. She motioned in the direction of the waiting area.

I sat. And as my eyes accustomed to the gloom, surveyed my surroundings, or what I could make of them. Apart from a metal bench chairs and a standing fan there wasn’t much. A few posters on the walls –something to do with osteoarthritis, another on obesity (not a problem for too many here at the moment I wouldn’t have thought)  

I guess you could describe it as pretty minimalist, although there was really nothing pretty about any of it. The word that sprang more immediately to mind was grubby. It was as thought the once white painted walls has been given a very unique sort of rag effect type  decorative treatment –eg.  Rubbed with a Very Dirty oily one.

I began to feel a bit uncomfortable. The PadmaPriya was positively gleaming in comparison to this place. Behind my right shoulder a sign indicated the “Emergency Room’ the door to which was half open. The slice of interior it revealed was lit with a ghastly green fluorescent light, and looked distinctly uninviting, but just as was thinking of calling it quits the ‘nurse’ a girl of about 15, appeared at my side and motioned me to follow her inside.

She was dressed in grubby whites which it seemed had been through the same sort treatment as the walls. So she was nothing if not well co-ordinated with her environs.

‘Sit please’ she said, pointing to the metal stool in front of me.

I gingerly sat, and she disappeared into an ante-room at the back.

The ‘Emergency Room’ was every bit as bad as I’d feared from my  earlier glimpse. If not worse.  The staining effect had been continued for consistency on the walls. Although it appeared entirely possible that blood had been added to the oily rag mix. At the back of the room was a consulting bed upon which was laid a surgical blue sheet which appeared to have several stains of unidentifiable substances randomly applied.

Oh my god I thought. Knowing the standard examination procedure would involve sitting or lieing on this, my discomfort was becoming more pronounced by the second, in fact I was starting to feel positively itchy when the nurse reappeared  holding a thermometer.

She thrust it towards me. I physically reared my head away.

‘What’s that?’ I said

She looked at me oddly.

‘Temprachaa -  I tekk it. Temprachha’ She said waving it in front of my mouth

Errr. Has it been sterilised?

Her puzzled look intensified.

‘Tempraccha!’  she repeated. Waving it in her grubby little fingers like a conductors baton.

Sterilised. I repeated? Is it STEH –RAA-LIZED?

She gave that funny nodding motion with her head that to us Westerners means possibly yes, possibly no. I realised she had no clue what I meant never mind whether the instrument was fit for clinical use.

What about you? I said glancing at her dirty fingernails.

Have you been sterilized ?

Now with the benefit of hindsight I realize this is an extremely politically incorrect thing to ask a young lady, but I didn’t mean it that way and since she clearly didn’t have a clue what I meant it didn’t really matter. She just continued waving the thermometer at me.

Tempracchaa!

There’s was no way I was sticking that thing in my mouth - if indeed that’s where she intended to stick it, and then a more frightening thought occurred to me, relating to where said instrument might have been stuck previously so to speak.

That was it. I made my mind up.

Err. Look it’s OK. Sorry.. Never mind. I think I will have to leave it this time.

Thankyou so much!

And with that I fled for the door.

The receptionist looked up as I hastened toward the exit, sunlight and safety. The nurse was following still clutching the thermometer.

Im sorry I said continuing past. She gave a bewildered look  from me to the nurse, and then back to me.
Dirty! Very dirty! I stammered Pointing back toward the still following nurse.

She stopped in her tracks.

Sterraa Lie! She said.