ayush

My phone rang yesterday. A hesitant voice asked me how I was. I couldn't place it. She said she was from Shahapur, and we had helped them the last time they were in Bombay. Shahapur. Memories raced past my eyes. I asked her how things were now. She said better.

When I had last met her, she was the mother of a two month old baby, Ayush. She and her family had come to Bombay, the city where all things are possible. Where dreams are a dime a dozen. She had come with a dream too. A dream of her child's life. Ayush was dying and only a `big' hospital doctor could save him, she had been told back home. But when she came to Bombay, the doctors in all the `big' hospitals were on strike. And she was left with her husband and father, running from one place to another, to save her child's life.

Being the health reporter, it was my duty to cover doctors strikes, but that day I was asked to rush back to office and file an editorial piece on the strike. My colleague, Smita was asked to go to the hospitals instead. While taking the rounds of KEM hospital, with the usual reporters hanging about, television cameras taking sound bytes of patients, she saw a man run past with a baby in his arms. He had rushed to the nearby Wadia hospital. When she reached there she saw the mother weeping outside, with the grandfather standing close. The father was inside while the doctor attended to the baby.

On examination, it was found that the baby needed a ventilator, and all the ventilators in the hospital were full. There was no space for Ayush. A manual ventilator, which had been sent along with the ambulance from Shahapur was helping him breathe, but not enough. The doctors asked them to take him away to another hospital.

That's when Smita called me. But I was too busy. My deadline was up and I had another 500 words to go. My boss was sitting on my head, the copy had to go to Delhi. At the same time, Smita kept reminding me that the child may die. She kept calling and I kept cutting the phone. I still wonder at the extent of my inhumanity. Finally when I was almost done, I picked her call. She sounded defeated. She said that the family was taking the baby back to Shahapur. Anyways he was going to die, so it was better he died at home. I was shaken. I could not bear the defeat in her voice. I told her to convince them to stay and started calling all the doctors and hospitals I knew.

My first call was to Dr Ashok Rathod, head of department (Paediatrics) at J J Hospital who on getting the details of the case said, that the baby was past the stage of survival. Any efforts would only prolong his life by a day or two. So it was better the baby remained at Wadia. I had never heard doctors give up so easily on a case. And give up, without even examining the patient. Whatever little illusions I had that day were shattered.

My next phone call was to Dr Rakesh Shah, pediatric surgeon at Prince Aly Khan Hospital, Mazgaon, who said all the ventilators were in use in PAKH and offered to call Harkisondas Hospital. But the treatment would be expensive, he warned.

At Bandra’s Asian Heart Institute and Research Centre, it was the same. ‘‘Such a case can only be treated by surgery, in the first month after birth,’’ said Paediatric Surgeon Dr D Mohanty. ‘‘Now, any treatment is risky. The family is going to lose the baby. They will also lose money. Our doors are open. But they should be practical, not emotional.’’ Practical, not emotional. Try saying that to the parents of a child who is dying, Dr Mohanty. Try saying that to your wife, if god forbid the situation were ever to occur to you. To be practical and not emotional when her child is dying.

I then called Major General Vijay Krishna, CEO of Breach Candy Hospital. He said he would get back to me. When I called Sion hospital Dean M E Yeolekar and told him the situation, he suddenly couldn't hear me..network problem he said. Superintendent of Peripheral Hospitals Dr Seema Malik said that we should keep trying at KEM and reluctantly agreed to also check which of her hospitals had free ventilators. I broke down in office. What was the use of being a health correspondent, when I couldn't even get somebody admitted to a hospital.

I called Smita, and could hear the tears in her voice. She was trying to keep herself from crying in front of the family. They had finally decided to take the baby home and started the formalities.

I kept making the calls. I called Dr Sanjay Oak, Dean, Nair Hospital. We had had a fight a day before because his security had caught me snooping around in his hospital, and as expected, when he heard my voice he banged the phone down. But I persisted, and finally he picked up. I don't know what I said and how he understood me, all I remember saying was that it was not about any story, but about a life. His tone changed completely and he said—without hesitation—that the baby would be admitted. He gave me the cell number of the doctor at the ICU. At the same time, Major General Krishna called back saying he had a vacancy and would treat the baby free. I called Smita immediately and told her to head with the family to Breach Candy, while I joined them.

But then the real nightmare began. ‘‘The family told us they were going back to Shahapur, so we listed it as a discharge against medical advice,’’ the doctor at Wadia said. ‘‘Now they want to shift the child. Why can’t they make up their minds? They shouldn’t waste our time like this. Now we have to change it all.’’ They refused to discharge the child, whose breathing was going from bad to worse. The baby's uncle was handling the manual ventilator.

Smita called and asked me to rush to Wadia. Everyone seemed bored with us. Who were these people pestering us to hurry up things. Why couldn't we leave them in peace. A series of arguments, and two precious hours later, the paperwork was ready.

The child was bundled into the ambulance and taken to Breach Candy. Breach Candy was a different experience altogether. Kind nurses, doctors, clean, white, soothing environs, soft voices. I felt Ayush was safe here, and smiled for the first time. I saw Smita smiling too.

The family was overwhelmed by the hospital and the people there. They knew they were being observed, whispers escaped on how people like them could gain entry in a hospital that had once housed the former prime minister himself. And then I heard Ayush's grandfather's voice. He had just heard that Amitabh Bachchan had also been admitted here. That moment was undescribable.

Even as Ayush was wheeled into the ICU, the family kept asking me if they would have to pay, and I kept reassuring them that they wouldn't. Prashant, a colleague from office, who had seen me break down, called to say that he would pay if any cost was involved. I was deeply moved, but still amused.

I knew I was using my clout as a journalist to get the baby admitted. I had never believed in doing it, and I knew I would be indebted to Breach Candy to the extent that I would think twice before doing a negative story on them again. But I swept aside these thoughts then, and concentrated on Ayush. An operation would have to be carried out, but they were waiting for his parameters to become normal.

Major kept preparing us for the outcome. He told the family that the doctors were doing their best, but the baby's condition was very poor. The family was being prepared for the inevitable. Ayush would not live, but atleast he would die in dignity. Atleast he would die, after being given a chance at life.

A day passed. The operation was scheduled for the day after. One of the best pediatric surgeons in the city would operate. The family was tense but happy.

The next day, when I was in the train, on my way to the hospital. I got a phone call. First from Major. Then the uncle. Ayush had passed away. The operation scheduled to take place that afternoon never took place.

Yesterday, Ayush's mother said things were better now and asked us to visit them at Shahapur. What will we talk about? I wonder. Of the power project in Shahapur. Of how the taluka has progressed. Of fields and means of employment. Or of doctors who gave up on a baby without examining it. Of how she felt on the way back, with her child's body in her arms. Of the irony of his name. Ayush. I wonder.