Doctors love the rains. We really do.
Mosquitoes succumb to the romance in the air and give everyone love bites. Mad dogs become madder with lust and plant their lips on the nearest available shin. Delirious rats cannot contain themselves or their urine and pee into the same rainwater in which tiny tots splash and sail their little paper boats that should all be christened HMS Leptospira.
Simple-minded humans venture out to welcome the first showers and sniffle their way back into sore throats that descend upon your OPD where you perform a cursory respiratory examination and here take these pills thrice a day, before or after meals, oh after, how much after, immediately, can I have them with my evening tea, well not that late, well why didn’t you say so in the first place and my auntie says ginger tea is good for my throat ache, sure and drink plenty of hot water too, oh but I can’t swallow hot liquids doctor they make my throat ache and have I told you about this throat ache I have…
Reformed alcoholics who’ve been scrupulously abstinent since four in the morning knock down a
gallon of Old Monk tipple or two just to celebrate the charming weather Kashmir has been having lately which sends their livers into jaundiced euphoria and fills their pancreas(es?) with happiness sufficient to burst which they do that causes them to cough up only so much blood all over your new lab coat that you have to dash to the blood bank just four times per patient per hour while all the dysenteries, pneumonias and heart attacks are considerate enough to wait and present at a more convenient hour like what else but four in the morning.
Youngsters with IQ’s equal to the level of the human pyramid they fell off times ten present on Janmashtami with screams that can be heard only within the subcontinent and a pathological smorgasbord of fractures and dislocations the solicitous orthopaedic resident would like to manage by sending everyone with fewer than five bones broken at a less than ninety degree angle home with a couple of Crocins and advice to follow-up only when the deformity is permanent or he has graduated, whichever is later.
Not more than a score or two inebriated motorists celebrate the monsoon with a midnight drive that degenerates into the Mumbai Suburban lets-find-the-coefficient-of-friction Grand Prix on slippery flyovers that fling their cars down an imaginary off-ramp terminating right at the Trauma Ward where an intern such as yours truly is simply pining to ferry a trolley heaped with flesh and gristle on an endless circuit between CT and USG which ceases pretty soon really because yet another Schumacher thought he’s steering Aladdin’s carpet.
Serious cases sport an extradural, subarachnoid, intraparenchymal or juxta-bumpy-arterial-road-al haemorrhage in their skulls which
delight require the trauma registrar to rouse the neurosurgery houseman who has been spending only every other night on-call so that he can perform what is just his seventh craniotomy of the day even though all he really wants to do is slip Mr. Blood-in-my-brain a hammer and chisel and ask him to help himself, go on.
Good days are when it pours enough to flood all the roads around your hospital and makes it inaccessible to both those living and those just about.
You gotta love the rains. Damn them.
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