As doctors, more for our own sanity,  than anything else, we learn to ignore laments and wails. Every patient feels that he will die of his disease but that is seldom the case. All doctors develop mechanisms to deal with these situations of “Mar gaya re”. Some use humour, some use sympathy, most of us reason it out and, as happened recently, sometimes personal experience guides us.

A few years ago, at the end of one particularly busy day, I lost my cool with a patient of Dengue who was groaning loudly as I did her ultrasound scan to rule out Polyserositis ( fluid in body cavities). I asked her a little sarcastically if the groaning helped. She said although it didn’t help, she couldn’t help it, it was involuntary. Last week,  surprised by the sounds emanating from my being,  I finally understood what she meant.

Years after every positive report meant a scramble to get admitted in a public hospital with a bottle of fresh blood on standby. Much after it became the dreaded disease and people avoided taking its name. And after all my patients or at least those with some semblance of education knew someone with dangerously ‘ low plates’ (sic), it hit me. Sad indeed, made sadder by the fact that being stricken was no longer enough to generate sympathetic sighs.

It started insidiously, just a chill, leading to a fever and body aches. As my temperature hovered around 103-104 I decided to stay in bed. Two days later,  tired of the tiredness, I got a blood test that confirmed my fears, I had Dengue.  Another two days of feeling utterly useless, with my fever controlled by medication, I tried to get hold of my life. So I went to my clinic. It was okay to begin with but the last few patients were a nightmare.  I groaned  more than them while conducting scans. I concluded that I would have to take some more time off. 

So I lay whining  in bed, every part of my body hurting, with a clearer understanding of why it is called bone breaking fever. Then suddenly on the sixth day with my fever gone, I fell silent. I had become so used to my own rhythmic noises that my soundlessness  surprised me. I tried to recreate the groans but couldn’t. They had vanished with the fever. 

Still convalescing I  attended  the marriage of my friend’s daughter. Expecting some well deserved sympathy I told my friends, about my brush with Dengue. Their response was merely, “Hmm, you too?” I nodded gravely,  ”Yes, me too”. I was to realise that concern for the “Dengue stricken” is no longer unconditional, it has to pass a battery of tests to qualify. Did my platelet count drop? Did my haematocrit rise? Did I require hospitalisation or platelet transfusion? Since my answers to all these questions was in the negative, the pity I generated was pitiable .

As I nursed my way to health a recurring question bothered me, does a changing attitude towards  a disease show that we have developed better ways to deal with it or does it reflect our lackadaisical attitude and willingness to accept what should not be acceptable? Despite a week of lost productivity, weakness which lasts a fortnight and the very real risk of dying from its complications, we have learnt to live with Dengue. We may boast about our rising GDP and smart cities but it takes a single mosquito to poke holes in our claims of socio- economic growth and highlight the absence of basic civic amenities. 

For those who are wondering,  I have made a full recovery. The limp and the listlessness is gone. Well meaning friends have told me that Dengue isn’t deadly enough.  Chikengunya and Zika are the fearsome new kids on the block, guaranteed to garner sympathy !

(carried in my column in the Tribune on 24/11/2018)