As I sit down to scribble thoughts, I remember the hours when I wondered whether my right hand would ever hold a pen and glide words and sentences along. But it did. The fear was acute and contextually valid since I was repeatedly given the impression that one of my arms would fail any time. And I persistently reflected that, in the given state of mind and heart, I would regain everything through exercise and resilience.
Hold on! I am not telling the whole story right away. I am cool, calm and composed in my residence after more than a week of release from an intensive care unit at Dhulikhel Hospital. The first night after the return was one of vulnerability, leading me to cling to my darlings and the prescribed pills. I ate and drank and washed up like a meek child with an utter faith in destiny and blessings at the same time. The cramps and aches from the six-day adventure pestered on telling me that I was alive but destined to feel them perennially. I got jerks of sleep starts for no reason at all. But these were the signals of vulnerability, which I barely shared with my folks.
Exercises were a peace-giver. I knew they were the best inventions after medicines. I faithfully tried the therapeutic moves and breathing. Apsara kept on assuring that I was going to look younger, be bolder and evolve more self-confident with these physical antics. No denying her belief in yoga and breathing exercises. Yes, I feel much better now, though the usual aches and cramps continue to give unusual sensations. The light mobilization together with medicines must bestow my body a kintsugi-like rejuvenation. If I do not carry this faith, I will certainly go back to the vicious cycle of breathless, chaotic routine that dragged me to the emergency room.
When the second week post-discharge nears the close, I wonder more and more what wrong I committed insensibly that could be righted with greater sensibility. I attribute part of this emergency to my hectic travels and unchecked eating, partly to the stressors surrounding house construction and partly to bad luck. Oh, yes, I could probably throw a tiny blame upon my doctors for believing in my capacity for self-discipline. If only they had added a pill or a dose? Would that (not) make me more assured of being risk-free and more (un)selective of my foods and travels and (inter)personal engagements?
They did their best, though. They loved me more than I expected. I therefore do not particularly wish to fathom the causes and casualties of the medical emergency I underwent. I wish to learn only as much as is required to prevent further episodes. I might seek alternative interpretations of the MRI, CT scan, and USG reports sometime after a couple of routine follow-ups. I will stick to the prescriptions until a superior intelligence pervades the fields of cardiology and neurology. I always believe that modern treatments are homogeneous worldwide owing to global protocols, and seeking alternative opinions would only confirm the protocols. But opinions of friends, experiencers, and experts can matter at times. They can at least boost my confidence that life can be made easier if it promises to withstand physical and emotional hitches.
I am not hating to scribble the narratives of the six-day hospital stay. The delay in documenting the post-discharge notes into legible lines might signify my reluctance to immortalize the hospital experiences. But my subsequent conversations with friends and visitors have naturalized the feelings to the extent of sounding like platitudes. More than a dozen rustic recounts, a couple of doctor-patient formalities, and realization of convalescence make the near-trauma exposure a bygone thing. But I still might term myself an idiot someday at the failure of archiving the epiphanies of coming out whole and wholly functional against fear of near disability.
My doctor friends urged me to start normal office right away. I rested for a few days to console my post-medication mindset and my family’s sense of assurance that I must move fit and risk-free once I leave home. I entered the academic excellence office with the best of my composure and calmness. I reached there with an urge to utilize every minute for something meaningful. I had realized in previous week’s sojourn that idleness, albeit due to sickness or trauma, was a form of illness. My body might ache, and the mind lose motivation each evening after the office, but my spirit would return home with optimism.
The ongoing uncertainty pertaining to VC selection brings a series of unpalatable gossip. I do not see that as useless, at least in the sense of its power to entertain people with assumptions and biases. But I also try not to let the thing dwell in my psyche so deeply. I will have nothing to do about it until it has anything to do with me. I will take care of myself for some days ahead.
I am only thinking about keeping myself creatively engaged. The itch for writing does not occur so easily. I am saying this while feeling itches on certain parts of my body—wondering if one of the pills has this side effect. Holding this pen with my right hand and this notebook with the left to make these lines come alive allows the itches to rule my body. I am only ruminating as I write this whether scratching the itching parts lends greater pleasure than finding meaningful lines for this journal.
Well, that was a chitchat.
When I sat with pen and notebook on this nearly unpalatable old sofa lying in my living room, I was thinking of great things to occur in my mind. What has yielded thus far is only the awareness to fill up pages in the notebook. So, let me think of a profound thing: when and how do great wisdoms emerge if most of human attention is focused on scratching the itches? If every thinker transitions from great urge to platitude, how do philosophies come alive?
I do not bother you to mull over the ‘itch versus scratch’ phenomenon right now. You can do this when you feel the urge someday.
I am still forcing myself. I am struggling to ignore the remnants of aches and hypnic jerks after convalescence. Every day is full of retelling the experiences of hospitalization as folks want me to explain the unclear tidings of my medical emergency. It feels like an every-moment thing to convey a shortcut to the happenings of those hundred or so hours in the hospital. The biggest and most worthy ordeal from now on is to make rest really restful while ensuring productivity. If I slacken a bit, people will ascribe it to perennial debilitation. I know, and people foresee this, that the recent episode must only be a circuit breaker.