It’s the second time within a year, for heaven knows what reason, I’ve been told in a tone nothing short of a rebuke, that I have a high level of Vitamin B deficiency and thus, this constant pain in my legs. Try telling the good doc that one valid reason for this “condition” might be my having more than my share of the regular quota of running around and scaling the stairs at home, a dismissive hand shoos you while he busies himself scribbling a scroll-long prescription of tests and medicines that’d make you vacate your room to give way to a well-stocked pharmacy. About going up and down the house’s staircase, if you have been following this space, you’d perhaps remember that I have been in the process of uncluttering the home, giving away to charity, and also to friends, things that they want, need, or have taken a fancy for. Twenty long years and the house turns into an ocean of goods and truly the more space you have, the easier life becomes. Space to breathe. Try telling this to the doctor and he’ll give you that look that says, “Your future is looking pretty thin!” Appallingly encouraging from a doctor who has taken the Hippocratic Oath!
So, opening your mouth to say for obliterating that from happening (thin future!) you are bolstering yourself, eating most things nutritious—beetroot juice, a banana and almond milkshake for breakfast, watermelon sprinkled with a wholesome amount of cheese, homemade soups, etc. and etc.—falls on deaf ears. The doctor—this time round, I dispense with the prefix “good”—couldn’t care less. Of course, no tests for me—blood tests and the rest, touchwood, always show everything to be normal. Medical practitioners seem to have a fetish for dashing off countless unconnected investigations!
Vitamin supplements—how many bullet-size capsules can you ram down your gullet anyway? Well, vitamin B injections okay. So, there I am for the second time round, in less than a year, ready for another cycle of these boosters. Eight intramuscular shots to be jabbed on the hip, every alternate day. Rather dreadful, the entire experience. Nah, but don’t get me wrong—I am not, remotely so, the kind of Victorian damsel who faints at the sight of a needle! Can state quite matter-of-factly, without a trace of pride, that I have a pretty high tolerance for pain, this ever since as a child getting regular inoculations. (Regarding chicken pox it was an entirely different story—my mom had promised to get me anything under the sky if I did not scratch, and so I abstained, little knowing that her bribery stemmed from the concern of me not acquiring scars!)
However, with the insertion of this little anecdote, I must remember that I often lose the thread to string back into the needle’s eye when time and space become sparse. Yes, so the vitamin B injection was where we were! Dreadful experience, I think it was I said…not a long diversion, but my husband, who despite being the son of doctors, honestly cringes at the sight of a needle! So much so, that he has to avert his face when the syringe makes that crinkly sound while being drawn out from its wrapper and this, when he is not the person to receive the prick! Funny, how his physician mother thought he’d follow in her footsteps, with him obediently enrolling himself in a pre-medical course after he was done with school! In her support, she must have thought that medicine was in their DNA!
Now, finally, at long last, the tale of the Injectionwallah sent by the doctor, being magnanimous enough to spare his male nurse, despite his full diary. Yes, yes, the nurse too, like his boss, has a back-to-back schedule, so home services are quite difficult to pencil in. Here he forgot to mention home ministrations would come with an insanely high fee. So, there’s Day One: You assemble the disposable syringe, the vial, Dettol antiseptic, sterile cotton, a medicated swab, in a washed-twice-over tray. The nurse arrives, the droop of his shoulders visible because of the jam-packed, dust-crusted school satchel slung across his back. Ear plugs wired around his neck, and rings with different stones slipped tightly, unbudgingly over his fingers to undoubtedly enhance future professional prospects by aligning the star-configuration with the assistance of the gems on hand. The question of hygiene wherever does that come from?!
You request the nurse to remove the snail-shell of the bag since it would be better for him to inject yours truly without the back-breaking sack, adding timidly that the wiring round his neck might not graze your thighs while the nutri-bullet is making its way into your bloodstream. That done, “with a goodness how atrocious” look you lead him to the bathroom (or washroom since bathroom has become a prehistoric term!) where handily awaits Dettol liquid soap with you standing with a clean, freshly washed hand towel. The Injectionwallah reluctantly pumps out a measly dab and then, yes, turns on the faucet to wet, rather dampen, his hands rubbing apathetically his unconjoined fingers. These are medically trained professionals, for whom, from day one, the drill of cleanliness is supposed to be the first lesson! Self-consciously one is compelled, for fear of developing a rash or infection, that if some more soap would be pumped out to lather both paws it’d be appreciated.
To scissor through a long dampening story: he is in the process of filling the vial, demanding a knife since he is not in possession of a cutter. Tiny shards of glass fall in the plate, might you dare say, even in the syringe. Not far-flung to imagine a glass splinter may poke into a nerve. So much so, for a vitamin B deficit! The syringe, with the potion that might be carrying specks of glass, could put a pause or literally put a halt to your life. And that is not it, at that very moment there is a trill of his mobile, he fishes into his pocket, squints his eyes to read the WhatsApp, leaving you wondering if he forgot his spectacles, and whether the injection would make it to the right spot. All four times the story is the same, with variations but naturally! You remain, though, to continue to stand on tip-toe red alert.
The Covid mantra: wash your hands, well and good, never really reached our ears. For myself, four more hoops and if the ache persists, shall get a tiny lift installed in my house—it’ll be certainly a safer and saner option. Before which, the last bid would be to make it to Kerala for its magical massages.