"GOOD MORNING DOCTOR ""
Prof. John Kurakar
Good Morning
Doctor’An autobiography ofProf. John KurakarA -heart touching
experience of
cancer treatment.
CHAPTER 1
The clock strikes past
midnight on March 22, 2022. I wake, cloaked in a fog of numbness, an unsettling
void. No familiar faces, no comforting presence.
Where am I?
"Oh! Amma (Mother),
save me," my voice quivers in the silence. "God, save me," the
plea escapes my parched lips. "I can't bear the pain," I whisper into
the darkness, "Amma, it hurts. Save me from this world of pain..."
Around me, the air felt
heavy with heartfelt, helpless cries, echoing the torment of souls lost in
their own suffering.
The only memory that
lingers, vivid and unyielding, is the moment I was wheeled into the operation
theater at around 7 AM. My wife, Professor Molly Kurakar, along with the
Doctor, my daughter Manju and my son Manu, accompanied me, their presence
engraved deeply into my mind. Their faces were shrouded in gloom, each bearing
the unmistakable marks of grief and depression.
The morning sun's rays
timidly peeked through the windows, casting a faint light that did little to
lift the heavy atmosphere. Even the whispering wind seemed unable to carry away
the weight of our collective sorrow. Everywhere I looked, there were only faces
burdened with unspoken pain, silently bearing the weight of their sorrows.
The Nurses (I call them
angels, truly they are) escorted me to a hall just outside the operation
theater. In that dimly lit space, I encountered many souls whose lives mirrored
my own, each one wrapped in the silent fabric of their own struggle. There
might have been rays of hope, but they were faint and brief. Silence reigned
supreme, as if words would shatter the fragile peace we clung to.
Around twenty cancer
patients, clad in identical hospital uniforms, sat with their close relatives
beside them. Not a word was spoken; the weight of the moment rendered us mute.
One by one, the angels arrived, each taking a patient by the hand and leading
them into the theater, where doctors in uniform awaited with calm, practiced
hands.
The operation theater
buzzed with a quiet, focused energy. I remember the sharp prick of IV needles
piercing my arms and legs, a sensation that tethered me to the present moment.
Lying there, I
surrendered my life and my fate to God, feeling utterly helpless. I understood
that these are the moments where the
doctor became a deity in your eyes. When illness strikes, and we are at
the mercy of another's skill and compassion, do we question the form of our
saviour? No, for in our vulnerability, the doctor is the divine, a beacon of
hope in human form.
When the diagnosis of
cancer pierced my world, it brought with it an outpouring of prayers and words
of comfort from many kind souls. Yet, when I opened my eyes in shock, I found
myself utterly alone, enveloped in an icy cold that seeped into my bones. The
silence was torn apart by the agonizing cries of patients undergoing surgery in
the ICU, their pain a haunting symphony in the sterile air.
My throat was parched,
each breath a struggle. After the operation, I found myself in the
multi-specialty ICU, surrounded by the critically ill. Time moved with
agonizing slowness, each second seeming like hours. My pleas for water went
unanswered, my cries for comfort met with silence. No one offered me a single
drop to soothe my burning throat.
Desperation clawed at
my spirit. Unable to cry, I felt as though I was teetering on the brink of
death. Gathering every ounce of my strength, I shouted, "Is there no one
here?" The words echoed in the void, unanswered.
How long had I been
begging for a mere drop of water? My frustration boiled over, and I threatened
to rip down the hospital and the bed in my anguish. My screams finally drew the
attention of the nurses.
"Isn't there one
here with some common sense?" I demanded; my voice raw with desperation.
"Don't you know that March 22nd is World Water Day? Did you offer me a
drop of water, even on this day dedicated to it?"
In that moment, my
thirst became a poignant symbol of the cruelty of my condition, and my plea a
desperate call for compassion in a world where even a simple need could go
unmet.
"Acha (Father),
please lie down," the nurse implored, her voice laced with helplessness.
"We are not permitted to give water. The doctor has said that water should
be given only after 9 am." The weight of her words pressed down on me. Is
it permissible, I wondered, for a doctor to withhold a drop of water to moisten
the throat of a dying person?
Lost in my thirst and
despair, I began to speak, forgetting my surroundings. I talked to the nurses
about World Water Day and its profound significance. The words of the ancient
mariner echoed in my mind: "Water, water, everywhere, nor any drop to
drink." The irony of my plight struck me deeply, as I lay parched in the
best of facilities in the State of Kerala, a land blessed with 44 rivers.
My thoughts turned to
the maggots polluting our water sources, a stark contrast to the life-giving
purity water should represent. My condition mirrored this paradox, a cruel
reflection of abundance tainted by neglect. Tears welled up in my eyes,
blurring my vision.
I remembered the water
wasted in my own home, the precious drops carelessly lost. Images of villages,
regions, and entire countries battling over water flashed through my mind,
their struggles resonating with my own desperate need.
In that moment, my
thirst became more than a physical pain; it was a touching reminder of the
universal quest for life's most essential element.
The nurse, moved by my
plight, dipped a cloth and brought four precious drops of water to my parched
throat. It was a small act, yet the relief it brought defied words. Joy surged
within me, as if the very essence of life itself had been restored in those fleeting
moments. As I drifted into sleep, memories flashed through my mind like a
surreal dream—images of the winding roads leading to Amrita Medical College
Hospital, scenes from nearly a year ago.
In April 2021, plagued
by acidity, constipation, and bleeding, I sought solace in the gastroenterology
department of a private hospital in Kottarakkara. The days blurred into nights,
filled with uncertainty and sleepless vigils. A journey that began with a
doctor's visit soon led me to Dr. Deviprasad, renowned for his expertise in
gastroenterology in Kottiyam. A colonoscopy altered the course of my life, each
moment gravid with anticipation until the biopsy report would reveal the truth:
was the lump in my anus cancerous?
Fear gripped my nights,
casting terrifying shadows upon my dreams. I withdrew into silence, grappling
with my fears alone. The stark reality dawned upon me as I lay in the
multi-specialty ICU of Amrita Hospital, Ernakulam—my body vulnerable, my spirit
adrift in uncertainty.
Awakening from haunting
scenes, I tried to discern the thin boundary between dream and reality. And
then, in a moment of clarity, I saw her: Dr. Manju Kurakar, my daughter,
standing by my bedside in her hospital uniform. Her presence affirmed that this
was not a dream.
Yes. It was Manju.
The nurses relayed to
her how I had called out in the night, a plea for water amidst my lecture on
World Water Day. Soon after, my son Manu Kurakar and my wife Molly arrived,
their faces etched with hope and resilience. We spoke at length, and in their
company, the heft of sadness and adversity gradually lifted. I reclined on the
bed, bolstered by their optimism, my spirits buoyed by their stanch support.
In the ICU, where days
blur into endless cycles of suffering, I witnessed faces worried with the
weight of despair. Moans echo through the sterile corridors resembling a
haunting soundtrack of agony. Each face bore silent testimony to struggle
against pain and the prayer for relief that hanged heavy in the air.
Unknowingly my mind started offering prayers—silent pleas to the almighty,
asking for solace for those writhing in unrelenting torment.
As dawn breaks with its
light devoid of warmth, I realize the hour has passed six o'clock. Morning
arrives without the gentle caress of a breeze, without the soothing touch of
sunlight to alleviate the ache that permeates the room. Then, amidst this
bleakness, strides Dr. Sudhindran, a figure revered within and beyond Kerala,
the very surgeon who guided me through APR surgery.
He doesn't approach me
first. Instead, he moves towards those who have languished in the ICU for days,
his presence soothing my gloomy heart. With compassion in his voice, he
inquires after their well-being, though his words meet only silence.
"Good morning,
Doctor," I call out boldly, breaking the silence with hope in my voice.
To my surprise, he
comes to my bedside, his face lighting up with genuine astonishment. "How
do you feel now?" he asks, his concern palpable.
"I am fine,"
I reply, lifted by a sudden surge of optimism.
"If you feel better,
you are fine," he responds, his happiness mirrored in my own heart. His
unexpected warmth uplifts me, especially given my recent transfer to the ICU
after a gruelling surgery.
"You'll be moved
to the room today," he assures me, to which I gratefully reply,
"Okay, Doctor."
He shakes my hand
warmly, expressing thanks. As night descends, the departing nurses make way for
new faces to take over. Mariamma, from
Thiruvalla, takes charge of my care that night. With gentle hands, she eases me
from the bed to a chair, prompting nearby nurses to discuss the merits of
sitting versus lying down.
"Would 'Good
morning, Doctor,' still echo within the confines of the ICU? Does my voice
still carry weight here, I wonder.
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