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Thursday, July 11, 2024

"GOOD MORNING DOCTOR - chapter1"" Prof. John Kurakar

 

"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.

“GOOD MORNING DOCTOR” Prof. John Kurakar

 

“GOOD MORNING DOCTOR”

Prof. John Kurakar


chapter 2

An autobiography ‘Good Morning Doctor’
(a heart touching experience of cancer treatment) authored by Prof. John Kurakar

CHAPTER 2*

 

After the APR surgery, I lay in the ICU at Amrita Hospital, jolting awake in shock several times before finally slipping into a half-asleep haze. My mind wandered back through the labyrinth of events that had led me here. The first memory that surfaced was my visit to a private hospital in Kottarakkara.This particular Wednesday in April 2021 stood out vividly in my thoughts.

It was a string of sleepless nights, with each day of April spent in restless misery. Alongside insomnia, I battled health issues like constipation and persistent bleeding. Seeking relief, I consulted Dr. Simna, a compassionate gastro surgeon who listened attentively to my concerns and conducted a thorough examination. She reassured me that while my Piles were not severe, the underlying cause of my insomnia warranted further investigation. Dr. Simna prescribed a series of blood tests, an endoscopy, and a colonoscopy. Without medical insurance facilities at the hospital, I considered visiting a private hospital in Kotiyam, renowned for its advanced facilities.

I confided in my friend, Shri Paruthiara Kunjachan, who recommended a respected gastro surgeon with a clinic in Kollam. Seeking additional advice, I turned to my brother-in-law, Mr. PC Thomas, who also endorsed the same surgeon at Kottiyam Private Hospital and provided me with his contact number. This collective support brought a sense of relief amidst my health struggles.

 

Upon researching the doctor's profile online, I confirmed that he was indeed recommended by both Shri Paruthiara Kunjachan and Mr. PC Thomas, known for his expertise in Kollam district. Without hesitation, I dialed his number.

"Who is this?" he answered.

"Doctor, I am calling from Kottarakkara. I really need to see you. When should I come?" I pleaded.

"Tomorrow morning at 7 o'clock," he replied calmly. "Come to the hospital and go straight to the gastro department."

Relief washed over me as I prepared for the visit, hopeful that he could finally provide the help I desperately needed.

The next day at 7 o'clock, my wife and I traveled to Kotiyam in our regular driver Joy's car. We headed straight to the gastro department and met with the surgeon. I explained that I had visited a private hospital in Kottarakkara, where Dr. Simna, the gastro physician, had examined me. I shared the blood test reports and mentioned that Dr. Simna had prescribed a colonoscopy.

The surgeon listened attentively and then said, "There's no need for a colonoscopy. Come ready for an endoscopy tomorrow morning, and remember, no breakfast."

"But Dr. Simna prescribed a colonoscopy," I insisted.

"An endoscopy is sufficient," he replied with a reassuring smile.

Feeling a mix of relief and apprehension, I nodded, trusting his expertise as we prepared for the next day's procedure.

An endoscope, a long, thin tube equipped with a camera, is used for endoscopy—a diagnostic procedure that allows for a detailed examination of the throat, oesophagus, stomach, and small intestine. It is known for its painless nature.

The next morning at 6 o'clock, Molly and I arrived at Kottiyam Hospital in Joy’s car. By 6:30, we had undergone Corona tests. I was then taken to the doctor for the endoscopy. Shortly after, the doctor conducted a physical examination of my anus and assured me, "There's no problem." He prescribed a few medications.

He asked me to return in four days, and I did as instructed. "The constipation and bleeding are still continuing," I told him during the follow-up visit.

The doctor performed another physical examination and reassured me, "There is nothing wrong with you. Consume fruits and foods high in fiber." He prescribed some more medications and confirmed, "The piles are not visible."

Concerned about my persistent bleeding issue, I mustered the courage to ask the doctor about the possibility of surgery. I showed him the blood test report from Kottarakkara Hospital, and there was a moment of silence before he responded, almost jokingly, "So, shall we schedule the operation then?"

His demeanor, however, lacked any hint of joy. His face remained serious, his communication minimal. It felt as though he didn't take my concerns seriously, leaving me with unanswered doubts and a sense that patients were only meant to know so much. After hearing the doctor's answer, I left the room without saying a word, feeling a mixture of resignation and acceptance.

I diligently followed the doctor's prescriptions, faithfully taking medications and incorporating plenty of fruits, vegetables, and fiber into my diet. The insomnia and acidity gradually subsided, but the persistent bleeding remained. After a month passed with no significant improvement in my health, I returned to Kottiyam Hospital to consult with the doctor once more. He adjusted my medications accordingly.

In the midst of this, I also battled a viral fever and noticed discomfort while urinating, prompting me to seek out a urologist at the hospital. Following the doctor's advice, I underwent an ultrasound scan. It was the 26th of November 2021, a memory that still remains vivid in my mind.

 

Armed with the ultrasound scan report, filled with apprehension and a sense of being engulfed by illness, I returned to Kottiyam. Determined to seek further medical advice, I followed the urologist's recommendation and decided to consult Dr. Devi Prasad. The appointment required me to collect a token by 6 AM the following day. Unsure of the process, I sought advice from Mr. Sunil Kumar, Director of the Institute of Fashion Technology, who had recently started working at Kottarakkara Kurakar Education Center, which conveniently housed a branch in Kottiyam. Mr. Sunil Kumar arranged for the token through a colleague, easing my worries significantly.

With a sense of relief, I patiently waited for my appointment with Dr. Devi Prasad.

At 11 o'clock, I heard my name called from the doctor's room. Molly and I entered to find a calm and compassionate figure in Dr. Devi Prasad.

As we spoke, he patiently listened to every detail of my illness. "Don't worry," he reassured me gently. "We will schedule a colonoscopy for tomorrow. If there's an issue, we can address it during the procedure and ensure you leave here feeling relieved."

His words brought a sense of comfort and assurance. Returning home that day, I felt a rare calmness settle over me. The following evening, as instructed by the doctor, I returned to the hospital for the colonoscopy. Nurses handed me bottles of cleansing solution to prepare my stomach. I followed their instructions, drinking four liters of medicated water within four hours and taking the prescribed pills.

As the nurse predicted, after finishing the pills and the liquid, I ended up with a serious case of what can only be described as marathon bathroom sessions. Let's just say, I got to know my bathroom tiles quite intimately that night! By morning, my stomach was as clean as a whistle. The doctor's orders were crystal clear: no food allowed, just tender coconut water if absolutely necessary.

Molly brought 10 tender coconuts, and I sipped on them as instructed. By 8 o'clock in the morning, Dr. Devi Prasad arrived, thorough and attentive, inquiring about every detail. By 3 o'clock, it was time for the colonoscopy—a procedure involving the insertion of a lengthy, slender camera through the colon to meticulously examine both the large and small intestines.

During the procedure, any small growths can be painlessly removed, and tiny tissue samples can be taken for biopsy, providing further diagnostic insights. The entire process is designed to be minimally invasive and comfortable for the patient. As I watched the monitor in the procedure room, I could see the intricate details from my small intestine to the large intestine, illuminated on the screen.

Even before the report arrived, a gnawing sense of foreboding gripped me, and I shared my fears with Molly. An hour later, the report was delivered, and a swarm of doctors gathered around my bedside, their faces marked with shock and concern. A heavy silence hung in the air until the renowned gastro surgeon who had examined me seven months earlier arrived.

"What's happening?" I managed to ask, my voice trembling with nervousness.

"We conducted a thorough examination just a month ago, and nothing abnormal was detected then. Unfortunately, it appears to be a rapidly growing tumor," he explained somberly.

Meanwhile, from Pune, my daughter Dr. Manju Kurakar kept calling Molly persistently. Sensing her distress, Molly asked the doctor beside me, "Could you please speak with my daughter?"

The doctor nodded and took the phone, his voice gentle yet weighted with the gravity of the situation. "I examined your father twice seven months ago. There were no signs of any issues back then. It seems to have developed very quickly," he conveyed to my daughter.

 

As night draped its velvety veil over the hospital room, we resolved to stay another day. The weight of the doctor's diagnosis hung heavy on my mind and heart, each starlit hour echoing with whispers of worry and uncertainty..

Wednesday, July 10, 2024

ഒരിടത്ത് ലക്ഷക്കണക്കിന് യുവാക്കൾ പിഎസ്‌ സി പരീക്ഷ എഴുതി ജോലിക്കായി കാത്തിരിക്കുന്നു. മറുവശത്ത് പി.എസ.സി അംഗത്വം ലേലം ചെയ്യുന്നു.

 

ഒരിടത്ത്  ലക്ഷക്കണക്കിന് യുവാക്കൾ പിഎസ്സി പരീക്ഷ  എഴുതി  ജോലിക്കായി കാത്തിരിക്കുന്നു. മറുവശത്ത് പി.എസ.സി അംഗത്വം ലേലം ചെയ്യുന്നു.

 


നിയമസഭയിൽ വാക് പോര്; പിഎസ്സി അംഗത്വം ലേലത്തിന് വെച്ചിരുന്നോയെന്ന് പ്രതിപക്ഷ നേതാവ് ചോദിക്കുന്നു.ഡോക്ടറോട് പിഎസ്സി അംഗമാകാൻ സിപിഎം നേതാവ് 60 ലക്ഷം ആവശ്യപ്പെട്ട് 22 ലക്ഷം കൈപ്പറ്റിയെന്ന ആരോപണം  നിയമസഭയെ  ഇളക്കി മറിച്ചു .മന്ത്രി മുഹമ്മദ് റിയാസിൻ്റെ പേരിലാണ് പണം വാങ്ങിയതെന്നും പണം തിരികെ നൽകി ഒതുക്കിത്തീർക്കാനാണ് ശ്രമിക്കുന്നതെന്നും സബ്മിഷൻ അവതരിപ്പിച്ചുകൊണ്ട് സതീശൻ ആരോപിച്ചു. പരാതികൾ ഗൗരവമായി അന്വേഷിക്കാൻ സർക്കാർ തയ്യാറാണെന്നും മുഖ്യമന്ത്രി പറഞ്ഞു.കോഴ കൊടുത്ത PSC അംഗങ്ങൾ നടത്തുന്ന അഭിമുഖങ്ങളുടെ വിശ്വാസ്യത എന്താണ്? ലക്ഷക്കണക്കിന് യുവാക്കൾ പിഎസ്സിക്കായി ഉറ്റുനോക്കുന്ന സമയത്ത് അംഗത്വം ലേലം ചെയ്യുന്നത് സംസ്ഥാനത്തിന് നാണക്കേടാണ്.പി.എസ് .സി  അംഗമാകാൻ പ്രത്യേക യോഗ്യതയൊന്നും നിശ്ചയിച്ചിട്ടില്ലാത്തതിനാൽ പണവും സ്വാധീനവുമുണ്ടെങ്കിൽ ആർക്കും പിഎസ്സിയിൽ കയറിപ്പറ്റാമെന്ന സ്ഥിതിയുമുണ്ട്.പി.എസ് .സി  അംഗമാകാൻ പ്രത്യേക യോഗ്യതയൊന്നും നിശ്ചയിച്ചിട്ടില്ലാത്തതിനാൽ പണവും സ്വാധീനവുമുണ്ടെങ്കിൽ ആർക്കും പിഎസ്സിയിൽ കയറിപ്പറ്റാമെന്ന സ്ഥിതിയുമുണ്ട്.

 പിഎസ്സി അംഗങ്ങളുടെ ശമ്പളവും ആനുകൂല്യങ്ങളും വലിയവിലയുള്ളതുതന്നെയാണെന്നതിൽ സംശയമില്ല. 6 വർഷം അല്ലെങ്കിൽ 62 വയസ്സ് എന്ന വ്യവസ്ഥയിലാണു പിഎസ്സി അംഗങ്ങളെ സർക്കാർ നിയോഗിക്കുന്നത്. 6 വർഷം പദവിയിൽ ഇരിക്കുമ്പോൾ ശമ്പളമായി കിട്ടുന്നത് 1.57 കോടി രൂപയാണെന്നതു മാത്രമല്ല, വിരമിച്ചു കഴിഞ്ഞാൽ ജീവിതാവസാനം വരെ പ്രതിമാസം 1.2 ലക്ഷം രൂപ പെൻഷനായും വാങ്ങാം. ചെയർമാന്റെയും അംഗങ്ങളുടെയും ശമ്പളം ഇനിയും കൂട്ടാനുള്ള ശുപാർശ സർക്കാരിന്റെ മുന്നിലുണ്ടുതാനും. IAS, IPS തുടങ്ങിയ സിവിൽ സർവീസ് പരീക്ഷകൾ , SSC CGL തുടങ്ങിയ സർവീസ് പരീക്ഷകൾ  അടക്കം ലക്ഷ കണക്കിന് ഉദ്യോഗാർഥികൾക്ക് വർഷാവർഷം ജോലി കിട്ടുന്ന UPSC യില് വരെ 10 അംഗങ്ങളെ ഉള്ളൂ എന്ന വസ്തുത  കേരളസർക്കാർ  അറിയണം 'സർക്കാർ ഖജനാവിലെ പണം പാർട്ടിക്കാർ ചോർത്തി കൊണ്ട് പോകുന്ന  ഓരോ വഴികളാണ് ഇതെല്ലാം ,പിഎസ്സി അംഗമാകുന്നതിനായി പാർട്ടി നേതാക്കൾക്കു ലക്ഷങ്ങൾ വാരിയെറിയാൻ പലരും തയാറാകാൻ കാരണം  എന്താണെന്ന്  ഇപ്പോൾ പൊതുജനങ്ങൾക്ക്  മനസ്സിലായി .ഇടതു സർക്കാര്  കുറ്റമറ്റ അന്വേഷണത്തിലൂടെ അഴിമതി ആരോപണം കേരളീയ സമൂഹത്തിനുമുന്നിൽ  തുറന്നു കാട്ടുകയും   കുറ്റക്കാർക്ക്  എതിരെ  നടപടിയെടുക്കുകയും  ചെയ്യാൻ  താമസിക്കരുത് .

 

പ്രൊഫ്. ജോൺ കുരാക്കാർ