What to say and What not to say
This whole month has only reconfirmed my belief that most of the problems in this world are due to poor communication. People don’t or can’t express themselves appropriately. The right words elude them. They don’t say what they actually want to say; they blurt out what was best unsaid. And what’s worst is the torrent of words that they let loose when in a tight spot (so not the right time to say anything!) As a species and after all these centuries, we simply don’t seem to learn, do we? What to say and what not to say.
Earlier this month, I had a little accident. You know, of the crazy-Bangalore-traffic variety. In retrospect, it was just a stupid, freak collision, of an auto, a biker and me on a scooter, in which nothing was damaged and no one got hurt. Save me. I hurt my leg. Of course, the pain and blood annoyed me. And, in the bedlam, the smart-ass biker peering into my helmet-clad face, saying, "Sorry, madam. But not my fault. That autowala..oh ..he has gone..he ran away..sorry, madam."
Duh! If you weren’t so attached to that autowala and careened into him in the first place, I wouldn’t be in this broken situation right now. Now, care to help me up?
After that, things moved at breakneck speed. Someone picked me up and rushed to the nearest parked auto. Others must have grabbed my things and voila, the road was clear again. Traffic zipped by, as if nothing had happened. While I was being unceremoniously hauled off the road, I remembered to voice the concern topmost in my mind. "My bag, get my bag!"
Misplaced priorities, you might say.
A voice, presumably, belonging to one of the good samaritans behind me, snapped back in mild exasperation, "Yeah, yeah, yeah your bag! You'll get it. Worry about yourself for the time being."
I am sure you mean well Mister but why do I get the feeling that it’s the last I’ll see of my 5K Case Logic backpack. I know I am alive; but without my laptop, phone and wallet, I might as well be derelict or dead. Now, can you please hand me my things?
Anyway, I was (injured but) fine and I am proud to say that I remembered to thank all the people who delivered me safely to the hospital. The casualty doctor was a nervous young chap who looked like he carried the weight of the world. He quickly jabbed a painkiller into me, in case I awoke from post-traumatic stupor and decided to scream. Then he set to work on my poor battered leg. Wish he had stuck to that only.
“It was a road accident? What hit your leg?”
If I had known, Doc, wouldn’t I have gotten my leg outta the way!
“The skin is torn. The navicular bone is exposed. There has been extensive soft tissue damage. We’ll do some debridement…”
Whoa, Doc, spare me the details, especially when I am all woozy after coming straight out of a crash. Don’t they teach patient management in medical school?
In a bid to quell my rising panic, I asked him if I would only need some stitches and be gone. Alas, in vain. “Stitches? You’ll need much more, Madam. Here, let me help you.. sit up..yeah.. and see for yourself how extensive the injury is. See there? Do you see the bone? We need to take you into surgery. And an X-ray and CT scan. Can you call your family? Or anyone? And, yes, do you have insurance?”
Sigh. All I wanted to hear is ‘Don’t worry, you’ll be fine. I’ll take care of it.’ Whatever happened to good old chivalry!
I was admitted, x-rayed, drugged, debrided, sutured, and sundry others. The trouble came with the IV. They just couldn’t find my veins to lodge the canella. The night nurse, a brisk, sharp-mouthed busybody slapped and squeezed my forearms, tourniquet-ed my upperarms, pinched and pricked. But nothing would make my thin veins pop up.
“Why you like this?”
The good Lord made me so, what can I say.
“You don’t eat? You girls, always dieting. To become heroine.”
Thanks for the compliment, if that’s what you meant.
“If you don’t eat rice and all, how will we find vein?”
I swear, I never knew about that ‘nutritional’ connection.
She slapped me some more and pricked again. Unsuccessfully. My vein bulged and I writhed. “Why you doing disco?”
Bhagwaan ke liye mujhe chod do, Ms Mogambo.
Frustrated, she threw down the needles, picked up the phone and ordered orange juice from the cafeteria. “You are dehydrated. That’s why no vein. You don’t drink also?”
Sorry, no alcohol. Are you disappointed in me?
I sipped orange juice under her glowering rage. “Where do you work? Computer company? Bah, you IT people like that only. Sit in front of the screen and sleep. No exercise. Where will vein come from?”
Goddamn the industry! This is how it feels like to be lectured by a B@#$% ten years my junior for sitting on my butt and clocking long hours at work.
By then I was reduced to a roti, bilakti ablaa naari and my petrified family called the duty doctor. She came in bleary-eyed and listened to my woes. Luckily, an anesthetist on call had better luck with my veins and successfully hooked me onto the IV. Everyone heaved a sigh of relief.
Of course, I complained - to the senior nurse, to my doctor, to the hospital marketing guy, to the medical chief, to the director. They empathized and apologized and assured action would be taken. I doubt it, but at least there was all the hullaballoo.
Looking back, I actually feel sorry for Ms Mogambo. A little more care with words, a little less opinionating, and she could have avoided much trouble, including an unmitigated PR disaster. For, I am not recommending the hospital to anyone. (What an ungrateful wretch I am) My family and extended friend circle know all about it now. I am even writing this post about everything that went wrong there. All because, sometimes people don’t watch what they say.
That includes me. Reminds me, I must practice what I preach. I really need to watch what all I write about!!
Earlier this month, I had a little accident. You know, of the crazy-Bangalore-traffic variety. In retrospect, it was just a stupid, freak collision, of an auto, a biker and me on a scooter, in which nothing was damaged and no one got hurt. Save me. I hurt my leg. Of course, the pain and blood annoyed me. And, in the bedlam, the smart-ass biker peering into my helmet-clad face, saying, "Sorry, madam. But not my fault. That autowala..oh ..he has gone..he ran away..sorry, madam."
Duh! If you weren’t so attached to that autowala and careened into him in the first place, I wouldn’t be in this broken situation right now. Now, care to help me up?
After that, things moved at breakneck speed. Someone picked me up and rushed to the nearest parked auto. Others must have grabbed my things and voila, the road was clear again. Traffic zipped by, as if nothing had happened. While I was being unceremoniously hauled off the road, I remembered to voice the concern topmost in my mind. "My bag, get my bag!"
Misplaced priorities, you might say.
A voice, presumably, belonging to one of the good samaritans behind me, snapped back in mild exasperation, "Yeah, yeah, yeah your bag! You'll get it. Worry about yourself for the time being."
I am sure you mean well Mister but why do I get the feeling that it’s the last I’ll see of my 5K Case Logic backpack. I know I am alive; but without my laptop, phone and wallet, I might as well be derelict or dead. Now, can you please hand me my things?
Anyway, I was (injured but) fine and I am proud to say that I remembered to thank all the people who delivered me safely to the hospital. The casualty doctor was a nervous young chap who looked like he carried the weight of the world. He quickly jabbed a painkiller into me, in case I awoke from post-traumatic stupor and decided to scream. Then he set to work on my poor battered leg. Wish he had stuck to that only.
“It was a road accident? What hit your leg?”
If I had known, Doc, wouldn’t I have gotten my leg outta the way!
“The skin is torn. The navicular bone is exposed. There has been extensive soft tissue damage. We’ll do some debridement…”
Whoa, Doc, spare me the details, especially when I am all woozy after coming straight out of a crash. Don’t they teach patient management in medical school?
In a bid to quell my rising panic, I asked him if I would only need some stitches and be gone. Alas, in vain. “Stitches? You’ll need much more, Madam. Here, let me help you.. sit up..yeah.. and see for yourself how extensive the injury is. See there? Do you see the bone? We need to take you into surgery. And an X-ray and CT scan. Can you call your family? Or anyone? And, yes, do you have insurance?”
Sigh. All I wanted to hear is ‘Don’t worry, you’ll be fine. I’ll take care of it.’ Whatever happened to good old chivalry!
I was admitted, x-rayed, drugged, debrided, sutured, and sundry others. The trouble came with the IV. They just couldn’t find my veins to lodge the canella. The night nurse, a brisk, sharp-mouthed busybody slapped and squeezed my forearms, tourniquet-ed my upperarms, pinched and pricked. But nothing would make my thin veins pop up.
“Why you like this?”
The good Lord made me so, what can I say.
“You don’t eat? You girls, always dieting. To become heroine.”
Thanks for the compliment, if that’s what you meant.
“If you don’t eat rice and all, how will we find vein?”
I swear, I never knew about that ‘nutritional’ connection.
She slapped me some more and pricked again. Unsuccessfully. My vein bulged and I writhed. “Why you doing disco?”
Bhagwaan ke liye mujhe chod do, Ms Mogambo.
Frustrated, she threw down the needles, picked up the phone and ordered orange juice from the cafeteria. “You are dehydrated. That’s why no vein. You don’t drink also?”
Sorry, no alcohol. Are you disappointed in me?
I sipped orange juice under her glowering rage. “Where do you work? Computer company? Bah, you IT people like that only. Sit in front of the screen and sleep. No exercise. Where will vein come from?”
Goddamn the industry! This is how it feels like to be lectured by a B@#$% ten years my junior for sitting on my butt and clocking long hours at work.
By then I was reduced to a roti, bilakti ablaa naari and my petrified family called the duty doctor. She came in bleary-eyed and listened to my woes. Luckily, an anesthetist on call had better luck with my veins and successfully hooked me onto the IV. Everyone heaved a sigh of relief.
Of course, I complained - to the senior nurse, to my doctor, to the hospital marketing guy, to the medical chief, to the director. They empathized and apologized and assured action would be taken. I doubt it, but at least there was all the hullaballoo.
Looking back, I actually feel sorry for Ms Mogambo. A little more care with words, a little less opinionating, and she could have avoided much trouble, including an unmitigated PR disaster. For, I am not recommending the hospital to anyone. (What an ungrateful wretch I am) My family and extended friend circle know all about it now. I am even writing this post about everything that went wrong there. All because, sometimes people don’t watch what they say.
That includes me. Reminds me, I must practice what I preach. I really need to watch what all I write about!!
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