An Army Veteran’s Quest for Medical Care: A Tale of Frustration, Honesty, and Loss

“You are young, yet I chose to consult with you because I am frustrated with your allopathic counterparts, who revel in identifying themselves as super specialists.” 

It was the most intimidating introduction by a patient to a doctor ever. I looked at the old man sitting in front of me nonchalantly. And allowed him to continue. 

“I am Keshav. A 75-year-old ex-army man. I am an engineer by training. After ten years of service, I served the nation as an administrative officer. I cleared the civil service exam and became an IPS officer. I held various responsibilities in New Delhi and Punjab. I was elated when I received a government order appointing me as the secretary to the then Prime Minister of India – Shri. Rajiv Gandhi.” He stopped to look at me and grinned from ear to ear. 

I felt an extra dose of respect arose in me from nowhere. I felt honoured to be talking to a person of his stature. I quickly asked him why he was visiting me. 

He relaxed a bit, adjusted himself, leaned back, looked directly into my eyes, and narrated, “Being a retired government servant, I am entitled to a lot of concessions and free services, including medical service. Every time I visit a hospital, the doctors insist that I must go under the knife. I am opposed to getting admitted to any hospital, and I will be the last person to die in a hospital.” 

He continued with the same tone of conviction and informed me that he had a moderately enlarged prostate gland, and it caused nocturnal micturition (urination). He would wake up from sleep at least two to three times to pass urine. He consulted about eight different doctors. A few suggested that he should undergo surgery, while others advised that it can be controlled through medication. 

Recently, when he consulted a urologist at an army hospital, he was asked to go for a pelvic CT scan. The scan revealed an irregular bladder wall. The urologist suspected that it could be cancerous. 

He spent sleepless nights, agonizing over what may befall. He consulted a team of doctors in Chandigarh, New Delhi, Chennai, and Bangalore. His PSA was normal. He took a battery of tests in AIIMS – New Delhi. The HoD of Urology advised him to stop all medications, go for daily walks in the morning, and have only a vegetarian diet. He felt so relieved and stopped visiting urologists.  

As I began my consultation, I noticed that he was asking questions from a neatly typed sheet of paper. He was taking notes of whatever I advised that he should follow. He revealed more personal details about himself and said that his wife died a few years ago. She was a compassionate person who worked as a singer in Akashavani. 

I started the treatment to set his BPH alright first, along with the mental agony he was going through because of losing his wife. I also realized that he is an honest person and a stickler for time. Before leaving that day he asked a poignant question. “Why did my wife die so early?” I tried to assuage him by speaking about karma. He gave me an implausible look and walked away gently. 

I felt really proud of meeting such an individual and felt so happy to be in a profession that lets you meet incredible people. 

During the second visit, I felt much more at ease talking to him. He showed the warm side of his personality by opening up more about his personal life. He quipped, “Doctor, you know, I have two extremely successful children. One earns an astronomical salary. He earns in one year what I earned during my entire career. Although I was working in PMO, I was getting paid so less. It is so hard to come to terms with the reality now.”

He started to complain about his health and said that hereafter he wouldn’t get up in the middle of the night to urinate. He complained about his flatulence and dry skin on his lower leg. I noticed again that he had come prepared to talk to me about his health. He jotted down all the advice I gave him and referred to the previous visit’s notes. 

After a month, he visited me, for the third time. This time he spoke to me with a heavy heart, “I would like to go to an old age home. I am getting so bored living alone.” My word of advice had little bearing on him. He did his research and joined an old age home in Chennai, stayed there for about three months, and came back. 

I thought this experience would have rejuvenated him. On the contrary, he startled me with a request, “Doctor,” he asked, in a hushed tone, “Prescribe for me something to die.” Before I started to enquire, he affirmed, “I have no purpose to live on this earth, anymore. I have a strong feeling that the life I am now living is an unnecessary bonus given from above. My life is so empty, especially after I have lost my wife.” 

“The void she left, the generation gap that divides you further away from the ones you love and gave birth to, the conviction of being a vegetarian all my life, the values of life I have upheld so much, the moments of glory and fame I enjoyed with the PM and the visiting British royalty. All these made me feel as if life is a non-stop rollercoaster ride. Enough Doctor. Enough is enough. I am dying to get out of this rollercoaster ride. Neither do I have the energy, nor the willingness to ride on.”

This soulful conversation, cemented an unshakeable bond between us that very moment. 

He continued to visit me once in three months, even though he became alright. One day, I told him that he was perfectly alright and didn’t have to take the trouble of consulting me anymore. He seemed offended by my inconsiderate remark. 

I sensed it and let him visit me as many times as he wanted. Because he was not visiting me to get medical advice or medical prescription. He was visiting a friend with whom he felt so free to share his feelings about people and his grouse against the medical fraternity and his family. 

He visited me yet again, after a long time. He looked very happy and contended. I asked him what made him so happy. He replied with so much joy in his voice, like a child waiting for her mother to ask, “How was school?” “I sold my house for a throwaway price. Donated everything to my servants, except this wallet.” He pulled out his wallet and showed me his overused, leather wallet. 

“Doctor, I truly felt so happy to see these people smile. For once, I became the reason for their smile.” You know, my sons are millionaires. Yet, even if I pay millions, I cannot see a contended smile on their face.” They were so worried about my health that they hired a psychiatrist to visit me and speak with me.” “Guess what?” He chuckled, “I counseled the psychiatrist instead, and advised him that life should be measured with the experiences one encounters, not with the information one has.” 

We both burst into healthy laughter. It’s been nine long years, ever since he visited me for the first time. Our visits turned into a laughter session. Every time I made him laugh, it felt like undergoing a master health check-up, with the report saying, “Everything is normal.” 

Indeed he was hale and hearty even at the age of 84. 

A few months later, his millionaire son visited me to hand over a letter. 

I quickly opened it and read the following, typed neatly, with the same font, I was so used to noticing when he bombarded me with questions during all his visits. 

Dear Doctor, 

You have taken care of my health for nearly a decade. You were so kind to me, tolerated all my idiosyncrasies, and listened to my stories so patiently. And always treated me like your own grandfather. 

I was at the helm of affairs, all my life. Handled all sorts of responsibilities, even at the cost of neglecting my own family. 

I participated in the India-Pakistan war, during the Punjab insurgency, and was part of the United Nations Peace Keeping Force. 

Yet, I did not enjoy the peace and tranquillity that comes as a result of giving all one can to his wife and children. It’s too late to think of all these. I am counting my days here on Earth. 

I could die in a few days. I am not able to walk anymore. I don’t want to call you, because, I know you will come and visit me. I sincerely don’t want to waste your time. 

God bless you abundantly. 

I have a DD for Rs. 5000 and a Bhagwat Gita as my gift. Please don’t reject it. 

I have informed my children to bring it to you after my death. 

Love and best wishes,

Your most talkative patient,

Keshavan.

Hands almost trembling, heart beating heavily, I looked up, to see his son’s eyes welled up in tears, as much as my eyes were. 

He cried over the death of his father. I cried over the sudden death of a friend who treated me like his grandson. 

(Footnote: It is important to note that the events described in this blog post occurred decades ago and the person referred to as “Keshavan” passed away in 2013. The original person’s name has been changed in order to protect their privacy.)