fate

She lifted the pen. It felt really heavy in her hands, I guess. She looked at the corner of the paper where she was supposed to sign. She kept the pen down again; unsure what should be her next action. Tears rolled down her eyes silently, but she didn’t cry. If she cried her two little children standing beside her would start crying too. She didn’t want to reveal to her little ones that something was really wrong with their father. She lifted the pen once again wiping the tears, took a deep breath and signed in the place where she was supposed to. She was a bold lady; I thought and felt bitter for the person who had plunged the knife into her husband’s chest.
As I walked back towards the operating room, my mind was in turmoil unable to digest what went on in the last few minutes. I go through this conflict almost everyday when I have to explain to the relative standing outside the operating room about the risk of the operation. I had to tell the truth of how bad the condition was in the most gentlest and reassuring way. At times I had to explain to a tense mother that we are risking the child’s life by deciding to operate at such a tender age, but we are doing it to save the life. Then the usual question unthinkably is fired at me almost every time, “nothing serious I hope?”, “no risk to life, isn’t it?” “Have faith in God, things will be fine” are the only words I can muster to utter at those moments. These are those times when the differences of status, caste creed, and religion all become one.

I am yet to find a better way of telling the anxious relatives that their dear ones are on the verge of death and all I can do is a last ditch attempt to bring them back. Hopefully they realize what we are doing is an attempt at best and we need their signature to do that. Sometimes I wish that our abilities and limitations are understood by the people standing outside the door and not classify us as a bunch of heartless creatures.
My thought sequence was suddenly broken down by the booming voice of the senior surgeon whom I had requested for help in this difficult operation. His hands were swift and accurate. He cut with such gentle precision that I once wondered whether he had one more pair of eyes and brains at the tip of the scalpel to know exactly where it had to go. Some people are just born with that extra bit of talent in their share which they themselves are unaware of, I thought, as the surgeon walked out closing all the ragged layers into continuity without even acknowledging my compliments.
Miracles don’t happen everyday, but they do happen once in a while. I rushed out of the operating room to tell my dearest friend that she could smile once again. The hands that created the knife haven’t forgotten to sharpen the scalpel.