I heaved a sigh of relief when my aged mother, who had undergone a surgical procedure for a pacemaker replacement a few hours ago, was shifted from the general ward to the intensive care unit at SKIMS Soura on Wednesday, September 16. A routine check-up of the cardiac gadget on Saturday, September 12, was a bad news. The technician declared the gadget inutile that needed immediate replacement.
However, the two-day stay was an agonizing example of inefficiency, nepotism and negligence that could endanger lives of ordinary citizens admitted in large numbers on daily basis. Here is the story.
The Covid-19 Centre
As a journalist, I have interacted with the director SKIMS a few times in the past. Thinking he might be of some help, I called him up and asked if he could make things a little easier for me without seeking any special privileges though. He advised me to get my mother admitted in Ward-1 without giving any further guidelines.
Upon reaching the ward, a doctor asked us to get my mother tested for Covid-19 which in the light of the pandemic is a pre-requisite before any patient is admitted. He wrote a note on the OPD ticket and asked us to go to the Covid centre for the test.
The scene at the Covid centre was total chaos, with people pushing and nudging each other, trying to get closer to the opening at the wall behind which a hospital staffer was issuing registration cards. Of the four counters meant to cater to the huge rush of people, only one was functional and what was more alarming among the attendants was that Covid-positive patients were roaming freely in the crowd. I became a part of the assemblage to wait for my turn. Frail and haggard, my mother watched from the distance as I was trying to get through the ordeal. All she could do was watch her son helplessly who could fatally fall prey to the dreaded Covid disease. The crowd ahead of me was getting somewhat thinner. As ill luck would have it, my turn came exactly at the moment when the man slid shut the opening, announcing his lunch break. I had to wait for another hour to get the registration card. “What kind of arrangement is this,” shouted an elderly woman as the commotion in the crowd grew. I stood silent almost glued to the wall in order not to lose my turn. The man reappeared after an hour. He took details from my OPD card, fed it into his computer and gave me a yellow card. Before I could seek further guideline from him, a forceful push from behind threw me out of the crowd.
“Swabs are taken in the next room,” a young man accompanying his pregnant wife informed me.
I grabbed a wheelchair nearby and made my mother sit on it but it wouldn’t move beyond the raised pavement. Two young boys quickly came to my help and lifted the wheelchair. I was happy that my ordeal was finally getting over. I was wrong. Two luxury cars appeared out of nowhere and out came a neatly dressed man escorted by four armed guards. Without fulfilling any formality, a hospital security man ushered him straight into the swab room. Within five minutes, he came back and left the scene leaving everyone dumbstruck as if nothing had happened. “Power corrupts and absolute power corrupts absolutely,” I reminded myself of the age-old adage. Looking at the condition of my mother, a female staffer took my mother’s swab right in the corridor. I was asked to come tomorrow or visit the hospital website for the report. From 11.00 in the morning to 4.00 in the afternoon, I and my mother had spent five hours to get the registration card and the swab taken. Comparatively, the “VIP” who left a minute ago, had spent mere five minutes.
Next day in the cardiac ward
Around afternoon, I opened the SKIMS website and keyed in the details of my mother to get the result of her Covid test. Much to my delight, she was Covid negative. I rushed her to the hospital. Her admission to the cardiac ward was relatively hassle-free. A doctor made her file and soon a bed in a cubicle was allotted to her. “She’ll be operated upon tomorrow,” the doctor said. My mother walked up to the bed and quietly slept beneath a dirty sheet that had blood stains on it. Her hospital clothing, a green gown sort of a thing, had wrinkles all over as if squeezed out of some machine. It hadn’t been washed properly either. I was surprised to see that the doctors and the paramedical staff were not wearing any protective gear against the Coronavirus. A simple mask and a pair of latex gloves constituted their Personal Protective Equipment (PPE).
“Around 25% of the hospital staff has contracted the Coronavirus,” a male nurse startled me.
At around six in the evening, a nurse visited my mother. With an unsympathetic look on her face she grabbed hold of her left hand, pierced a needle into one of the veins in her wrist and installed a connector set. She then fastened some tape around the puncture site and left without saying a word. After a while, she returned with a bottle, connected it with the device she had installed some half an hour ago, adjusted the flow of the fluid, and left. She was as dumb as before. After some 45 minutes, the fluid in the bottle was approaching its finishing line. I rushed to the counter to call the nurse. Sadly, there was none. I hastened my steps back to my mother and before I could figure out the stopping mechanism in the drip line, blood from my mother’s vein was filling the transparent tubing. I turned a small wheel on the regulator and it stopped the blood flow. The nurse appeared in the meantime, plucked the cord from the connector, applied a lid on it and left without saying a word.