Three Loans

How much compensation can be granted to someone who offers his flesh and blood for your education?

As I reach the twilight of my medical career and look back fondly, my eyes moisten at the three loans that have made me a doctor. Three unpaid loans that I shall carry into my grave.

10 years of medical training at 10,000 rupees.

I studied in SCB Medical College,Cuttack, a state owned medical college in the eastern coast of my country, India and controlled by its namesake university -The Utkal University by the bay of Bengal. I trained in that campus for 10 years from 1979 to 1989 and completed my MBBS and MD from the Utkal university in one go.
My hostel mess was charging me INR 1.65 per meals on actual . That was INR 100 for 60 meals and roughly INR 5000 from my pocket for the years I studied there. Subsequently I was engaged as an intern for which I got financial assistant ship. I must have spent another 5000 towards my tuition and other fees. I was transformed into a respectable doctor and a registered Pediatrician of the society at a total cost of INR 10000 only. In the next 30 years, I had earned millions and name, fame which cannot be purchased by money.

Is it not astounding ?

It was the first loan.

My first Injection

In our third year, we used to frequent the injection room and immunization clinic for learning how to handle a syringe and a needle. In those days lots of Penedure LA injections were prescribed. A small dose must be injected just below the skin by a thin needle at the outset to test for any allergic reaction to the drug. It is a painful thing. I loaded my syringe with Penedure with a large bore needle. The solution is so thick that it can block a fine bore needle. As I loaded my first syringe of my life, anxiety blurred my intellect for a second. I forgot to change the thick needle into a fine bore one before injecting. She was an elderly lady from the working class. I won’t forget the wrinkles on her skin and the coppery face. As I plunged the thick needle with full force just below her skin, a piercing cry blinded me. My mind went blank. I completed the task mechanically and left the injection room. As I inhaled the fresh open air, then only I became aware of the mistake I have done. Today as I self inject myself with insulin twice a day with a needle as fine as an eye lash, that wizened old hag of a face wrinkled with pain flashes past my inner eyes. Twice in a day for the last 10 years. Today, if anyone bungles while giving injection to a person, that coppery face flashes in front of my eyes. This makes me lose my temper all of a sudden. A reflex from the past. Later on, I went on to become one of the safest hand in intravenous intervention of my batch and was much sought after in the campus, when a dehydrated, pulse less kid was brought to the Emergency Room. This was my second loan that made me one of the safest hand in pediatric care.

My first independent surgery.

It was a swelling on the back of the left hand called a ‘Ganglion.’ In those days, We would throng to the Casualty at odd hours in search of some hands on stitching etc. After lunch hours, at 2 pm in the afternoon in the summer days, regular staff of the hospital would be napping and we interns would get some rare hands on experience. That day I was in for a surprise. I was expecting to get one or two stitches on my part. As luck would have it, I did land a full scale minor surgery item under local anesthesia all alone. No seniors, no hospital staff. I was green. In my best copy book style, I used anesthesia, neatly sliced the skin and peeped in. There were the glistening tendons and bleeding fascia. But where is the Ganglion. As time ticked by painfully, I started to sweat profusely. After 45 minutes of poking and groping, my hands became sticky with caked with blood. Eyes stopped focusing. Suddenly, I knew I needed help. Except the white Sun and a black crow no one else came forth. So I did the best thing my fatigued brain could think. I closed the wound without removing any ganglion and neatly dressed it with wads of cotton, washed my hand and slipped out of the OT through the back door without meeting the anxious attendants.

Usually the patients in the state run hospitals belonged to the slums who can not afford to pay for services in a corporate hospitals. Those who can pay are treated respectfully by the reputed senior doctors. It is the poor slum dwellers who cannot afford them have been kind enough to teach me all those hands-on skills that I have mastered in those ten years.

How much compensation can be granted to someone who offers his flesh and blood for your education?

Nobody except your own mother suffers pain voluntarily so that you can become educated.

These are the three loans I carry on my shoulder.

They are heavy.