It’s going to be over. I ask my father to read me my books from medical school.Maybe I will be a doctor in some other life, if there is anything like that. I just want to thank you for replying to my mails and showing me your research website. It meant a lot. Thank you. I need to go now. Best of luck.
Regards
Pihu Malhotra
From what she had learnt about the disease, she knew she didn’t have more than three months to live; some doctors gave her even less. The fear in her parents’ eyes multiplied every day, their grief slowly becoming unbearable for them. During those days, her relatives and cousins had started to drop in to see her for the last time. Pihu, confined to her bed, would smile at them. And cry when she would be alone. For the most part of the day, she would sleep. Her body, whatever was left of it, was constantly tired and exhausted.
She began to get bedsores. Her mom would spend hours shifting and rolling her on the bed to prevent the infections from the bedsores from spreading. They only became worse. She would stay up and cough for hours on end. Saliva drooled from her mouth but she couldn’t bring a hand up to wipe it. Day after day, she would spend all her time lying on the bed, staring at the ceiling as her father read to her from medical books and journals. She could only talk in mumbles; her tongue had become weak too. She was trapped in her dying body, waiting for death to come.
Her father clicked pictures of her every day, trying to capture his daughter for the last few times. Visiting doctors always left the home with their heads hung low. They knew the next time they could find her dead.
A few days after she sent her last mail, a package arrived at the front door with Pihu’s name on it. Her father opened the box gingerly. The contents were wrapped very carefully in bubble wrap. There was a spiral-bound file of papers and a box with syringes, bottles of coloured liquids and capsules.
‘What’s this?’ her father asked as he sifted through the contents.
She shook her head and looked at the letter that lay with everything on the bed. Her dad read the letter, which stated in clear, simple words that these were the medications they were trying out on the clinical-trial patients at GKL Hospital. The handwriting was lucid, not like a doctor’s.
Dear Pihu,
Follow the instructions as written in the file. Keep it to yourself and your family. Don’t get doctors involved. The drugs have a reasonable success rate at our hospital. They stall symptoms in some cases. They reverse the effects in others. Think before you decide. Don’t hold me liable.
Regards.
Her father looked at her for an explanation and she told him about the mails and the website. She asked her dad to read the file that had all the details about the progress of the patients the medicines had been tried on. They spent the whole night reading through every case, every patient and every dosage that she had to take. Whether she should take the medication or not was a no-brainer. She was dying. She had just three months to live, give or take a few weeks. A 20 per cent chance of living was an infinitely better option than to continue living like the undead for the next few months,and then, in any case, die. She made her father learn how to use the syringes. After a few times of puncturing his own veins, he got the hang of it. From the next day, she was on the medication. For the first few times, his fingers trembled every time he had to pierce Pihu’s flesh. And then it became easier.
Slowly, things changed. Two months later, she mailed the doctor again.
Pihu Malhotra
To Dr Arman Kashyap
Hi Dr Arman,
I am better. It is working. For the first time, I took solid food. Thank you.
Regards
Pihu Malhotra
With the mail, she attached a report she and her father had maintained for tracking her progress. The experimental drugs were working on her. She wasn’t coughing
Regards
Pihu Malhotra
From what she had learnt about the disease, she knew she didn’t have more than three months to live; some doctors gave her even less. The fear in her parents’ eyes multiplied every day, their grief slowly becoming unbearable for them. During those days, her relatives and cousins had started to drop in to see her for the last time. Pihu, confined to her bed, would smile at them. And cry when she would be alone. For the most part of the day, she would sleep. Her body, whatever was left of it, was constantly tired and exhausted.
She began to get bedsores. Her mom would spend hours shifting and rolling her on the bed to prevent the infections from the bedsores from spreading. They only became worse. She would stay up and cough for hours on end. Saliva drooled from her mouth but she couldn’t bring a hand up to wipe it. Day after day, she would spend all her time lying on the bed, staring at the ceiling as her father read to her from medical books and journals. She could only talk in mumbles; her tongue had become weak too. She was trapped in her dying body, waiting for death to come.
Her father clicked pictures of her every day, trying to capture his daughter for the last few times. Visiting doctors always left the home with their heads hung low. They knew the next time they could find her dead.
A few days after she sent her last mail, a package arrived at the front door with Pihu’s name on it. Her father opened the box gingerly. The contents were wrapped very carefully in bubble wrap. There was a spiral-bound file of papers and a box with syringes, bottles of coloured liquids and capsules.
‘What’s this?’ her father asked as he sifted through the contents.
She shook her head and looked at the letter that lay with everything on the bed. Her dad read the letter, which stated in clear, simple words that these were the medications they were trying out on the clinical-trial patients at GKL Hospital. The handwriting was lucid, not like a doctor’s.
Dear Pihu,
Follow the instructions as written in the file. Keep it to yourself and your family. Don’t get doctors involved. The drugs have a reasonable success rate at our hospital. They stall symptoms in some cases. They reverse the effects in others. Think before you decide. Don’t hold me liable.
Regards.
Her father looked at her for an explanation and she told him about the mails and the website. She asked her dad to read the file that had all the details about the progress of the patients the medicines had been tried on. They spent the whole night reading through every case, every patient and every dosage that she had to take. Whether she should take the medication or not was a no-brainer. She was dying. She had just three months to live, give or take a few weeks. A 20 per cent chance of living was an infinitely better option than to continue living like the undead for the next few months,and then, in any case, die. She made her father learn how to use the syringes. After a few times of puncturing his own veins, he got the hang of it. From the next day, she was on the medication. For the first few times, his fingers trembled every time he had to pierce Pihu’s flesh. And then it became easier.
Slowly, things changed. Two months later, she mailed the doctor again.
Pihu Malhotra
To Dr Arman Kashyap
Hi Dr Arman,
I am better. It is working. For the first time, I took solid food. Thank you.
Regards
Pihu Malhotra
With the mail, she attached a report she and her father had maintained for tracking her progress. The experimental drugs were working on her. She wasn’t coughing
Similar Books
