Love does not exist...or maybe it does. I was not sure, really that is, until I met the Sharmas.
Mrs Nandini Sharma and Mr Ramprakash Sharma (not their real names, of course) were frequent and regular visitors to our Delhi diagnostic centre. Both were in their late sixties. They were from a nearby affluent suburb and their only son was happily settled in Hong Kong. Nandini Sharma had had surgery for a uterine malignancy. She had undergone chemotherapy and now just needed three monthly follow-up scans to make sure she was disease-free. Routine everyday stuff in diagnostic centres and hospitals, but this couple were anything but routine. In fact they were very special! I have yet to see a couple more devoted to each other. You looked at them and knew instinctively that they adored each other. Both were extremely soft- spoken and so very respectful. Both of them would always be immaculately dressed. The lady wore very elegant saris with matching jewellery, light make-up and. despite her health, she had a wonderfully beatific smile and a warm glow around her. Mr Sharma had a beautiful collection of ties and well polished shoes.
I do not remember how it transpired and though it was definitely not common practice, Mr Sharma at some point in time began to be comfortably seated in my office, while Mrs Sharma was having her scan. I did not mind it at all. I actually quite liked Mr Sharma's company. A green cloth bag was their constant companion. A thermos flask, a packet of cookies, two or three books, the day's newspaper and a towel were the regular contents neatly stacked. He was always very grateful, would make no demands whatsoever and would sit quietly reading a book or newspaper while I would be reporting some CTs or MRIs. There would be some chit chat about his son and he would ask me about the goings-on in my life. A cup of coffee would usually be served but I learnt pretty soon that he would not touch his coffee till Mrs Sharma came out of the scanner, because she was fasting and he did not want to eat before her. Mrs Sharma would emerge from the scanner, wait patiently for me to go over the images and once I gave her the all-clear, she would just squeeze my hands tightly and look into my eyes with her slightly moist eyes and silently and smilingly thank me. The coffee ritual done and ‘thank yous’ from both expressed again for the nth time, they would slowly walk up the ramp to the exit. A warm glow would however remain in my heart for some time after they had left. They were just simple, beautiful people.
All went well for about a year. Then one morning I arrived at the centre and realised that Mrs Sharma was already in the scanner. Now this was odd because it was not yet three months since her last scan. Mr Sharma seemed his usual calm self with his perfect tie-knot in place but looked a little concerned. Mrs Sharma had, unfortunately, not been well for the last week. The scan results this time were sadly not encouraging. The tumour had spread in the abdomen, not extensively but enough to make me worried. The cancer specialist listened to my verdict silently on the phone. The coffees that day just turned cold, untouched by any of us. The frequency of the scans increased because chemotherapy had to be started once again. Amazingly there was some kind of a half-hearted response and things began to look up. I was really happy for them. The quiet cheerfulness, the idle chit chat returned and so did the coffee routine.
But only for a short while. I still remember the exact configuration in which Dr. Bansal (our neurologist who had come down to look at a scan), Mr Sharma and I were sitting that fateful day and chatting about the recent political developments in the country. Dr. Bansal looked at Mr Sharma oddly, when the latter was sipping coffee and said, “Sharma ji, do you feel a lump in the front of your neck?“ Mr Sharma smiled and just shook his head in a ‘No’ as he gulped his coffee. “Rajiv”, Dr Bansal turned to me and said, “Why don’t you just do a quick ultrasound? To me it looks like a thyroid lump.” Ten minutes later, I had a lump in my throat and my head was reeling. Mrs Sharma was still inside the scanner oblivious to the goings-on outside as I suggested a thyroid biopsy to Mr Sharma. Dr. Bansal knew just by looking at me that the news was not good.
After the biopsy had proven a highly advanced thyroid cancer, Mr Sharma underwent surgery within the week. He smiled at me weakly from his ICU bed and squeezed my hand with as much strength as he could muster. The same night an ambulance brought Mrs Sharma from her home. Her condition had taken a sudden turn for the worse. The son flew in from Hong Kong with his family. Very vividly, I remember both, Mr Ramparakash and Mrs Nandini Sharma, lying in the ICU beds next to each other, with tubes and pipes sticking out of them. Mr Sharma died peacefully at 7.10 am. The wife silently slipped into oblivion at 7.20 am... the very same day!
Love does exist... perhaps... somewhere!
Dr. Rajiv Rattan is the Director of Medical Imaging, Central Coast Local Health District, NSW Health, Australia.
