Reversible Malady

All too often, life gives you a health scare, and the outlook looks bleak. But our body is a brilliant machine; it is capable of self-healing to a great extent and can put you back on track. The following story should inspire you to make the necessary changes to reverse health challenges.

My mother was one of ten siblings. She had four brothers. She lost one at an early age when his fighter jet crashed in 1965. Her eldest brother was a chartered accountant. After their father died, he took over the responsibility of managing the family on his young but broad shoulders. Dadamama was of medium build, stout, fair-complexioned, and had sharp features. He had a generous forehead. He always wore well-pressed white half-sleeve shirts and black or brown trousers, and at home, a white Kurta. As you must have guessed by now, this story is about him.

Dadamama was kind but strict. He liked everything to be perfect. His family included his wife and three children: one son and two daughters. My grandmother, Mamema, stayed with them. They used to live in Chembur, Mumbai. My sister and I loved to visit their house. We were always welcomed and played with our cousins, generally having a great time. During our visits, the only thing I would avoid was coming across Dadamama. I remember that once, he made me sit in one corner and tried to teach me to play the flute. I was probably 8 or 9 at that time, and I was not someone who would sit in one place for long. I lived to play in the open—cricket, running, anything. That half-hour felt like decades of my life and left an indelible trauma.

Dadamama and my father, Bappa, enjoyed each other's company. They would sit together, discussing politics and other major issues. I would never actually sit and listen to them, but the fleeting moments while running through the living room, playing with my cousins, their discussions sounded important.

Dadamama had diabetes and always consulted my father for any medical issues, respecting his opinion. Did I tell you my father was an infectious disease specialist and was fairly well-known in that field? He was attached to Kasturba Hospital, the Infectious Disease Hospital in Mumbai. He had done a lot of original research and was invited as a speaker on typhoid and hepatitis around the world. He came from a not-so-well-to-do family, having lost his father at the age of one. Well, his story is also an interesting one, but not for this blog.

Time passed, and we started growing up. My Mamema passed away. Dadamama’s children grew up. His son settled as a chartered accountant in Canada, and both his daughters got married and moved to the USA. Mami and Dadamama sold their house in Chembur and settled in Bangalore, which was still a quieter place then. One of my mother’s sisters, Rekha (name changed), lived in Bangalore, and they bought a bungalow near hers. For a while, we did not see them. Aai would get occasional phone calls, mainly to check on each other and if Dadamama had any medical queries.

It was the month of May, 1988, when the phone rang at our house. It must have been around 9 p.m. The TV was on, and Aai and I were watching a Gujarati skit. My sister was in her bedroom reading a book. Aai picked up the phone. When I looked at her face, her smile turned into extreme concern. I immediately knew something was not right. I muted the TV. After a brief conversation, she put the phone down.

My Mami had called. She had just returned from the hospital. That morning, Dadamama had had his breakfast and was sitting in his reclining chair, reading the newspaper in the sitting room. Mami was in the back garden at the time, and when she entered the sitting room, she saw Dadamama slumped over in the chair, eyes closed. This was very unusual. He would never sleep in the chair, especially in the morning. Fearing the worst, she rushed to him, trying to wake him up by calling him and shaking him. He did not respond. She immediately called for Rekhamaushi and her husband. Mami, along with Rekhamaushi and Bhaoji, put Dadamama in their car and rushed him to a local hospital.

This was a small three-storey, but well-equipped, hospital. The doctors attended to him immediately, but they could not feel his pulse, he was not breathing. He was pronounced dead. He was left on the trolley, and Mami stood in shock next to him, along with Rekhamaushi and her husband. Mami was holding Dadamama’s hand, tears in her eyes, not knowing what to do. She was surrounded by family but felt more alone than ever in her life.

As she stood there, holding his hand, she felt it twitch. When she looked down, she saw hand twitch again. She immediately called the doctors, who rushed to resuscitate him with CPR, chest pumps, and ventilation using an ambu bag. An ECG was connected, and his cardiac rhythm returned to normal. He soon regained full consciousness. He was moved to the ward for observation.

Dadamama had no recollection of the events. His last memory was sitting in the living room, reading the paper. The next thing he knew, he was waking up on a hospital trolley. Mami, Rekhamaushi, and her husband had gone through a rollercoaster of emotions. One moment they were in the depths of sadness, and the next, they were overwhelmed with happiness when Dadamama regained consciousness. They had experienced life’s uncertainty and miracle all in such a short period of time.

Later that day, as they sat in the ward, Dadamama and Mami reflected on the events. Different doctors visited throughout the day. Blood tests were taken, ECGs were done, and Dadamama was hooked to an ECG monitor. His heart was being monitored continuously. Around 4 p.m., a cardiologist arrived and explained that the potential cause of these events could be cardiac-related. The blood tests had shown some cardiac strain, and he recommended a cardiac angiography and further testing. They could perform the procedure the next day, but they didn’t know exactly what had caused these events.

Dadamama and Mami were exhausted and wanted time to think about their options. It was all too much to take in—what had been a peaceful life had suddenly taken such an unpleasant stressful turn. Dadamama, Mami, Rekhamaushi, and Bhaoji, her husband, sat together in silence, thinking about the situation and considering what would be the best course of action going forward.

At that moment, Dadamama asked Mami to call my father for advice. She came home soon after and called Aai, explaining everything that had happened and mentioning that Dadamama wanted Bappa’s opinion.

Bappa usually came home late after finishing his clinic, and since there were no cell phones at the time, Aai and I anxiously awaited his arrival. When the doorbell rang, both of us rushed to answer it. Bappa came in with a smile on his face, but when he saw our concerned expressions, he immediately sensed something was wrong.

He called the hospital and spoke with Dadamama. Dadamama explained the situation and mentioned that the doctors had recommended a cardiac angiogram, and depending on the results, he might need bypass surgery. There was a brief silence on the other end.

Bappa asked, "What do you want, bhaoji?"

Dadamama replied, "I don’t want bypass surgery."

Both were silent for a few seconds.

"If you’re sure you don’t want any surgery, then there’s no point in doing the angiogram," Bappa said. "The risks of the angiogram would outweigh its benefits."

"Our body gives us many chances to make changes in our lifestyle that can reverse some of the damage it might have caused," he reassured Dadamama. After a brief conversation, they disconnected the call.

Two days later, Bappa received a call from Dadamama. He had decided not to go ahead with the angiogram and was back home. "What lifestyle changes do you recommend, bhaoji?" he asked.

Bappa recommended a few lifestyle changes, including a healthier diet, meditation, relaxation techniques, and regular brisk walking.

Five years later, Aai, Bappa, and I had the opportunity to visit Dadamama and Mami in Bangalore. I was going to meet him after almost 15 years. We arrived in Bangalore by train and then took a taxi to Dadamama’s house. We were greeted at the entrance by Mami and Dadamama. Mami looked slightly older, but Dadamama looked no different. He seemed slimmer, fitter, and more energetic than I had anticipated, especially given that he had suffered a cardiac event a few years earlier.

We settled down in their house, and I realized that Dadamama had created a set routine of meditation, relaxation, and exercise. "Come with me tomorrow morning for my walk," he said enthusiastically. I obliged.

The next day, at 6 a.m., as instructed, I went down to the living room and found him all ready to go for his walk. It was a pleasant morning. The sun was yet to rise, and the sky was adorned with dawn colors. The birds were chirping, and a cool breeze blew across our faces. We left the bungalow and began walking along the street. I realized Dadamama was walking much faster than I could keep up with. There was a sprint in his steps. As the road developed a gentle upward slope, I soon found myself struggling to keep pace, gasping for breath. We walked for two kilometers one way, and then returned. By the time we returned, I was completely exhausted, while Dadamama still had the same sprint in his step that he had started with. He looked at me with a gentle smile and said, "Five years ago, I was given up as dead. Thanks to your Bappa, I am the healthiest I’ve ever been."

Our body is a wonderful machine. It is capable of self-healing to a great extent. It just needs some help from us—some positive lifestyle changes.

Dadamama lived for another 20 years. He passed away in his early 80s, peacefully in his sleep at his son’s house in Canada.