Blood Donation

It was 5:30 pm on a Thursday evening as I walk into the Ortho II ward. 40 patients, which means 30 vials of cefotaxime, 20 vials of ampicillin (two for each patient who doesn’t get taxime), 40 ampoules of ranitidine, 40 ampoules of gentamicin and 40 ampoules of diclofenac sodium. There is no way I’m going to leave before ten tonight. I go to the injection table and look – there is no diclofenac. I’m at wits end, especially as the nursing staff is not there and I do not envy the prospect of searching the neighboring wards for a load of diclofenac.
A short guy, clad in the usual lungi and dirty shirt of our beloved Royapuram area, unshaven as is the norm, comes up and says, “Sir, all the vials are in the cupboard. The key is in the drawer over there.”
To get to the point, this guy is a life saver.
Thanks to him, I finish what would have been three hours of dues in a single hour. He opens the vials, breaks the heads off the ampoules, uncaps the syringes, takes them to the patients who can’t walk.
My brain is not able to classify this modern day “Devathai” or angel. He is not in uniform, not shaven: so probably not a ward boy. A patient? No bandage, but possible. A patients attender? Possible, but unlikely to have stayed here so long to have learned all the tricks of the trade.
“Who are you, a ward boy or something?”
“My name is Ramu. I am looking after my brother Dhanapal.”
Dhanapal: I remember seeing the case sheet: Fracture femur, posted for surgery sometime next week.
In the next five days, I come to appreciate Ramu’s presence more and more. He isn’t like some other patients, who kiss up to the doctor to earn some favours: better pain killers, effective antibiotics, or early surgery – Ramu, one can easily tell really enjoys helping me out.
“So what’s the reason behind your promotion to junior ward boy?”  I ask him humorously.
“Sir, I wanted to become a doctor, but my parents couldn’t afford to let me study. So I’m living out my dream here, by helping you doctors.”
I am touched but say, “You had a narrow escape from jumping into the deepest abyss ever.”
“Doctor, is it true that the surgery is tomorrow?”
“Yes. The chief said so in the afternoon before leaving.”
“Thank God, doctor. I’ve been here for three months waiting for this news.”
“Right, Ramu. Make sure that he gets the Tt injection and pre op antibiotics in the morning.”
“Yes, sir. Good night.”
I don’t think so, I think as I walk into the neighboring emergency ward, full to the brim.
“What happened?” I ask Sakthivel, my batchmate and duty intern there.
“Mass casualty at Basin Bridge. 40 cases – 16 of them under ortho. Enjoy yourself.”
Yeah, sure. Shortening and reduction, amputation, K wire fixation are the way I spend the rest of the night. By the time I am free, it is half past seven in the morning. I go my room, shave, bathe and am just in time for theatre at 8:15 am.
“Ah, Madhan, good of you to drop in.”
Hell, I am just 15 minutes late.
“Dhanapal is on the table now. The anaesthetist says that he needs blood urgently.”
I take the sample and go to the blood bank.
“Sorry, sir, no blood is available. All units were used yesterday in the mass casualty. Blood is available only if a donor donates.”
I call up the PG and tell him.
“Look, Doctor, you have only one job in ortho - to arrange the blood. This surgery is to be done by the chief. If this patient doesn’t have blood in half an hour, then I will be screwed and so will you.”
I go to the attenders room on the second floor outside the OT. Thankfully, Ramu is there.
“Look Ramu, your brother, Dhanapal needs to be transfused with blood as he will probably lose some blood during surgery.”
“Okay, I give my consent.”
“No, this is not some bloody consent form. There is no blood in the blood bank. You have to arrange for a donor.”
“Sir, you know that I come from Tirupattur. I know no one here.”
“Then you have to donate.”
I hand over a donor form which I had already filled up and signed.
“No, sir, I can’t. I’m underweight, and I am already weak and don’t have any blood in me.”
“Look, Ramu, if you don’t donate blood, then the operation will be cancelled.”
He tries to slip me a Rs 500 note, “Sir, can’t you buy blood outside, please.”
His approval ratings in my eyes drop drastically.
“Look, all the blood you buy has to withdrawn from a human body, just like yours. If you are not willing to donate blood for your brother, how do you expect someone else to donate for a stranger?”
“Sir, I am willing to pay for it.”
“And God knows what viruses a person who is willing to sell his blood has running in his body, anything from HBV to HIV.”
“No, sir, please wait. I’ll ask someone to come from Tirupattur. Can’t you postpone the operation to day after tomorrow?”
Yeah, and I’m the dean and the entire unit will listen to what I say. If I’m still alive after what the PG does to me.
I go to the theatre and tell him.
“Look, man, I’m telling you again. This case has been planned by the chief himself. If it gets cancelled due to lack of blood, we’ll all be fried like our Saturday night chicken. I don’t care if you have to blackmail or kidnap or threaten the blood bank staff. But get the blood.”
I swear under my breath and go to the blood bank. These countrymen, all big in speech and manner, but cowards when it comes to action. Can’t even donate a measly 1% of his body fluids to help his brother.
I have no choice. It is only 2 ½ months back that I donated blood (Regulation interval – 3 months).
But I fill the donor form anyway.
I am truly spilling my blood for my unit, I think ironically.
I give the form and walk into the donation room. And there, sitting on the couch, with a look of relief and exhaustion on his face, with a little plaster on his left cubital fossa, is Ramu.