Aman

Life's short. And everytime we lose someone we reiterate this fact to ourselves. I am not sure about how short it is...I don't have an opinion on how short is short, but I have come to learn a lot of other things about life.
I met Aman in May 2007, when I first joined MHS as a psychologist. Aman was 18, full of life, wise cracks and armed with a winning smile. He was admitted to the Neuro-Trauma ward on the eleventh floor after complaints of seizures, difficulty in concentrating, reading and severe headaches. I was on my usual rounds, it was a sultry Thursday (as sultry as Bangalore gets anyway) and I was itching to get done with work as I had plans with Navin and a couple of friends that evening. Aman's cheerful face and apparent lack of concern about his being there caught my attention, because it stood out. In the midst of pain, there was joy. No, not joy. But peace.
I casually chatted with him while the doctors were going through his medical records. He told me that he was a PUC student (thats HSC for us Mumbaikars), studying science, fond of computers and wanting to do something in animation. He said he couldnt concentrate, his head hurt. He had time-lapses when he did not know what was happening. Blackouts, he called them. Then with a smile of a naive four-year-old, he asked me to steal the medical records form the doctors and give them to him so he would finally know what his diagnosis was. Even at that point, not knowing what was wrong with him, I felt for him very deeply. Not very psychologist-like, I agree. But my empathy was what took me down. I have been for miniscule medical work ups, blood tests and eye tests and incessantly worried about the reports. To be kept in the dark about one's own medical condition, in my opinion is nothing short of denying the person a chance to grasp his position and come to terms with it. I told him I'd do what I could.
Once the doctors left, I was handed his file by the attendants. The prescribed CT scans and MRIs seemed to indicate that the provisional diagnosis was glioblastoma multiforme. To put it simply, a malignant tumor in the brain. I could recall the "rock-in-the-stomach" feeling that would come with having to communicate an HIV positive diagnosis to an unsuspecting testee, where I was working before in Mumbai...
By the time I could get back to Aman, he had been taken for some routine tests. Neuro surgery was scheduled for the following monday.
I couldn't make it to work on friday as it was pouring with rain (Yes, Bangalore is weird that way). Saturday was half day in the wards and with a lot of out patients I couldn't go visit. When I went on monday, Aman's bed was empty. He had been taken for his surgery. The nurses in the ward spoke fondly of him, as they would of a cheeky-but-sweet younger sibling.
When he came back from surgery, he was a different person. I for the first time witnessed the personality-changing aspect of neuro surgery. It was scary and I prayed (rather selfishly) that noone I knew would ever have to undergo this. Aman couldn't recognise people, was incapable of producing or comprehending any level of speech or even gestures. For four whole days, his caregivers had to second-guess his needs and play by the ear, as it were.Occasionally his eyes would well up with myriad unexpressed emotions. On the fifth day he was able to communicate by holding up fingers. After that I couldn't visit him until the following friday which was my birthday. And also my last day at work.
Aman, who always addressed me as Ramya, unlike any other patient before (or after him) gave me a small bouquet and a 'thankyou' card. I have no idea how he knew. But looking at the trouble he had gone to, to procure them (which involved the terms bribing and wardboys), I accepted. With grace. I asked him how he felt. He told me matter of factly that the tumor was grade V and surgery had failed. "Three months" He looked right into my eyes as he pronounced his death sentence. He smiled sadly and said that he didn't want to die yet. He had never even had a chance to ride a bike, he told me. When I left that day, I knew I'd never come back. I was to leave for Mumbai the following week. And then for UK. For three months. For some of us, that's a vacation. And for some, it's a lifetime, it's all that they have.
Its been 9 months since then. I don't know how his story ended. Or whether, miraculously, he is still around. But I like to think he is happy where he is. Ironically Aman means peace. I hope his name lived upto him, didn't let him down and he really is at peace somewhere.