The Call

Bed number 808, a seventy-five years old gentleman, was conscious but could not speak. One 

of the numerous tubes that entered his body was an endotracheal tube. One end of which 

entered his mouth and throat and the other end to a ventilator. A silvery hiss pumping life-

giving air in his lungs. Everything in the ICU has a silvery gleam. Even our hushed tones 

discussing our patients and their management, the beeps in different notes and rhythm from 

the machines connected to the ten patients in this ward, all the sounds had an abnormal 

metallic sheen. Perhaps in tune with the abnormal times. A virus has brought the human race 

to its knees like never before, its contagion matched only by its capacity to kill. Outside the 

8th floor ICU, the city waited with bated breath, in an apocalyptic anticipation. A metallic 

brown cloud cover hung low over the desolate city.

Days ago, patient 808 had gestured a request to me while I was on duty: a small whiteboard 

and a black marker pen. Each day, he would scribble away scores of requests, demands and 

an occasional advice. We, our team of nurses and resident doctors tried to humour him as 

best as we could. Sometimes we had to refuse him, like the day he wanted coffee. He had 

been on intravenous fluids for the tenth day then and was not allowed any food. Today, he 

could barely write legibly. His parameters were declining steadily since the last couple of

days inspite of the best of our efforts. Seeing his emaciated frame, it was impossible to 

believe that he had been a state-level athlete half a century ago.

Today couldn’t have started worse. Like every day in duty, my fellow warriors, doctors and 

nurses had donned our protective wear in sombre silence. A jovial “good morning” was 

make-believe, an occasional joke, a cruel attempt at hiding the fact that we all were scared. 

Very scared. We are scared every day. Scared of losing another patient, scared of getting 

infected. Scared of death. Our death. We had held hands, said “take care” and started off in 

our respective duties. And then, within one hour of starting today’s shift, patient 802, a frail 

lady of sixty-seven, died suddenly. All our efforts to revive her were in vain. That bitter taste 

of defeat would linger in our senses for the whole day.

By noon, the ward had regained some semblance of normalcy, when the beeps from 808 

became abnormal, perhaps heralding turbulence. As I rushed by his bedside, he seemed to be 

visibly agitated. I checked all his parameters, made the necessary corrections in the ventilator 

inputs, but, he did not improve. An urgent SOS to my senior brought him within minutes, but 

even he could not make patient 808 comfortable. It was evident that he was sinking

gradually. Both of us doctors and our nurses labored for the best part of next hour to pull him 

up, but the uphill gradient seemed to be increasing with every passing minute. 

At three, he made a vague gesture of writing. Our seniormost nurse, Maya, who understood 

him the best, passed him his whiteboard and his pen. With much effort, he scribbled “talk … 

family” and looked at me imploringly. A chill ran down my spine. Giving my phone to him 

was the surest way of getting myself infected. 

By late afternoon, patient 808 had deteriorated. He was still conscious, but seemed to be 

drifting in and out of sleep. Inspite of all our efforts, his ventilator requirements had increased significantly. Whenever he opened his eyes, they were full of pain. And a listless, imploring

urgency.

I could resist myself no longer. I would risk being a coward in my eyes forever if I did not act 

now. I consulted his file to check who his next of kin were. Throwing all caution to the 

winds, I shook him up from his slumber. Thankfully, he was lucid enough to recognize me. 

“Do you want to talk to your daughter?”

He nodded, his eyes brimming with tears.

I dialed the number given in the file. Moments later, the video call went through.

The lady on the other side choked with emotion. Both father and daughter looked at each 

other silently for a long time, tears running down their cheeks. Then, his frail hand trembled 

up, carrying the small whiteboard with all his might. He lifted it until it was fully visible on 

the screen. The scribble was barely legible- “I love you, dear.”

For a long time after, none of us on duty that evening could speak. The machines all around 

us beeped away in their own pace, unaware of the emotional drama that had unfolded in the 

ICU ward. Meanwhile, patient 808 had fallen into a deep slumber. For the first time since 

noon, he was not restless. 

By midnight, he had a cardiac arrest from which he could not be recovered. When it was all 

over, as I removed the tube from his windpipe, there was no remnant of pain on his face. 

There was peace instead. Even a small speck of a smile was probably visible beside his right 

lip. Or was it just my imagination?

The Alienist,

22.06.2020

Image courtesy: Google Images