Hospitality, redefined

I must admit that this is a very limited viewpoint, based on my urban-elitist assumption that readers would visit private hospitals and nursing homes. But it’s based on my family members being incarcerated in such hospitals over many years of treatment for various ailments, the most common being slimming. Yes, slimming of my wallet, which has been pretty effective!

You have a complaint, a symptom or a suggestion of uneasiness, with which you visit your doctor. Who remembers the old two-finger test your family doctor used to conduct? Or the hammer and stethoscope? That’s gone, now. Advances in medical science make it imperative to have a litany of diagnostic tests, and a suggestion where to get them done. Once done, the reports arrive on WhatsApp or Email and you might be advised admission to a hospital. Once there, all sorts of modern devices are attached. The old doctor who used to crush a whole lot of pills into a pink liquid with ‘marks’ on the bottle, has now been replaced by ‘The Specialist’. Not one but many. One to monitor parameters, one to handle the ‘procedure’ (a nice new name for operation), an anaesthetist who knocks you out, and a passing stranger who says, “Hello” and bills you for a visit.

The first question you are invariably asked at the admission desk is, “Do you have insurance?” It’s important to find out if it’s cashless or useless. Accordingly, the cost of operations – no pun intended – will vary. You get to choose a bed like you would choose a hotel room, according to your budget. There is a thin line between the hospitality industry and the healthcare industry causing me to create a ‘portmanteau word’ – Hospitel. Some hospital rooms are like hotels – I once had the pleasure of staying in a ‘suite’, though confined to the electronically operated bed with push buttons that gave me delusions of being Mr Bean. The suite itself had a separate ‘living room’ with full-length mirrors, a sofa set, a 48-inch TV and a mini bar, unfortunately empty. The room I was confined to, however, had nothing of the sort and could have been, in contrast, the dying room. Too morbid.

Despite my eligibility, I have always opted for twin sharing. The benefits are obvious. You have a companion on the other side of the curtain whom you can hear, see and occasionally smell – the fouler bed. And then there is sharing in the true sense. One such co-patient hopped off his bed and subjected me to his entire medical history replete with X-rays and ECGs carefully stored in the ubiquitous plastic bag. Unfortunately, I was strapped to my bed, immobile by doctor’s orders, and could hardly nod in agreement till I nodded off to sleep. Another advantage is, in the absence of your own helicopter family, someone else’s family will come and ask, “Are you okay?” as you smile through the IV tubes and plaster casts. Then, of course, the nurses are a double benefit. They sub for each other during tea breaks, just when you need a bedpan.

Nurses. I’ve seen them all. You call them ‘didi’ when they are all of 22 years old or you call them ‘sister’ when they are 65 plus. But, either didi or sister will do especially if you can’t keep up with the personal names due to shift changes. I had the opportunity to ask about these shifts. At one hospital, there are eight-hour shifts during the day and 12-hour shifts during the night – apparently short snoozes are accounted for at night. But the younger sisters shared a secret. They are happy enough working these shifts till they can shift out to a government job – then they never have to worry about work! Meanwhile, they keep their sense of humour by nicknaming patients. I heard names like Potty Dadu, the poor guy with incontinence; like Maa Gaali – she made sure she verbally assaulted everyone. I wonder what my nickname was.

And throughout your stay the nurses – who are not called waiters – will wait on your every need. I’ve often wondered why they need to knock and enter, then proceed to strip you down to your bare necessities without blinking. And if you have trouble with your digestion, there’s the one I named Nurse Emma (N. Emma for short) – rhymes with her one-stop solution to everything. Or is it a one go solution?

We have bouncers in the hotels, hospitals have ward boys. They are there to do the heavy lifting which includes rolling gurneys to and from operating rooms, pushing food trolleys around, rough handling male patients, and yelling instructions at odd hours. The word ‘agile’ does not spring to mind when waiting for your tea or lunch. The dietician had come in earlier and presented a menu card with multiple options, all equally insipid, after all that’s the definition of hospital food. But it keeps you in good shape and gives the ward boys an excuse to throw trays around.

I always wondered why inmates are called ‘patients’ – it starts with the doctor’s chamber where patience is a virtue as you wait interminably, and it continues to the check-out or discharge stage where you’re dressed up with nowhere to go because the paperwork isn’t done. You can check out, but can never leave till the discharge certificate. Very often, paperwork is stuck with the Mediclaim TPA – I always thought that stood for Terrible Personal Attitude, but apparently, it’s Third Party Administrator. It’s their job to uncover the small print to show you that whatever procedure you had is not covered by insurance.

This leaves you staring at the bill while the Matron, the Mother Superior of the Sisterhood, hands you your goody bag, a sort of back-present as you leave. The rates define the hospital as well as what’s in the goody bag. Cloth or plastic, it contains remainders of all you paid for. During Covid, I got a pair of rubber chappals, hand sanitiser, comb, and partly used razor blades in addition to unfinished medicines.

And as you leave, you have a guard of honour. An avenue of hands-out forms outside. Ward boys who couldn’t be found on demand, sweepers, parking guys, security, the tea boy, food delivery, lift man. You get to view all the staff when leaving and can pay for the pleasure.