77) Courage, the English way

I can never forget the cheerful face of the chief nurse at Manipal Heart Foundation; she was English and the blond skin stood out on a rotund body. Sr. Denise was like a school teacher; prim in her inspection and managing her staff. She was in-charge of nurse training and attending to any patient complaints that could range from soiled fabric uniforms or even insipid meals or worse, sisters not giving enough attention.

Sr. Denise handled all this with aplomb thought her Hindi accent was British. In addition she spoke a smattering of Kannada and a picture of authoritarianism that sprang from professionalism and a minute attention to detail.

I was sick and tired of the food and once when I spotted a hair follicle, I lost my composure and rushed to complain. How dare? Are we here to get better or contact new diseases? What sloppiness? The usual litany of complaints of an aggrieved patient

Sr. Denise was summoned as the other nurses failed to quell my outrage and she introduced herself and taking my hands in hers said,” I am sorry and I have checked and your complaint is genuine. I personally assure you that such a thing will not repeat again”.

That calm assurance and the general air of dignity brought me back to my senses.
From that day, whenever my eyes caught this rotund lady of over 50 years I greeted her warmly and she would stop by for compliments.

After my heart surgery when I was still comatose, she kept an eye on my progress. I was in a state not knowing day from night and the aesthetics of the bandages and thread and needles affected me to breaking down completely. I was way past shame of a 30 year old man and cried unabashedly as to how the surgeons had drawn multiple geometric figures on my body.

She came to me and tweaking my cheeks said,” I have seen many people lose heart completely on regaining consciousness but none cried as loudly as you. You bawl like an infant”.

I had recovered enough to enjoy the humour and in her always saw a good friend.

I was to be discharged and presented the doctors, nurses, and Sr. Denise with chocolates and bouquets.

I met her after a month for the follow-up tests in the canteen enjoying her tea. She beckoned me during which this tale came out.

She said, “Sathya, I was a teacher in Liverpool and married to an Indian. My 17 year old son died in a car accident and since then this has been my healing. He died about 8 years back and since then we have shifted base from England and here my husband finds a lot of solace in spirituality and yoga while I am busy with these young girls.

These girls are young and most of them are from Kerala. I head the nursing department and after their finish their three year course, I groom them on patient care and sensitivity. I also allocate nurses to various departments and ensure that in three years time they have an in depth idea of their role and also the hospital”.

As we parted, she kissed me on the cheeks and what she said still rings in my ears a decade later,” Sathya, get well and never come to a hospital”.

I shook her hand and came away with the feeling that Sr. Denise is a rare jewel. In fact such people inspire others to better themselves.