Bones are brittle and weak, but I have promises to keep
Osteoporosis be damned. I live a full life, in the midst of broken bones, injections, medication and physiotherapy
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“The ‘Z’ and ‘T’ scores of the spine do not matter. You are the only one with a spine in this office. Prove me wrong,” challenged my boss, Ms Joshi, when I informed her of my diagnosis. Half-way into my thirties, I was pronounced severely osteoporotic. Osteoporosis is a debilitating health issue making bones weak and brittle.
My doctor’s grave countenance said it all: “Be very careful. You have preempted an immediate collapse. But even mild bodily stress can cause a fracture.” The calcium, Vitamin D, regular exercise gyan drowned in my overwhelming emotions. Visualising a constricted lifestyle was heartbreaking for someone brimming with life.
My mind went into an overdrive. After much processing, it answered the standard “Why me?” question by “Why not me? Why should life only deal ‘aces’ for anyone?” I still persisted, “Is it the end of the road for someone who has miles to go? Will travel and dance be my biggest casualties?” The mind responded, “Tough cookies do not crumble. Chin up, lady! It is a call to slow down, take stock of health and life in general.”
My active tear glands helped. Finally, I made peace with myself.
My tryst with broken bones is legendary. I remember twisting my right foot as I flaunted my new shoes at my friend Anita’s place. The ankle quickly swelled out of the classy heels. I drove my scooter back home, Dad huddled me into the car and a plaster replaced the heels. Four weeks of rest, hobbling around on crutches and physiotherapy got me going. Or, so I thought. Anita’s house, it was, again. Whether my scooter fell on me or I fell off it is still a mystery. What is imprinted on the mind is my father’s horrified expression! Since I managed a second fall before full recovery, plaster was ruled out.
My legal practice started on a fractured note with a special shoe supporting my broken toe. ‘Calamity Jane’ has always been my middle name. I take a fall here and a broken bone there literally in my stride. Fortunately, ‘Determination’ is my first name.
Osteoporosis be damned. I live a full life, in the midst of broken bones, injections, medication and physiotherapy. Before the ‘Fragile, handle with care’ crown settled firmly on my head, I was trapped in a bomb blast in a Delhi market. I walked out of the debris, shaken but not shattered. In lesser dramatic moments, I fractured my wrist, little finger of the right hand, ankle, toes, ribs — the works. Tennis elbow, Piriformis syndrome, Plantar fasciitis and, currently, my right shoulder that feels like a boulder, have kept me on terra firma.
Sesame seeds, sunlight, spinach, salmon, soy milk, high spirits (not what you think!), swag, ‘Surya Namaskar’ and a big smile are my secret weapons. Gyan over.
Memories of my first official tour to the United States bring a warm smile. It was in 2008, some months after my diagnosis. Doctor’s prescription, reports and medicines in hand, I boarded my first wheelchair at IGIA, New Delhi. Eyes closed, I pretended to hide from the world while being wheeled around. Barring a few “poor thing” and some snide remarks, I realised that nobody cared. So, chill. I dozed off but woke up to “OMG! What are you doing on a wheelchair?” by a former boss. My sob story heard, he breezed out. Fifteen years younger, yours truly was wheeled out by the airlines staff. Ouch! That hurt.
Let me confess. I quickly acknowledged the perks of a wheelchair. No queues. All international travel formalities taken care of by the attendant. At Heathrow airport, London, I could have missed the connecting flight to Los Angeles but for the tough Bosnian wheelchair attendant. Her pointed query — “Who’s the patient?” — and my answer — “I am the patient” — was brushed aside despite my documents. She insisted: “You don’t look like one.” Portly me, smile intact, settled in the wheelchair with a huge handbag, ignored all comments and enjoyed the sights, sounds and smells of Heathrow, praying for all to go well. Another lesson: to be eligible for the wheelchair, not only should you be a patient, but also look like one!
I live by ‘When the going gets tough, the tough get going’ dictum. At times, I have attended office with a plastered right hand. I could neither write, nor type or sign. Voila! My left hand got its rightful place. I have often travelled for work with a cast on, and sometimes acquired a splint during travel. Many family pictures show me flaunting a plaster. Having travelled across India and most continents, I rate 2024 as my most adventurous.
Our gang of three girls descended on Barcelona in Spain. Two blissful days and then the ‘oops moment’ at Sitges, known for its beaches. I missed a step and my pedicured right foot with turquoise nail polish swelled up. My two doctor friends quickly organised ice for me and beer for themselves.
A couple of days later, seat hopping on a ‘Hop on, Hop off’ bus in Madrid, I again tripped. Some people never learn. How much cheese, tiramisu and shopping was needed to overcome my misery! But living by my favourite movie, ‘Zindagi Na Milegi Dobara’, I also stopped by in Italy. Crepe bandage and walking stick in place, I limped through Europe, mumbling, “Aaj kal paon zameen par nahin padte mere.”
I cannot close without singing paeans of praise for my regular hangout: the physiotherapy centre of my ‘favourite’ hospital and the doctors who treat me as their own. Interns may come and go, I am permanently positioned. Each time I walk in sheepishly, I am welcomed with — “Don’t worry, ma’am. Hum hain na.” Most patients mistake me for a physiotherapist as I confidently discuss wax bath, laser, ultrasonic rays. Encouraged, I considered a course in physiotherapy but remembering that science was always my Achilles’ heel, the idea was shelved.
As I contemplate a visit to Antarctica, I fondly remember my friend Neerja. Her love for me overflowed on one of my early plasters: “Laaton ke bhoot baaton se nahin mante!”
— The writer is a retired civil servant and a practising advocate
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