When Covid-19 took away our fittest uncle. But his eyes live on.
What happened after testing negative, and how I learnt something important.
Covid-19. First, a scary, but distant news item. Then it’s restrictions start changing how life is lived, and the economic realties all around. Then I hear of some friends’ relatives succumbing. Then it comes closer home. Around Diwali, Delhi police seals our four-storey building.
Our building has one family on each floor. The family above us, and the one below us are infected. All had been careful.
But amongst the two infected families, the fittest man of the building, the seventy four year old Naren uncle ends up in hospital for 12 days, including the Diwali day. Even at the top private hospital, he remains largely fine. He wonders why he is being kept there. He just needs oxygen support. No ventilator, plasma, or any other intense interventions are needed. There are no concurrent complications. His weight is optimal and he has no co-morbidities.
Practical, resourceful and strong-willed, he has single-handedly managed the construction of the lovely four storey building in the last few years. Anyone who has dealt with construction contractors would agree — there should be a Padmashri Award category for this!
It hasn’t been just a house. It has been his chance to keep the joint family together. He knows every inch of it — which pipe goes where — every nut and bolt. A hands-on man, he gets every small and big repair done under his watchful eyes. He never shies away from cleaning a stuck drain with his own hands — even if it is in our home, the only tenants in the building.
So when he successfully defeats Covid-19, and returns home from hospital, no one is surprised. He is the delightful sort of parent in medical matters, unlike most Indian parents. He is neither resistant to doctors and medical tests, nor a nervous hypochondriac. He paces his activities well during recovery — never too hectic, nor lethargic. He remains cautious, along with gradually increasing his walk time within the home.
On his birthday in early December, we break bread together at his home — a lovely home cooked Rajasthani lunch. As always, we have a bit of a teenager-like tease with each other, on politics.
On Christmas morning, at 5:09 am, I hear shifting of furniture directly above my bedroom. That’s unusual. I message his daughter to check in. Her reply comes in~20 min later — “He is no more”. This does not make any sense. What is she talking about?
And just like that, he is gone — one month after successfully recovering from Covid-19. It is a cardiac arrest apparently. But he has no cardiac history. We google afterwards and find that this is a trend globally. It seems that among other side-effects, Covid-19 seems to thicken the blood. Later when we speak to others who have recovered, some of them tell us that their doctors had put them on blood thinners.
What is puzzling is that uncle’s ECG had been checked just the day before. It was normal. Apart from a momentary blackout on the previous day, everything has been normal. Just as precaution, a scan was scheduled for early morning on the Christmas day at 8 am. But destiny has other plans at 5 am.
But his eyes live on
The family is in shock. For some time, I too am disoriented. I run to be with the family and be of whatever help I can, at that hour. Some time later, a thought strikes me. I am faced with an awkward dilemma.
“To Say or Not to Say”, that is the question
“How about eye donation?”, I want to ask the family. But truth be told, the grief around is sober, but overwhelming. It seems insensitive to make that proposition in an atmosphere of shock, deep personal loss and sadness. Our super dynamic uncle ji, is lying there on the mat in the closed garage area, in the cold Delhi winter with a white cloth on him. This is all that is left of him. These are their final moments of togetherness with his physical form. Should I ask them a question that is awkward to refuse, but not everyone may have an enthusiastic yes either? While the family has been good to us, we are tenants after all.
I recollect a few years ago I had broached similarly, and it was declined. I’d felt a bit stupid about myself. But a decade later, reflect again.
I learn an important lesson: In my concern for how they might see me, I am robbing a visually impaired person the opportunity of seeing itself.
I gather the courage and speak to the nephew. I’ve googled the FAQs. I assure him there is no disfigurement in the process. He considers for a moment, and offers to bring it up with the daughter. To my relief, she says yes. As it turns out, Naren uncle had requested organ donation just the previous day, even though he was all fine.
The Practical Implementation — what to do
The logistics are left to me. Truth be told, I am now more nervous. Again, I turn to “Google Baba”. The National Health Portal’s 1919 helpline doesn’t work, at least from my mobile. I call the several hospital numbers thrown up by the search. I call the government hospitals. My hope is that the under-privileged get help. No one picks up.
I find an NGO, OrganIndia.org and call their helpline. Promptly, a helpful volunteer lady takes my call. She explains that the numbers I called are board lines, not the eye banks. She highly recommends the Guru Nanak Eye Bank, at LNJP hospital as being highly responsive and professional.
I feel a wee-bit happy. Without my stating my preference for a government hospital, she has recommended one. Besides, it is a Delhi Government hospital. We hear a lot about the Delhi State Government Healthcare Transformation, including from the likes of former U.N. Secretary Generals Kofi Annan and Ban Ki-moon. But it is even more powerful to hear it from an onground NGO who deals with health authorities in real time.
True to word, in 180 seconds flat, I receive a call on my mobile from a functionary of the Guru Nanak Eye Bank.
What is even more heartening is that the gentleman is out of Delhi, on a personal vacation. Yet he responds pronto and addresses several of my concerns, at that early winter hour.
I learn that for 6 to 8 hours post death, the cornea can be taken. The team from the eye bank will leave within 5 minutes, and come and do the extraction at our place. The process is simple and takes ~15 minutes. Meanwhile, we just need to put a pillow below the neck at 45 degree angle, and keep water soaked cotton on the eyes. And that’s how it unfolds. The team arrives promptly. The team led by a young lady doctor checks medical records, carries out the process courteously. There is no disfigurement.
Naren uncle lives on, his eyes lighting up the darkness in the lives of possibly two people. He lives on in our memories with every act of kindness, and his moonh-phat daleri. A bell would ring at our door, every birthday, every festival, and on every practical hands on problem, like me trying to figure how to configure an Ikea contraption from Singapore.
As shocking as his sudden departure is, perhaps that is how lions go — with their independence and pride intact. And lighting up the lives of others.
PS: Since sharing this, I’ve received heart-wrenching stories of a former IB Chief of India — a gentleman and soldier, who lost his life waiting for a lung transplant. He was just 65. He was not alone. In India, 400,000 people die every year waiting for a transplant and for other the wait for a match can be as long as 18 years. His daughter started Gift-an-Organ along with CII-Young Indians. I’ve also received heart-warming stories from a fellow IIM alum who runs Krishna Netralaya of the sheer joy of witnessing people regain their vision. Further, I’ve just pledged all nine of my usable organs here. You may consider too. So a personal thanks to readers, and to Naren uncle for inspiring action.
