Till the Last Breath . . . Read Online Free PDF Page A

an expertdoctor in Mumbai,’ he said. She felt sorry for the doctor, too. Why should he be a part of the gloom that was about to engulf her family?
    ‘I know what I have, doctor,’ she said, her head hung low.
    ‘Excuse me?’
    ‘I am a medical student. First year, Maulana Azad. I did the tests myself.’
    ‘What tests?’ The shock on the doctor’s face snowballed into concern and pity.
    ‘I have ALS. I know there is no genetic history. I know there is no cure. I know that I am slowly dying. I could be gone this year or the next. But I will die eventually. I have read all there is to read about the disease. I know what’s going to happen. I will not be able to eat on my own, go to the bathroom or even breathe. You will cut a pipe into my throat to help me breathe or I might choke on my own saliva,’ she explained. She hadn’t discussed her painful future with Venugopal for she didn’t have the strength to. It looked like it could never happen to her. As she finally described her own death to the doctor, she came to terms with it. The news finally sank in. In that moment, all her dreams, her aspirations, her visions of herself as a doctor melted away and the morose faces of her parents stared back at her. Her eyes glazed over and she resolved to not weep.
There is some mistake! This shouldn’t happen to me. I have done nothing to deserve this. I am perfectly healthy!
Her heart cried out loud.
    ‘There are treatments—’
    ‘Riluzole, diazepam, amitriptyline. They will give me a few months more. A few days more of breathing on my own. I have read all about it.’
    She tried not to cry. The doctor didn’t want to give her any false hope. She had to be ready for what was coming next.
    ALS is a cruel disease. It starts with the patient becoming clumsy. You drop things, get tired easily, and the sensations in your limbs keep getting dimmer till paralysis sets in. After that, you’re at your helpers’ mercy. You can’t eat because your tongue and your jaw muscles will be too weak to chew the food. You can’t talk fast or for too long because your mouth will become tired after the first minute or so. You will be on crutches … before the wheelchair comes in. Soon, even that will be a problem because you won’t have the forearm strength to roll the chair. You will be paralysed and bedridden. Therewill be tubes running in and out of your body to help you eat, breathe and defecate. Machines will keep you alive. It’s a sorry way to die.
    ‘I am sorry,’ he said. ‘I wish I could do something. I can give you some books you can read about people who have fought the disease. They didn’t win, but they died happy. You can’t lose to the disease.’
    ‘I would just wish for you to tell my parents. I don’t have the courage,’ she said and the tears came again. She tried to stifle her sobs the best she could. Never had she thought her parents would outlive her. What greater misfortune can there be for a parent?
    ‘You’re the most courageous patient I have seen in the longest time,’ he said and added with a pause, ‘I have a daughter. She is seven.’
    ‘Does she want to be a doctor too?’
    ‘Yes. You remind me of her,’ the doctor said, looked down at the reports in his hands and closed his eyes. Pihu wondered if he was praying for them to be wrong. She wondered how many death sentences the forty-year-old man had given before hers. The watery eyes of the doctor told her that he was still not used to it.
    ‘Let’s tell my parents?’ Pihu said, and clutched the doctor’s hand and slipped in some Éclairs. ‘Give this to your daughter from my side.’
    ‘Sure,’ he nodded and took a deep breath.
    Pihu took one too. The wails of her mother and silent groans of her father already resonated in her head and she felt dizzy. They entered the doctor’s chambers. Her parents’ eyes met hers and she knew they could see the horror. Their faces fell as if they knew what the middle-aged doctor was about to