The saga of an infected toe

In Karachi, there are 11 hospitals administered by the federal government, 18 by the Sindh government and 11 by the KMC. There are also 16 private hospitals, which range from six stars to two stars, and a number of hospices, which cater to a less fastidious clientele. Now some people have a predilection for falling into open manholes and acquiring nasty cuts and bruises. Others have a penchant for sneezing over salads at the first sign of winter. I appear to have an inordinate fondness for getting one of my toes infected at least once a year. That’s how I visited the emergency ward of a branch of one of the city’s fashionable hospitals and was ushered into a Stalag, which was under the command of a nurse who was built like a female Japanese wrestler. The other four nurses appeared to be on strike and were cloistered in a small room and no amount of coaxing could get them out of their retreat. There were five male patients, each of whom carried an assortment of cuts, bruises and bandages. We were joined by a young man who looked suitably bored. He apparently also had an infection on one of his toes. We nodded to each other. A bond was immediately established.



My turn came after 30 minutes. The female wrestler took off the bandage with which I had covered the toe and promptly left the room. The metre was ticking. She returned five minutes later with an attractive young woman in a white coat and stethoscope whom I presumed was the doctor on duty. She had the kind of face that would have inspired Siegfried Sassoon to write poetry during the First World War when he endured deplorable conditions in rain-soaked trenches in Belgium. The doctor peered at my toe as if she was examining the Cape Triangular and said, “You have an infection,” and started to scribble on a pad. After that, the Sumo wrestler washed the toe, applied some sort of iodine and a skin ointment. “Come back after two days and show your toe to the surgeon general, who will advise further treatment,” she said in the tart tones of repressed rage. The bill came to 2,300 rupees.

I returned after three days. The Sumo wrestler refused to treat me, unless… now here’s the catch… unless I first saw the skin doctor. “I thought you said I had to see the surgeon-general.” The Sumo wrestler gave me the sort of look that school masters give schoolboys who have been caught smoking in the lavatory. I quietly handed over 1,500 rupees at the counter. The skin doctor reminded me of Bela Lugosi, who used to play Dracula in the black and white era. He asked his assistant to check if there was an infection. The assistant nodded. The metre started to tick again. A prescription was written. I looked at the scribbles in disbelief. “I have just completed a course of antibiotics,” I protested. “And why do you want to change my vitamins? Doctor and assistant exchanged glances and for a moment I thought they would break into an apoplectic fit.

On the way out, I rolled up the prescription and threw it along with the bag of medicines I had been given, into a bin. I then headed for home, washed the wound in boric acid and applied a medicated powder. The moral of this story is, at times, it is wise to use one’s common sense and to stick to what your grandmother taught you. Besides, it’s one helluva lot cheaper.

Published in The Express Tribune, November 10^th, 2013.

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