Life of Doctors – Patients, Medicine and Beyond…

Dr Suresh Venkita, our Group Medical Director, a senior cardiologist and an avid writer, has yet again shared this lovely story from his desk.

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GO

The strangest thing about this strange journey is that it began with a word.

The Word

This journey is the story of my life. I have been writing it down in my diary.

“In the beginning was the Word”- the Bible said. In the journey of my life, a “word’’ had indeed made its appearance at the very beginning.

That word was “Go!”

The word came from somewhere deep within my mind. It was the first word that I came across in my life.

My journey began from a dark place where I was alone and floating in a fluid. Then I began to feel, for the first time, distinct contractions of my world, at regular intervals. Soon they became more frequent, longer, and stronger.

That was when I heard that command deep within my brain, a firm and compelling “Go.”

I obeyed. Wet and slippery, I negotiated a warm, dark, and contracting passage and emerged into an unfamiliar space. I was born!

As I grew up, I rarely spoke. I ignored the conversations.

I rarely looked directly at a person, but I was aware of the world around me.

I did not relate to the people around me. Whether they were there or not did not matter.

As time passed I became dimly aware that I am being called autistic. I never understood what that meant.

I sat in a room with other boys with who I did not interact. It was called the school.

A man wrote and drew figures on a board; I liked the numbers. They danced in my mind and aligned themselves into interesting and beautiful patterns.

I liked walking, running, swimming, and climbing; I liked doing them all day, faster and faster.

What defines me? And what limits me? I wanted to find out; that thought was with me all the time.

‘’Go!” was the starter gun to my race to find the answers to those questions.

The World

The world into which I arrived was a village tucked away amidst the paddy fields of Kerala in south India. Ponds and lakes were all over the place. There were also streams, canals, and backwaters that drained into the sea. As the water was everywhere, I learned swimming very early in life. I mastered swimming across the ponds, lakes, and the river. Nothing was as satisfying as diving into the water, swimming submerged, and popping up like a cork from a bottle at the other end.

So, that was the first challenge to me from the bullies at school who invited me to race them to the other side of the river.

The river was in torrents, swollen from the incessant monsoon rains. It looked muddy and mean. It had whirlpools and nasty undercurrents. It had fish that bit you and bobbing logs that could hit and knock you unconscious.

Eight of us boys stood ready to dive.

I heard in my brain the shot from the starter pistol, “Go!”

I dived and made it to the other side mostly submerged, bobbed up, took a deep breath, and swam straight back, also submerged. When I popped up at the start line and walked out of the water, the onlookers were silent; I was not challenged again for quite a while after that.

I was like a fish in that water. I knew where I was going and how fast I needed to go. I was happier, submerged. It was a different world underwater.

Other village contests also tested my mettle.

One was to scramble up the coconut trees as fast as you can. They were very tall and often not straight; in their search for sunlight, they could get a crooked spine. Falling off them guaranteed a fracture of the legs or back or a head injury. Every village had a few men crippled by a fall.

Once I heard the “Go!” in my head, it was easy to scramble up the tree wrapping my hands and feet around the trunk. I was not afraid; I was comfortable with heights and happy shinnying up the tree like a squirrel.

The next challenge posed by my bullies was a race climbing a palm tree. The betelnut palms were incredibly tall and slender and swayed dizzyingly with the wind.When I heard “Go” in my mind I was like a Macaque monkey who could cling to the tree, swiftly make it to the top, and swing deftly onto the next tree, like a new age Tarzan.

For quite a while, that was my world. I did not know that a different one existed beyond the edge of the village.

When I eventually stepped out of that world, I got sucked into the whirl of a sand storm.

The Whirl

Some years later, it was time to leave my water- world, and head for distant shores to test my limits.

I chose the Sahara Desert run, the toughest race on Earth.

First held in 1986 with 23 pioneering runners, it had grown into a major endurance event called the Marathon des Sables that covered almost 220 kilometers, held each year in southern Moroccan Sahara.

It required competitors to complete the race over six stages, in extreme heat that can reach 50 degrees Centigrade.

They would provide water, and a shelter to rest. But I would have to carry all my equipment, food, and first-aid kit on my back. I would have to brave the freezing nights in the Sahara, as well as the sweltering daytime temperatures.

It was a test for my body and mind.

One thousand twenty-four competitors, hailing from fifty countries, took part. I deemed it as a competition against myself.

Once my brain signaled “Go!” I ran for seven days under the scorching sun of the Sahara Desert, over shifting dunes and rocky plateaus.

The grueling adventure challenged us — the oldest among us was aged 76 — to test our bodies and minds as we encountered whipping sandstorms and blazing temperatures in our journey across the desert.

It was an opportunity to break with everyday life and feel a sense of timelessness. There was a spiritual dimension, a quest for answers to what are, at times, very personal questions.

The desert magnified my soul. I saw spectacular views and stunning landscapes. But I also developed sore muscles, blisters on the feet and moments of agonizing despair as I battled with weariness and dehydration in the baking heat.

I chose to live on what the Bedouins eat- 3 dates a day and camel milk. I ran alone; I did not get lost in the vast desert; my inner compass had a “dead reckoning” built-in.

I thought that would be the toughest race I would ever attempt. I was wrong.

The Vortex

Why would anyone want to climb Mount Everest? Because it is there!

At 29,029 feet, Everest is the world’s tallest mountain. It straddles Nepal and Tibet.

I prepared for a year to train for the summit.

From Kathmandu, I took a short flight to Lukla from where the trek would start. I had to wait for the route to Everest’s summit to open. May was the start of the short summit season, which lasts just a few weeks, between the winter and the region’s summer monsoons. I also decided to take the southeast ridge route from Nepal, the one taken by Edmund Hillary and Tenzing Norgay, who climbed in 1953.

Was I afraid of death? The thought never struck me. Nearly 300 people are known to have died on Everest. Most of them, perhaps 200, remain there.

Climbers mostly die from exposure to the elements — the subfreezing temperatures and the high altitude, especially after running out of oxygen and getting caught in sudden storms. But some climbers die from falls and avalanches, and others from health problems like heart attacks. The riskiest zone is the area above 26,000 feet, from Camp 4 to the summit, called the “death zone,” because of its thin air and brutal weather.

The ascent via the southeast ridge began with a trek to the base camp at 17,700 ft on the south side of Everest, which took eight days, giving me time to gain acclimatization to prevent altitude sickness. Yaks and porters helped us to carry climbing equipment and supplies to the base camp on the Khumbu Glacier.

I spent a couple of weeks in the base camp, further acclimatizing to the altitude. During that time, sherpas and some climbers set up ropes and ladders in the treacherous Khumbu Icefall, which makes that one of the most dangerous sections of the route. Many have died there. To reduce the hazard, I began the ascent well before dawn, when the freezing temperatures glue ice blocks in place.

From the base camp, I made my way up the Western Cwm to the base of the Lhotse face where Camp II or Advanced Base Camp was at 21,300 ft. On the way I passed a small passage known as the “Nuptse corner” and the “Valley of Silence” From Advanced Base Camp, I ascended the Lhotse face on ropes, up to Camp III, located on a small ledge at 24,500 ft. From there, it was another 500 meters to Camp IV on the South Col at 26,000 ft.

From Camp III to Camp IV, I faced two additional challenges: the Geneva Spur and the Yellow Band.

Fixed ropes assisted me in scrambling over this snow-covered rock band.

On the South Col, I entered the death zone. I endured three days at this altitude. I waited for favorable weather and winds in deciding when or whether to make a summit attempt.

From Camp IV, I began my summit push around midnight, with hopes of reaching the summit, another 3000 ft.above, within 10 to 12 hours. I first reached the ” Balcony” at 27,600 ft., a small platform where I could rest. Continuing up the ridge, I then faced a series of imposing rock steps in waist-deep snow, a serious avalanche hazard. At 28,700 ft, a small table-sized dome of ice and snow marked the South Summit.

From the South Summit, I followed the knife-edge southeast ridge along what is known as the “Cornice Traverse” This was the most exposed section of the climb, and a misstep to the left would send one falling 7900ft. At the end of this traverse stood an imposing rock wall, the Hillary Step, at 28,840 ft.

Hillary and Tenzing were the first climbers to ascend this step, and they did so using primitive ice climbing equipment and ropes. I could ascend this step using fixed ropes previously set up by Sherpas.

Once above the step, it was a comparatively easy climb to the top.

I was there; I had reached my “Vertical Limit.” I felt no emotions; I felt cold and inscrutable as the mountain.

The Void

It was time to leave.

I heard the command “Go” deep within my mind. That was the last time I heard the “ Word.”

Climbers spend less than half an hour at the summit to allow time to descend to Camp IV before darkness sets in, to avoid serious problems with afternoon weather, and also because supplemental oxygen tanks run out.

I ignored that command from my brain that had driven me from the moment of my birth up to this moment.

I had no intention to descend.

I was the last climber to summit that day.

I liked the void, the total emptiness, and the utter loneliness, up here.

As my oxygen ran out, as the afternoon weather and evening darkness closed in, as winds became icy and as snow began to fall, I closed my diary, put my pen away, and sat back to enjoy my own company.

I had found the answers to the questions that occupied my mind all these years.

I was happy.