Miraculous Ward 55:

The poor man’s refuge of health

Premil Ratnayake

The small ghetto-like, tucked away, discarded branch of the big, elegant monolithic national hospital is like a segregated medical unit, like a poor relative at a rich man’s wedding. I escaped death last week because I was rushed there to the inelegant, poor man’s hut of cure, direct from Lake House in a stupor, unconscious, following a devastating stroke, carried like a corpse by my dear, loving Daily News colleagues led by Nakka (Wijitha Nakkawita), young, enterprising writer Sachithra Mahendra and Kapila.

Young girl journalist at the desk were screaming, they probably thought that I was dead. My Editor, the affable, world-wise Jayatillake de Silva was aghast, he offered me his personal car.

Had I been conveyed in a luxury air-conditioned ambulance to the great health institution in the affluent quarter of Colombo, this piece would never have been written.

In the Daily News I had just finished writing an appreciation of Henry Jayasena my affectionate friend. Perhaps I was emotionally overtaken. I was grief stricken. Minutes later I collapsed in the middle of the News Desk.

They used to call it the Pin Ispirithalaya, derogatory, even with a sense of concealed upper class amusement, arrogance, alluding that only the riff raff sought medical treatment at the so-called Government Hospital. It was the Godaya’s Veda Gedera. For years, may be since white colonial times it had remained an obscure, Veda Beheth Sappuwa, catering to the Piditha Panthiya, almost hidden away from the snobbish prying eyes of the city Hamus, unelevated to an adequate place of healing, either because of lack of State funds or bureaucratic lethargy.

Yet they had the State arrogance of calling it the National Hospital.

Silent work

Believe it or not, even some medical interns at the neglected Ward 55 were vaguely unaware of the pseudo metamorphosis from Government Hospital to National Hospital.

But all this is irrelevant to the mission of this writing. This is an expose, a stunning revelation of the great missionary work of a team of zealous young doctors performing at the virtually orphaned Ward 55. Their silent work of which even Aesculapius (God of Medicine) would have been proud of, continues unacclaimed, unrecognized - no hosannas for the poor creatures - with niggardly emoluments around Rs. 20,000 a month (a cashier at a Super Market earns Rs. 40,000 a month, a three-wheeler driver makes more).

Our great city of Colombo, rushing towards sophistication and fast development has a plethora of Hollywood style, sky-scraping, big, massive private hospitals, conceitedly and snobbishly referred to as Nursing Homes (a misnomer I should venture to suggest, for, the reference is to places where pregnant mothers are confined). They are the preserve of the new rich, spawned by the open market economy. Millions are spent in these places of modern medical hospitals even to cure a common cold. The rich patrons are not happy unless they are billed at last a few lakhs of rupees for any ailment.

I was taken to Ward 55 with no questions asked. Only Nakka wrote my name on a piece of paper. No queries about my profession. There was no necessity. You a journalist? A writer from the Media? No such questions. To the unobtrusive, uncurious, simple people at Ward 55 the job was to take the ailing man in and attend to him expeditiously.

They did just that. Before I could regain consciousness I was made comfortable. Everything went into action with precision. All medical paraphernalia surrounded me. I felt like a Prince in a Royal Chamber of Medical hospitality. There were no hurried medical consultations. No debates. It was if they had anticipated the coming of a sick, poor simple journalist and they were ready.

Their medical attention gave me no pain. I was buoyant and ready to sit up. But Dr. Sumudhu Hewage, the young, tender, intern with a Mother Theresa benevolence, restrained me, “Not so fast Seeya-may be tomorrow.” It was the first time I had been called “Seeya” by a doctor; I was thrilled. Thereafter we became friends. I was administered more drugs, punched with a million of injections, put through medical tests, than I could remember. I was aware they were costly, but the unrich Ward 55 did not charge me a cent.

When I was in pain I did not have to shout out for help. They were all there, sensing my discomfort. Dr. Rajini (rhymes with Rajina Mamai Ape Raaje) Srikantha, talking to me in the soft bed manners of an angel took my pressure and assured me everything was okay, even when everything was not okay. She is a Tamil from Jaffna, but she spoke Sinhala so fluently. I could not guess she was a Tamil. Her English was eloquent. Neither of us cared for the ethnic division. There was no need. I realized then the great camaraderie of just being Sri Lankan.

Young doctor

Dr. Prabath Kumarasinghe, the odd male out of the trio of my great healers, the young all Royalist who reminded me of a Hindi movie star, was 24-hour busy, but found time to talk to me while he examined me. We cracked jokes. One night he was awakened around 3 a.m. because a patient was dying. Prabath in his nightgown rushed down. The man presumably in his sixties lay motionless. The young doctor gave mouth-to-mouth life resuscitation. Breathlessly he pounded his heart vigorously. It was hopeless. Prabath was tired and distressed. The man died.

The young man, dejected, left to his quarters. It may have been a vain effort. But it demonstrated to me in pathos - a dedicated doctors devotion to save a man from death. It was a great humane effort. Later Dr. Prabath Kumarasinghe spoke to me about life, not only death. He was pragmatic. He had no illusions. He was only 28 years old, but spoke in a tone of adult maturity.

“You are old but young. If you quit smoking and drinking, you can add 16 more years to your 76,” I laughed cynically.

I used to watch the trio, Prabath, Sumudhu and Rajini working diligently. After the normal routine attendance on the ward patients P and S sat at a not so comfortable chair for medical counselling. Dozens of men and women sat on benches and took their turns, patients went before them to unleash their personal grievances. Often they included not only their medical problems but their personal tribulations too. S and P were great listeners. They attended to them methodically and professionally.

Medical tribe

I had not seen such medical, devotional, divine, concern for people among the medical tribe before. Perhaps I am naive. I had seen highly qualified doctors, some with wide reputations, pocket their consultation fees, prescribe some routine prescriptions and drive away in their fat limousines. It was “clinical detachment.”

To me Ward 55 was ‘Satori’ the Japanese term for Sudden Awakening. If I were to be traumatized by my sick heart again I would certainly invade my poor hut Ward 55 where I am certain my friends Sumudhu, Prabath and Rajini would be waiting for me with open arms. If I am going to die I would cherish to die in their arms!