Choose your friends well

A headline in the newspaper grabbed me recently. "Friends, kin behind 97% kidnaps". The article went on to say that in 32 of the 33 reported kidnap cases in New Delhi last year, the victim knew at least one of their abductors. Relatives and friends were behind the act in almost exclusively, with many of the abductors being first time offenders. So, while you have to take what you get when it comes to family, choose your friends wisely!

Why do they call it a black eye...

...when it's really yellow and orange and red and purple?

This is a vast improvement on the big white bandage. That said "Look at me, I'm injured." This dressing says "Look at me, I'm hard!".

Discharge instructions

So we leave hospital armed with a stitched together boy and a discharge note. The discharge note covers some easy stuff we have to do: have Keir sleep with two pillows to elevate his head to reduce swelling, and some less easy stuff, like preventing the scar from any sun exposure for the next month. It's not too difficult right now because 1) he still has a wound dressing on and 2) there's hardly any sun because it's winter. Prevailing weather conditions in winter in Delhi are fog, low cloud and low temperatures. The sun rarely makes an appearance, and even if it does, it's pretty weak. But true winter lasts about three weeks, and we're about halfway through it. So before the month is up we will need to keep the sun off the scar. The plastic surgeon suggested Keir wore a cap whenever he was outside. As you could imagine, this held little appeal. And we have enough trouble getting Keir to wear a hat during the hot times, when it is really needed. Wearing one now wouldn't be the easiest job. Or, the surgeon said, considering the location of the scar, he could wear sunglasses. This was a much cooler suggestion. Keir approved. I'm fairly sure the school won't be happy with Keir wearing sunglasses while playing sport, so I think we'll alternate between the two.

The discharge note also contained a prescription for the medicines Keir would need. But unlike hospitals in the West, Indian hospitals don't have an on-site pharmacy. We'd have to go to a local chemist to get the medicines. As it was now half past 11, that was going to have to wait until Sunday morning.

Luckily we have five chemists within a three minute walk from our home. The surgeon thought Keir would need antibiotics, painkillers, vitamins and a topical antibiotic cream. I thought if Keir hadn't needed painkillers when we got home last night he wouldn't need them now. We weren't supposed to take off the main dressing until Thursday, so the antibiotic cream wasn't urgent. And if there was ever a child who got all the vitamins he needed from his food, it was Keir. He's always hungry, and loves fruit, vegetables, bread, cheese, yoghurt, food. But the antiboitics were urgent, so down to the market I went. I walked past the first pharmacy, a dusty place with a facade that probably hasn't been changed since India gained independence from the British in 1947. The next pharmacy opened after we moved to Hauz Khas in April, so it's clean and overly brightly lit. However it didn't have the medicine. It did have one whole wall of bulking up powder for body builders, and another wall dedicated to ayurvedic (herbal medicine) products. It didn't have antibiotics.

A bit further down the parade is the next chemist. It's modern (ish), but doesn't believe in increasing its carbon footprint too much. It's a bit dark. Even though it has more medicines than food supplements, it doesn't have the one we need. Right next door is another chemist, probably last updated while Indira Gandhi was alive. But it's closed. So I walk down the next lane. The pharmacy there has a good mix of drugs and the other stuff you'd expect to find in a chemist - nappies, health food, bath products, razors. But our particular medicine was proving elusive...

So back to the pre-Partition pharmacy I went. The man inside had no computer, so he had to look on his shelves to see if he had the right one. After a bit of hunting he found it. Result! He sold me the bottle and home I went.

Keir can't take tablets without a palaver, so I'd asked for a liquid. I'd been sold a powder to which you add water to make the liquid. I'm sure it's exactly the same as the ones in the West, but I've never been expected to mix the medicine myself. That's what the pharmacist spends five plus years training to do. Tonight, Matthew, I'm going to be the pharmacist! Despite my lack of training, I am able to fill the bottle to the mark with boiled water. Hey, it's just like making Pot Noodles! I have now made 30mls of antibiotics. I check Keir's prescription and see he needs to take 10mls twice a day for five days. Even without a degree in Pharmacology I can see the problem here. I've spent an hour plus getting enough medicine to last until tomorrow morning!

Keir fought the floor and the floor won

There was always an element of inevitability about it, but we've now seen the inside of an Indian A&E department. What's most surprising is that it's taken us 17 months to do so.


Indian houses have very hard floors, because they're easier to keep clean. Our floor is marble throughout. And Indian bathrooms don't put much stock in keeping water from the shower area from covering the entire bathroom floor. There's not more than a centimetre drop from the floor to the shower area. Even after lengthening the shower curtains so they would touch the floor, that's not enough to stop water from going everywhere. And marble is slippery when wet. And Keir's a nine year old boy.


Last night from Keir's bathroom there was a loud bang, and an even louder scream. I flew into his bedroom as he ran out of the bathroom and picked him up and carried him to the kitchen table, yelling Rod as I went. When I got to the table I was able to look to see what the damage was. I didn't need to look far. I yelled again: Rod. Blood. Rod says I have a very special "Rod Blood" voice, one that implies don't waste too much time getting to me. We have experience in this area.


Keir had obviously slipped in the bathroom, and used his face as a brake. He had grazed his cheekbone and his nose was swollen, but what really caught our attention was the 5cm (2") gash on his left browbone. Frankly, it was hard to look past it. Out came the first aid kit again. Thalia got towels and warm water. Rod cleaned the wound enough to determine how bad the injury was. On the sliding scale "The Cut on Keir's Foot", this was worse. We didn't go to A&E when Keir dropkicked the wineglass because we thought we were at least as able as an Indian hospital to deal with the injury. In hindsight, we should have gone for stitches. This time it was an easier call to make. Hospital, here we come!


Raju had already finished for the day, but Rod called him at home. The words "Keir, blood, hospital" worked slightly slower on Raju than on Rod, but he dropped his dinner and jumped on his motorbike and was with us in twenty minutes. The fact that he lives half an hour away means that he might have been a bit slow on the uptake but now he was making up for it. We used this time to temporarily bandage Keir's head, using gauze pads and the crepe bandage last put into action on his foot. We also collected passports, water bottles, biscuits, a quilt, anything we might need. Didn't know what the state of the hospital would be...


We all bundled into the car and set off for Max Hospital in Saket. Max Hospital is a couple of miles away, much much closer than Raju's home. However, it takes us half an hour to get there. It's a big, modern, Western style hospital. We rushed through the A&E doors and were pointed straight to a bed in the triage area. The first doctor wanted to know which hospital we had been to to get Keir's head bandaged. He looked at the wound and got another doctor. He looked at the wound and got another doctor. The third doctor said the A&E staff were able to stitch the wound, but it would be better if a plastic surgeon did it. We agreed...


So Keir was given some painkillers and we waited. And waited. The plastic surgeon arrived. Keir needed twenty surface stitches and five or so internal ones. Rod didn't count them. He said it was a bit gory. I just held Keir's hands and made sure I couldn't see! The plastic surgeon would make a good quilter, because his stitches were beautiful. Rod commented they were 12 to the inch!


My little soldier, the morning after. Pretty sure no one's going to notice his new haircut when he goes back to school tomorrow!