In the midst of a rough week, counting down the days until I can breathe again, Wednesday reared its ugly head, fangs bared. In the middle of a particularly unsightly procedure, yet another call from the General Surgery OPD breaks me out of my almost zombie-like reverie. Run, they say. Don’t walk. An empty OPD, nurses laughing through their lunch, and a lone elderly man in the waiting room, staring at something on the tiles before him. My patient? I signal to the nurses. A nod.

As I undrape his previous dressing to do my own, I try to fill in the monotony with conversation. Make the man in front of me feel at ease. Patient care, they call it. Basic humanity, I say.

As I learn more about him, a side of me that I had buried for the past 3 weeks opens its tired eyes. The patient in question is a 70 year old male, ulcers on both his calves, cause yet unknown. As I proceed to clean the wounds and dress his feet, he tells me he is unemployed, that his sons are drivers and plumbers, and that his daughters don’t work. When I ask why, he shrugs. Daughters, he says. I don’t push it. After I lead him out, he folds his hands and requests me to admit him in the free ward. I look at him quizzically, and he explains.

He explains that he lives in a village that is much too far to travel to and fro for alternate day dressings. I ask him how far it is, and he explains the distance to me in terms of how much it costs to travel to the hospital. A catch in my breath, and then I assure him.

He folds his hands again. He says he is grateful he will now be able to eat 3 good meals a day in a comfortable bed. I smile at him, and my phone rings again. It’s the clinic. Run, they say. Don’t walk.