There's a Cat in N2 Ward

During the first decade of the century, I had the honor of learning the fine art & science of neurosurgery at CMC Vellore, India.

Excellence in patient care and surgical skills were ingrained in every cell of our beings through everyday experiences.

But there was a dark side that hovered over our lives: a work culture steeped in tyranny and oppression. And healthy doses were handed out from the powers that be, as if blessings from above.

While we became exceptional clinicians and surgeons, we were forced to mold our souls to survive the toxic work environment.

Each of us adjusted in their own way. As for me, I became a PAS chimera.

“What is a PAS chimera?” you might wonder.

Well, PAS stands for pachyderm-automaton-slave (all three terms are self-explanatory). A chimera is a creature with body parts of different animals fused to create a monstrosity.

If you’re versed in mythology, you may be familiar with Griffin (half eagle, half lion), or Minotaur (half bull, half man), or the fire-breathing monster with the head and body of a lion, the head of a goat arising from its back, and the tail of a serpent — the original chimera.

Even though I (my soul, rather) had transformed from a human being to a PAS chimera, I was aware that there was light at the end of the tunnel. One day I would become a neurosurgeon!

However, the story you’re reading is not about hardships braved or humiliations endured, instead it is a tale about how I made a tragicomical decision by virtue of being a proud PAS chimera.

The year was 2003. I was midway through the 6-year neurosurgical training program.

One night around 2 am, I admitted a patient from the Emergency Room (ER) to the Intensive Care Unit (ICU). The patient was scheduled for emergency surgery, so I would be called any minute to escort the patient to the Operating Room.

Few minutes for myself! I rubbed my hands gleefully.

I had not eaten dinner because I had been running around the ER, ICU, and wards for the better part of the night. In between, I’d snatched some time to type discharge summaries, write admission papers for new patients, and put in orders for the morning’s blood investigations.

“Food or Sleep?” I wondered.

“Sleep is more important than food.” My PAS chimera reared its head.

I obeyed without question — the PAS chimera did not encourage negotiation.

Our patients were housed in three wards, named N1, N2, and O3W. There was a small room with beds inside N2 ward where on-call doctors could grab a shuteye, if work permitted.

Two beds were occupied by exhausted colleagues. I gazed longingly at the third bed — empty and inviting. My bed!

But wait! What’s this?

Two lumps basked near the pillow, visible under the faint moonlight. On closer inspection, my suspicion was confirmed. They were lumps of excreta.

Stomping out of the room, I told the ward nurse about the lumps.

Pat came the response, “There’s a cat in N2 ward!”

I didn’t believe her words, because the lumpal girth contradicted its feline origins.

A feeble voice urged me to sleep in my own room and take up the matter with the Head of Department in the morning. But the PAS chimera overpowered my vestigial humanity with a swift blow.

“Do you think he’ll care? He might pin it on you…that’ll be worse. Go to sleep now!”

Dehumanized and stripped of self-worth, at that click in time, I had hit rock bottom. If there was a way to photograph my soul, the PAS chimera would be visible at the zenith of its power, beaming and majestic.

Defeated, I obeyed. However, I threw the pillow to the opposite end of the bed and lay with the lumps near my feet — a small act of defiance toward the PAS chimera.

Thanks for reading & have a great day,

A. David Singh

P.S.  Years later, I destroyed the PAS chimera. And that’s a story for another day.