Experiment #20: To Live 1000 Years

When it turned midnight on my 21st birthday, I was serving hot chai to people on the streets of Ahmedabad. Instead of celebrating with my close friends and family, I celebrated with strangers and MS volunteers I've known for a few months. Instead of being showered with gifts and balloons, I got strange looks from night watchmen and rickshaw drivers, who wondered why I was offering them chai out of the blue.

Our chai pot was nearly empty when we met a family of 12 who lives in a little plastic tent at Stadium Six Roads. We divvied up whatever tea was left and handed out packets of biscuits to the children. When she heard it was my birthday, the mother said to me, "Tum jiyo hazaaron saal, saal ke din hon panchaas hazaar." 

Literally, this means "you will live one thousand years, each year with 5000 days." 

Her blessing was touching, and seeing the smiling faces of her children enjoying the hot tea made me feel less homesick on my birthday. 

Once we ran out of tea and packed up, Bhaskarbhai, one of the MS affiliates accompanying me on the chai distribution adventure thanked me for giving them all the opportunity to give people a little happiness that night. 

In the states, I've grown up with birthdays being centered around the idea of "me, me, me." What presents will I get? Who will wish me a happy birthday? How will I celebrate my completed year? In  India, everyone - even little children - celebrate their birthdays by giving to others and hoping for some blessings in return. It's a beautiful concept, but a difficult one to accept fully after 21 years of being trained to expect gifts and approval and love on my birthday.

Today also happens to be the anniversary Gandhiji's assassination. Schoolchildren and Ahmedabad residents congregated in Gandhi Ashram today, sat in front of his house, and remembered the impact he made on this nation. 

I'm not sure I would like to live one thousand years, since making it through just 21 years as a happy and healthy individual has proven difficult at times. But if I was blessed to live one thousand years like Gandhi, immortalized in the freedom of a country and the voices of thousands of Indians who were once oppressed by poverty and the caste-system, I probably have bigger struggles waiting for me.

Experiment #19: Anesthesia

What constitutes pain? The discomfort of feeling, or the lack of feeling?

Earlier this week I had a decision to make. My four wisdom teeth, all impacted, needed to come out, and the sooner - the better. The first oral surgeon we consulted, supposedly the best in Ahmedabad, took one look at my X-ray and stroked his chin in a not-so-reassuring way. "Your case is a veeeeeery interesting one..." He suggested we schedule my surgery ASAP, under general anesthesia.

Judging from his reputation, I assumed he was the best, and began to prepare my mind for the procedure. I had never had any sort of surgery before, so I decided that this was a good baby step. And how bad could it be? After all, I was going to be knocked out.

But of course, things rarely go as planned. My parents wisely consulted another oral surgeon for a second opinion. Surgeon #2's diagnosis was the same - I was growing four sets of crooked wisdom, all which would have to be removed eventually. However, he offered to do the surgery for half the cost as Surgeon #1, under local anesthesia.

I'm not a fan of going to the dentist, but then again, who is? All that poking around in your mouth, the horrible scraping sounds against teeth that seem amplified thanks to the proximity of the ear, and the acrid, unsettling taste of blood. The thought of being awake to hear, smell, and taste each prod and yank of the teeth pulling, sent me into a nervous tailspin.

My father, who had his wisdom pulled a few years back, and my mother, who's wisdom has never caused her any dental problems, tried to explain to me how foolish it was to go under general anesthesia when the procedure could easily be done with local.

I tried to explain to them how horrified I was of having a drill put to my gums - while being conscious.

Finally, reason and rationale reluctantly prevailed over my emotions. Yesterday at 12:30 pm, I squeezed my eyes shut, said a prayer, and opened my jaw with a feeling of doom.

I won't go into the details of the surgery. (I am trying to push all that yanking, twisting and drilling out of my mind.) But I will say, it was not peachy.

The most unsettling part of the whole ordeal was my inability to feel my lips and tongue once the local anesthetic took affect. I felt compelled to touch my chin and mouth every few minutes, just to make sure they were still intact. My lower lip especially, felt like an inflated balloon attached to my face.

After the surgery was over and my gums were stitched up, the surgeon asked me, "Was it painful?"

How to answer that question? There was the obvious discomfort of having the teeth forcefully separated from my jaw, but I'm not sure I would classify that as pain. Really, the painful part was not being able to speak once the surgery was over; not being able to express how upsetting it was to feel like my mouth had been taken over by aliens, while I was awake to witness it.

There would have been obvious pains associated with general anesthesia as well: the IV drip, the intubation tube to monitor my breathing, and the post-operative soreness. But I think I would have preferred to be in a state where I could not judge the discomfort of the actual procedure.

After all, that is what pain stems from in any situation - our judgement. There is a Buddhist saying, pain is inevitable, suffering is optional. We choose to judge our pain - to associate certain sensations with discomfort and others with pleasure. But when does it start? At what point in our lives are we programmed to dread the stick of a needle?

Studies have shown that the extent of pain we feel has both a biological component, and a psychological one. We appraise each situation, insist on reacting rather than observing.

To respond to Surgeon #2, I could simply grunt and narrow my eyes. In that moment, my reaction was in check - though not by choice, since the lower half of my face was still paralyzed.