It was a rough ride to recovery, hallucinations and all

The writer on the rooftop of his rented Chennai apartment after being discharged, where he would walk 10 rounds a day, always in fear that the strong wind would blow his 55kg self away (left). — Photos: DORAIRAJ NADASON/The Star

They brought in the body of the man, drenched in blood.

He was large, dark-skinned and red with the blood as the nurses trained their hoses on him.

As the blood washed away, I could see his pudgy face.

The nurses were talking: he was a gangster and his local rivals had got to him; now that he was dead, the local gangsters, who held sway over the hospital, needed somebody to blame.

Ravi Kandasamy, my organ donor, and I were the easy scapegoats.

Behind the screen, I could hear the doctors plotting.

They were going to pull a few tubes out of my body, and then point fingers at Ravi.

They could get rid of us – after all, we were Malaysians in India – then they could settle matters with the local gangsters.

I begged the hospital orderlies and the doctors not to forget their Hippocratic Oath.

Theirs was to save lives, not take them, I said.

I held a nurse’s hand and said: “Please don’t do this.”

Of course, none of this was true.

My liver transplant had just been done and I was awake – but I was hallucinating.

In another world

I was in the intensive care unit (ICU) of a private hospital in Chennai, India, where I had had my operation.

The ICU was like a horse stable, each patient in his own stall – at least that’s how I remember it.

Across from me, there was a holy man singing Hindu hymns.

Ravi was also on that side, but at the other end. He was seeing things too.

He saw some people trying to kidnap me and climbed out of bed to stop them, but a nurse got in the way.

He slapped her. Hard.

The poor woman fell and there was a ruckus.

The staff had to call our family members – my wife and his sister – both of whom had just left the hospital for some much-needed rest.

Obviously, there were no kidnappers. And no man soaked in blood.

That “man” was, in fact, a large African woman being wheeled in after surgery.

I got to meet her much later, and she was very nice.

The hallucinations, however, came relentlessly.

By night, the place became a nightclub of sorts, a cacophony of neon – blue, violet, orange, red – the colours exploding in my head.

The hospital beds were behind the façade of the nightclub. And sleep was hard to come by.

Little imps were running around, making all sorts of noises.

You could see them – dark shapes skipping from one place to another.

Someone told me they were the spirits of those who had died there.

They didn’t harm anyone, but they were there, flitting from bed to bed, moving the screens so I could get a peek at the patients in the other stalls.

It was days before a young, smiling doctor asked me why I was so morose.

He seemed trustworthy, so I told him. He told the others and they laughed.

But it was not funny, not to me. Losing your mind is not funny.

Slowly, though, I came back to reality, but there were days when I had to convince myself that I had indeed been hallucinating.

It had all seemed so real, terrifyingly real.

Again, I slept. An orderly begged me to just stay awake until after he finished feeding me.

I dozed off anyway, imagining that I was sitting on the hood of a jeep in a hot desert.

Relatives came to India, they brought religious groups – Hindu and Christian – who prayed for me and sang hymns.

I said hello, sat up to hear them pray, and fell asleep.

Up, then down

But I was getting better. The colour was back in my face.

The writer in the ICU just after his liver transplant in September 2018, where he experienced hallucinations and paranoia while he was recovering from the surgery.

I was in a regular ward and I could even go to the bathroom on my own, something I could not do even at the hospital back home.

However, it meant carrying four plastic containers, each attached to a tube in my body – two on the sides of the chest and two more in my lower abdomen.

My wife helped carry the containers.

One day, though, she lifted them a tad too high.

The fluid flowed back, my legs gave way and I slumped in a heap.

There was no pain, no emotions, nothing. I gaped as the doctor shouted orders to the nurses and talked to me.

Strangely, though, I could also see myself slumped in that corner, with that blank look in my eyes.

I seemed to be in a different part of the room from my body.

“You must never lift that container high,” the doctor said, as they bundled me on a stretcher and back to the ICU.

It was back to square one. Now, the prognosis was bad (I was told later).

My body was rejecting the transplanted organ and that meant shooting me up with more drugs.

Again, everyone feared the worst. And the hallucinations were back.

The fear that I was going to be victimised started creeping in again as the ICU slowly emptied out.

Now, I was convinced that something evil was being planned.

I told my wife not to sign any paper without telling me first, adding that they were trying to harm me.

The doctors kept telling me there was no such insidious plan.

I was almost alone in the ICU before I was finally moved to a normal ward.

Then came the day when the doctor made the announcement.

The new hospital my transplant surgeon was opening was ready for occupation and we were all moving there.

Really on the mend

With the move to Chromepet, an area near the Chennai airport, recovery finally seemed to be at hand.

They wheeled me into an ambulance, and I was surprised to see several nurses climbing in – about eight to 10 of them.

I don’t need so many, I remember thinking.

My wife just managed to squeeze in. The ambulance was crammed.

On my lower abdomen, just below the L-shaped cut, were the machines that measured my vitals.

The nurses were on both my sides, chatting away. But they were not there for me.

The ambulance was, in fact, their transport home.

The trip was harrowing.

The roads were bumpy and narrow, and half the time, the driver went off road onto the dirt lane by the side to overtake the other vehicles.

I could almost feel the liver coming loose inside of me. It was frightening and I prayed for the ride to end.

After what seemed like an eternity, we reached the hospital and I was wheeled straight into the ICU.

They were not taking any chances with the liver after that ride.

After five days there, it was back to the ward in the spanking new hospital, which could have passed for a palace, albeit in the middle of nowhere.

Meanwhile, I was getting better, but not by much.

My lungs were full of fluids, and I was coughing throughout the day and night, with only snatches of sleep in between.

A physiotherapist came to help clear the lungs.

He massaged my back, slapping me hard on the back again and again.

With little flesh there, he needed to pad my back with a cloth to do the slapping.

Then he got me on my first real walk around the tiny room, while he held my hands.

It was sheer joy. I video-called my family in Malaysia: “Look, I am walking.” And they cheered.

A few weeks on, I was walking around the hospital floor, slowly at first, quicker later. But there had to be someone to hold my hands.

Then the tubes came off, one at a time.

Once they were all out, I could go “home” to an apartment in Chennai, and come back for check-ups three times a week, which became twice a week later.

The apartment had a flat roof where I could walk, always in fear of being blown away by the strong gusts of wind.

I weighed about 50kg, a far cry from my usual 85-90kg.

There were also money woes.

With the original package deal off, the first hospital sent my money back to my account in Malaysia and I could not access it. I had to seek help.

Friends from Ipoh, Klang Valley and Penang sent me money to pay the bills.

Finally, in November (2018), hepatologist and gastroenterologist Dr Dhinesh Jothimani, part of the team that did the surgery, said I could go home to Malaysia now.

I was still skinny, but he said I would put on weight. “Just don’t get too fat,” he added.

Home at last

A family gathering to say farewell to the writer (third from left) before he went to Chennai, India, for a liver transplant in August 2018. At that time, he wasn't sure he would survive to see his family again.

I couldn’t wait. We rushed to get tickets.

And in late November 2018, just as the daughter’s SPM exams were winding to an end, I flew back.

The flight was easier this time and it was good to be home.

But it wasn’t over yet. For weeks, I collapsed after a few steps and had to be propped up by the maid.

Then, I could walk a few metres. That became a few hundred metres.

Most days however, were spent lying down on the couch.

Four years on, I walk and run about 5km every weekend.

I try to ensure I walk at least 6,000 steps a day, climbing the staircase to my fourth-floor workplace.

I am as healthy as, or healthier than, many a 62-year-old.

And the last time I stood on the scales, I weighed 88kg – I have to shed about 3kg.

However, it is a battle that goes on.

Immunosuppressants have to be taken every morning and evening, there are foods that are taboo – grapefruit, for one – and alcohol of course is a no-no.

And there is always a fear of infections.

The medicines cost a small fortune too.

I hope the government allows generics to help lower costs. Generic medicines work, despite what wealthy politicians may say.

Still, I know I have to a lot to be thankful for.

And a lot of people to thank: my doctors, my wife Nirmala Devi, my sister-in-law Kala Devi Kandasamy, and most of all, my donor (and Kala Devi’s brother) Ravi.

And thanks also to Dr Thomas E. Starzl, the man who pioneered organ transplantation.

Like the lady in Putrajaya said, may God bless all those who pledge their organs so that others may live.

For me, every day is a blessing.

So go ahead, pledge your organs. It can even be easily done on MySejahtera.

Dorairaj Nadason is consulting editor at The Star.