In this lightning-fast life, days and nights go by in a flash, failing to leave any imprints. The world has so much to offer that a lifetime is dwarfed by our never-ending wish lists. There is always a nicer vacation, a bigger car, a larger house, the next promotion, social status—something that keeps the chase interesting for us. Unfortunately, for most of us, stopping and thinking is a lot scarier than a mindless race to the end. However, few places in the world are powerful enough to bring this racing life to a dramatic standstill. In such places, you helplessly watch as your life is paused, while an alien anxiety simmers in your guts, as if whispering “that’s it”, numbing your senses to perceive life as you knew it. The Intensive Care Unit in a hospital is one such dreadful place, capable of making you live through hell by sucking all the hope out of your life in a matter of moments. People who receive unwanted invitations to the ICU, whether inside or outside, start caring about the things that matter.
People loathe a visit to a hospital. Hospitals mean pain, misery, sickness—something is not okay. But inside such a dreaded place, there is an even darker corner called the ICU, which makes the rest of the hospital look like a picnic. Earlier this year, I had to spend a few days outside an ICU, which deeply impacted my perception of life.
I remember sitting in a long corridor, that ended at the entrance of the ICU on the first floor of Fortis Hospital in Jaipur. There was a bench with three chairs welded together. I spent hours sitting on those chairs, watching the shifts of the guards change. Each new guard questioned my presence, which I would either shamelessly ignore or arrogantly defend until every guard started recognizing me. While waiting in that corridor—sometimes for the doctor, other times just watching the moments stubbornly refuse to move—I saw contrasting emotions run across the faces of others who were sailing in the same boat as I. I saw tears of joy and sorrow, anxious faces on the verge of breaking down, deep spiritual connections as people sat like statues with closed eyes and folded hands, and the most genuine embraces as loved ones tried to keep each other from falling apart. In that corridor, the lightning-fast life refused to move any faster than a frozen river trying to break free from a frosty gorge in winter.
Some of us are fortunate to have a life full of joy—parents by our side no matter what, siblings who could drop all the differences with a glance at our long faces, friends who can accompany us in words and in silence, and love that keeps our heart young forever—a life worth celebrating. Yet, somehow, we get so busy living that we forget to appreciate our blessings. Not until one day, when a doctor tells us that he is not sure if our loved one, just admitted to the ICU, will survive. It is a strange moment when the truth refuses to sink in, and our confused mind desperately tries to cling to the usual idea of living. ICUs can be the worst place to start appreciating life, but they are one of the most powerful ones. If you find yourself standing outside an ICU anxiously waiting for the doctor, even the simple news that your loved one inside is stable for now can fill you with more gratitude than if your greatest wish in the life came true.
I don’t know for how long, but I know life and happiness only through the love I have for my wife. My life had turned upside down when, one evening, the doctor told me outside the ICU that he wasn’t sure if my wife could be saved. Surprisingly, that statement from the doctor felt like any other statement by a stranger, like ‘Get aside, please’ or ‘Do you need anything’. The meaning of those words took time to sink in – there was a high probability that I had already seen the last of my wife breathing. I must confess that, without realizing it, our love was feeling like a routine before that night—always there, but losing its shine in the patterns of everyday life – long pointless conversations, feeling lazy around each other, binge-watching together, dining out every other week etc. However, when I came to full terms with my changed reality that night, those were the things I desperately wanted to return to as I sat outside the ICU on that bench, struggling to believe how my life had taken such a shocking turn.
We were lucky; things didn’t get worse, though they didn’t get better for many days. I clung to the tiny hope the doctor had tossed my way. But I realized it wasn’t just me there. I saw a son, maybe fifty years old, teary-eyed, with folded hands, almost begging the doctor to save his father, later telling a friend how he wished he could talk to him just once more. It’s surprising how you stop caring about your surroundings and start speaking your mind when you’re that emotional. I saw a seventy-year-old man sitting on the floor in that corridor with his family, performing rituals and chanting mantras over a video call with a priest to save his wife, who was inside the ICU. He had looked so strong when she was admitted, but just a few hours later, I watched his legs tremble like dry leaves as the doctors told him that his wife had stopped responding to the treatment. If it wasn’t for his family, he would have collapsed to the ground. The ICU can introduce you to your raw, naked self—something hidden beneath the layers of time and maturity, long forgotten. Strangely, during those days of despair, I drew strength from those raw emotions of strangers, which felt more calming than the thousands of words from family and friends who were trying hard to help me keep my wits.
Inside the ICU, I would always find my wife waiting for me whenever I stepped in. She had grown so weak and drowsy from her illness and medication that she seemed like a distant shadow of herself. I desperately searched for the girl I loved in her eyes, which looked disoriented, as if grappling with her changed reality. But every time we saw each other, the relief she felt was enough to keep me going. She didn’t smile until a long time after she was discharged from the hospital. I had to help her find that smile, and it wasn’t just for her. The ICU shows you how much stronger you can be than you ever thought possible. The doctors gave my wife no more than a fifty percent chance of survival, yet I always told her everything was going to be alright—something I had forced myself to believe, no matter what. It might sound brave now, but back then, it was simply the lack of choice—have faith or break down.
My faith would rise or fall every day, uncharacteristically inspired by the strangers around me—higher when I saw a patient being moved out of the ICU to a regular ward, rock-bottom when a life was lost. During those twenty-two days spent outside the ICU, I felt emotions I didn’t even know were inside me while my wife was busy fighting for her life inside.
Just a month earlier, if someone had told me I’d need to take even a single day off from my new job, I would have laughed at him. Yet there I was, standing outside the ICU for twenty-two days, thinking about everything except work. I know it may not sound right, but for people like us, the directionless wanderers who think of life as a pursuit of milestones set by an invisible society—job, savings, house, car, vacations, kids, bank account, retirement plan, etc.—a trip to the ICU can be a real eye-opener. The harsh reality is that we have fewer people than we think who would leave everything behind just to stand outside that ICU for us. But who is to blame for that, other than us? Life doesn’t stop for anyone—until it does.
We were lucky to survive the ICU, unlike so many other people whom I had seen lose their loved ones. My wife is still recovering, and when she went to share sweets with the head of the ICU a couple of months after her discharge, he called the entire staff to have a photo taken with her. He said something about staying motivated by looking at someone they had saved, as it didn’t happen every time. I think I understood him. I learned more about life while standing outside that ICU than I ever had before, and yet I hope no one else has to learn it that way. I hope people can appreciate life, true relationships, and the real emotions, rather than the ones that have completely consumed us in this fragile life. I know I have to carry the scars of those memories for the rest of my life—memories I wish I could forget—but somehow, in its own harsh way, this experience has taught me to appreciate life like nothing else. Sometimes, my mind wanders, and I find myself waiting outside the ICU for the doctor’s scheduled daily visit. As the guard hands me the shoe caps to cover my shoes and I apply the hand sanitizer afterwards, I take one more moment before entering the ICU to put on my brave face such that my sick wife doesn’t catch a whiff of my turbulent emotions.