Appointments with two Parsi ladies offer lessons about ageing well—and on your own terms
Gulnar and Armaity had a combined age of 175 years. Together, they were as old as the iconic Sir JJ Hospital that their ancestors had built. Both were in their late 80s and were like each other’s appendages. The two Parsi ladies always accompanied each other for their respective medical consults. Armaity looked like Jon Bon Jovi’s mother, with fair skin and a bouncy salt and pepper bob cut. Gulnar, who was fondly called Gul by her friends (because she kept getting lost on the foreign trips she took with them) was like an adorable, huggable Shih Tzu transformed into a zesty Parsi aunty. They gingerly supported each other onto the chairs in front of me in my consultation room.
“I have had this horrible back pain for the past 20 years,” Armaity told me. “My buttocks are sore, my legs tingle, and I just can’t walk anymore!” she sounded exasperated. I assessed her in detail and told her she had severe compression in her lumbar spine. The MRI she had reluctantly done confirmed the same. “Your X-rays show that your spine is unstable, and we’ll have to fix it with screws if you consider surgery,” I explained. “Surgery at 87 is ok?” she asked trepidatiously. “Only if you want to live to be a hundred!” I said. “I don’t mind!” she exclaimed, her Parsi genes kicked in, “but not in this pain.” “Then let’s operate on you and fix it once and for all,” I proposed. “But people say all these bad things about spine surgery…” she further cautioned. “That’s because all those who’ve had successful surgery are too busy enjoying their lives and don’t have time to talk about how good they feel, but the handful of negative outcomes keep getting amplified,” I reasoned.
“I also have back pain,” Gul intervened. “Do you also want surgery?” I joked. “I’m a surgical veteran,” she told me. “I had an emergency perforated appendix and had to fly back from my vacation in the Andaman,” she started. “Luckily, you weren’t lost at that time, and they found you,” I did masti with her. “Then I had surgery for diverticulitis, where they removed two feet of my intestine,” she said, completely ignoring me and trying to complete her story. “I had a pouch coming out of my stomach for 9 months, which they finally internalized,” she made a face. “Then, I had four dental surgeries interspersed with three falls, where I fractured my nose with blood splattered all over my face,” she animated the scene. “I also had four major hernias repaired, and recently, they found three polyps in my uterus, which they suspected was cancerous, so they removed the whole system including my tubes and ovaries, not that I need them anymore,” she flexed her biceps. “Never a dull moment in my life,” she explained, smiling. “So, for the time being, we’ll avoid your spine surgery,” I confirmed with a reciprocal smile. “You don’t even need one,” I confirmed after examining her and seeing her images. “We’ll put you onto a good physiotherapist and that should do it,” I assured her.
A couple of days later, we took Armaity to the operating room. I drilled out the bone and removed the thickened ligament pressing on her nerves, decompressing them meticulously. We put in some screws and connected them with titanium rods to realign the spine and give it back its native shape and form. “Even though you’ve put so much metal in my body, I feel 10 kilos lighter,” she told me when she came two weeks later for a checkup. “All the pain in my legs has vanished. My back is a bit sore, but I’m sure that’ll go too,” she said with relief. “I wish I had done this 10 years ago,” she concluded, reiterating what most patients say when they have spine surgery after avoiding it for as long as they can.
The elderly are one of my favourite people, because while they are the most vulnerable, they are also the toughest. They have accrued the wisdom and experience of several decades to know what’s best for them. The youngsters who accompany them for a consult are often heard telling them to slow down or take it easy, which, I believe, is incorrect. The older you get, the more active you must be and the harder you need to exercise – physically and mentally.
Armaity thought for less than 5 minutes before she decided she wanted to have surgery. I remember so vividly a 95-year-old man who insisted I operate on him for a hematoma inside his head while his children suggested it was best for him to go peacefully. He calls me every year on his birthday to thank me for adding another precious year to his life. He is 98 now.
Three months later, Gulnar and Armaity walked into my clinic again. Armaity was limping and back to using the walking stick she had given up. She barely managed to seat herself onto the chair before lamenting, “I was doing so well after surgery, but one day, while I was taking a walk in the garden, this silly giant of a dog chasing a ball dashed right into me and I toppled over.” She winced in pain while I examined her. “Doesn’t look like anything’s broken,” I said, “but we’ll confirm it with an X-ray.” They came out to be clean. I gave her a few pills to take away the pain and asked her to come back in a few weeks.
“Give me also some medicines, na,” Gulnar, as usual, intervened. “All my friends are taking medication and I’m not taking a single pill. I feel left out!” she made a Shih Tzu face. Both Armaity and I looked at her as if she were cracked. But, then again, we are Parsi; if we don’t have some idiosyncrasy, we aren’t doing justice to our genes. “Give me some memory pills!” she requested. “My friends call me Gul Golmaal because I keep mixing up stuff.” I gave her some multivitamins to go through in her last decade.
Another three months later, the duo were back. Armaity had no stick and Gulnar was beaming. They looked like they were reverse ageing. I was amazed at their spirit, which they passed on to me both literally and metaphorically; they handed me a bottle of Johnnie Walker whisky. I pulled it out from the bag to take a look and reminded them to do what the bottle says. “What?” they asked. “Keep drinking?” “No,” I said, although I knew that was part of the reason they were so full of life. “Keep walking!” I pointed to the label. “You’re our Santa,” they thanked me, “and the best gift you gave us this Christmas was our health back.” “Happy New Year!” we wished each other, while doing a group hug, and I added, “May you both live to be a hundred!”
“I’m going to write an article about the both of you,” I warned.
P.S. Gul and Armaity are my mother’s friends and their names have intentionally not been changed, so if you see them on the street, or at CCI, or Willingdon, you can doff your hat to them. I promise you will recognize them from my description.
