The Swell Hitting

Yesterday afternoon I was crouched on my hands and knees, picking up bits of food from the kitchen floor that Isabel had either dropped or thrown. As I stood up, I banged my head directly into the door of an open cabinet making a loud thud; I fell to the floor, blacked out for a few seconds, and the next thing I can remember is my maid Julie fussing over me with an ice pack. The pain was sharp and I choked back tears. Isabel laughed. After I spent a minute or two feeling sorry for myself, crumpled up on the floor, I went to the couch to recover.

Over the next couple of hours, I became dizzy and mildly nauseated so I thought it'd be best to have my head checked out at the local Lilavati hospital, one of the most reputable in Mumbai, and which is conveniently located in my neighborhood. I knew there would not be much they could do about the injury itself, but there are too many stories about neglected bumps on the head that end up being more serious than they seem. I wanted to go for reassurance more than anything.

Martin drove me to the hospital that evening. We walked into the casualty, a small, poorly lit room. An old man was lying on a gurney in one corner. Four or five men were gathered around what I suppose was the front desk. No one paid any notice to us when we walked in. I made my way to the counter to explain my situation to the only woman in the vicinity who I guessed was the receptionist or nurse. She wore a putrid yellow uniform and she seemed irked that I had a question to ask her.

"There's the doctor. Tell him," she said gruffly.

To my left stood an Indian man in a candy pink shirt, high-waisted jeans, and a black belt to cinch up his already secure looking jeans for added security. I turned towards him and started my story.

"I was on the floor picking up something. I bumped my head into a cabinet and I just want to have this bump checked out," I said while fingering the top of my sore skull. I totally confused him.

"What? Tell me what happened," he said with a furrowed brow. I repeated what I had said this time remembering to include the important detail that I had blacked out.

Then putrid yellow woman ushered me into one of the three curtained sections where I was to repeat my story for a third time. By this point I felt ridiculous, but at least the doctor finally understood what I was trying to convey. He felt the top of my head, pressing lightly to locate the tender spot.

Once he did find it, he said, "This is no worries. It is no worries." With confidence, but without questioning me or further inspecting me, he assured me the bump on my head would be gone in three days. Or 72 hours. Who would have guessed this doctor would also be a mathematician and a soothsayer!

Martin asked if I should rest or do anything, to which the doctor replied, "No, it is no worries. It is called a swell-hitting. That is the term, swell-hitting." I glanced sideways at Martin. The doctor found the bump on my head again and pressed it firmly with his thumb.

"Ow!" I cried and shrunk away from his hands.

We smiled and nodded politely and left shortly after my "swell-hitting" diagnosis. I had only wanted reassurance that I was fine, that it was just a negligible bump on the head that would soon heal without any issues. And that is what the doctor told me.

But a key question remains: Did he have any clue at all what he was talking about?