A victim of delayed diagnosis, said superintendent Dr Amita Pednekar, Sangeeta has clawed fingers and deformed toes. “She has got rid of the disease, but not stigma.”
Pandemonium broke out at the civic-run Acworth Hospital of Leprosy in Wadala last week when Sangeeta Patil tried to flee the campus. She was cured of the disease ten years ago, but had chosen to stay put as she has nowhere to go.
A victim of delayed diagnosis, said superintendent Dr Amita Pednekar, Sangeeta has clawed fingers and deformed toes. “She has got rid of the disease, but not stigma.”
Doctors said that Sangeeta (40) is suffering from chronic depression and at times becomes hyperactive. “She sought discharge from the hospital claiming that she would return to her house after calling for a vehicle. The in-charge of the female ward was about to process her request. But then we realised that she had given an address that had no connection with her,” said Pednekar.
More than the disease, it’s the rejection by family and society that demoralises patients the most. So most of them decide to stay at the hospital. The 125-year-old facility today houses nearly 70 former patients in six wards. There is only one active leprosy patient admitted to the hospital.
Founded in 1890, the iconic structure used to to be a 500-bed facility. With better control over the disease, authorities have brought down the capacity to 240. The wards are long-ranging barracks vacated by the Matunga Artillery Centre, after the Governor shifted his residence from Parel to Malbar Hill in 1885.
At 85, former patient Shashikant Pawar is the oldest person at the hospital. Shunned by his family, he is depressed and refuses to share his pain. However, 75-year-old Dattabai, the oldest female patient, is more forthcoming.
Dattabai was admitted to Acworth about five decades ago. “Since then, the hospital has become my home. I fell in love with a fellow patient and married him. I gave birth to my son on the campus,” says Dattabai, who is one of the patient mukadams at the hospital.
Patient mukadams,
Pednekar explains, are former patients who have entrusted with the task of taking care of their vulnerable counterparts.
Dattabai’s husband died a few years ago. She later got her son married. But her daughter-in-law insisted on her not staying with them at their Parel home. The mention of abandonment makes Dattabai misty-eyed and her clawed fingers struggle to wipe off the tears. “My son comes to visit me once in a while. I keep myself busy by helping others.”
(Patients’ names have been changed to protect identity)
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