India

The Invisible Rights of Persons with Invisible Disabilities Act of India

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On July 26, 2020, the United States celebrated the 30th anniversary of the Americans with Disabilities Act (ADA). I’ve known about the ADA for a few years now, and I think that it is a great thing! From an outsider’s perspective, what I admire the most about the ADA is its wide scope. The list of medical conditions that can be evaluated for disability benefits seems exhaustive and as inclusive as possible. Disability is very difficult to define in precise terms as it can be a very personal experience. Hence a policy like the ADA which has a wide scope of application should be adopted by every country that wishes to protect the interests of the disabled. 

The Rights of Persons with Disabilities Act (RPwD Act) is the Indian equivalent of the ADA. The full text of the Act can be accessed at http://www.tezu.ernet.in/PwD/RPWD-ACT-2016.pdf. The RPwD Act is introduced to be “An Act to give effect to the United Nations Convention on the Rights of Persons with Disabilities (UNCRPD) and for matters connected therewith or incidental thereto.” The definition of a “person with disability” adopted by the Government of India is the same as mentioned in the Convention - “a person with long term physical, mental, intellectual or sensory impairment which, in interaction with barriers, hinders his full and effective participation in society equally with others.” India was one of the first countries to ratify the convention. We did it in 2007. But the RPwD Act came into force only in 2016, and it is yet to be implemented by all the states of India. 

Leaving aside the poor implementation of the Act, the list of conditions that can qualify someone for disability benefits is very short and includes only 21 conditions, most of which are visible disabilities. People with these conditions are evaluated and given a disability certificate that mentions the extent of their disability as a percentage. This percentage determines the extent of support they can receive from the government. The RPwD Act lists all the rights and entitlements of a disabled person. It also lists various measures taken by the government to protect the interests of people with disabilities which include reservations for disabled persons in various areas like employment, education, land allotment, and developmental schemes. 

Ever since I began graduate school, I’ve had to speak up on several occasions for receiving appropriate accommodations. In these discussions, to highlight the seriousness of my condition, I often bring up the fact that patients with Inflammatory Bowel Disease (IBD) who satisfy certain conditions, and patients with ostomies receive Disability Benefits in the United States. However, since the Government of India (GoI) does not recognize ostomy/IBD as conditions that qualify someone for disability benefits, the university is not obliged to provide me any support. A couple of my friends suffer from multiple chronic conditions but do not receive any disability benefits, because they’re not disabled legally. 

The definition of a person with a disability as mentioned in the UNCRPD and adopted by the GoI is a dynamic one and hence, policies that are meant to benefit the disabled must be dynamic too. However, to my knowledge, there is no mechanism in place to extend the list of disabilities. Compared to the ADA, the RPwD has a very limited scope of application. Speaking as a young adult with IBD, most of us do not have insurance. We face difficulties in gaining and maintaining employment. The same is true for education. Our condition is treated as a taboo. Every aspect of our life is affected by our condition, and for those with ostomies, the problems get magnified. Is this not what a disability is defined to be? A person with a missing toe is 10% disabled according to the disability evaluation guidelines. A person with a missing colon is 0% disabled. Makes sense, right?

The GoI has recently published the draft of the National Policy for Rare Diseases 2020. The World Health Organisation (WHO) defines a rare disease as an often debilitating, lifelong disease, or disorder with a prevalence of 1 or less, per 1000 population. However different countries have different definitions. In the United States, a rare disease is one with a prevalence of less than 6.4 per 10000, and in Japan, the parameter is 1 per 10000. India on the other hand has no such parameter because of a lack of data which is due to a lack of proper health infrastructure that would enable such data collection. The draft mentions government support for the treatment of certain treatable conditions with an upper limit of INR 15 lakh or roughly 20000 USD. The government does not plan to provide any support to those with long-term conditions, citing a lack of resources, and recommends setting up digital platforms for donations. India spends less than 4% of GDP on healthcare. A lack of resources does not seem like a justifiable reason for refusing to support those with chronic and rare conditions when the fact is that India has one of the lowest expenditures on healthcare globally. 

Coming back to the topic of disability - will people with rare, untreatable, lifelong conditions, receiving zero support from the government, be able to participate in society as effectively as others? Are they not disabled as per the definition adopted by the GoI? The fact is that the RPwD act is itself disabled. It does not do justice to the millions of people suffering from many conditions that impact the quality of life, social participation, and academic and professional outlook. The fact is that most patients struggle to fund their treatment because chronic and/or rare conditions often require expensive medications and with limited or no insurance coverage, the battle to survive and stay alive is the one that most are fighting. Education, employment, and social integration are not even in the picture. 

The exceedingly slow pace of healthcare reforms and the lack of support for people with various chronic conditions that severely impact their lives makes me sad. I don’t know when the situation will improve. If in 2020, a country like India, which has ambitions of being a superpower says that it doesn’t have enough resources to support its citizens with rare chronic conditions and has a list of disabilities that includes only 21 conditions, what hope can I have? I also feel like the general population has never considered the problem of healthcare seriously. It has never been an issue during elections. So I guess, it’s us who are to be blamed. There’s a lack of unity among patient communities too. How do you rectify all these? Honestly speaking, I’m a naive person. The only thing that I can say is it shouldn’t be that difficult to come up with a system that ensures equal and unhindered access to opportunity for people, irrespective of their health condition. From my vantage point, I see a lack of motivation amongst our leaders, the healthy, and the abled population to work on issues related to the healthcare sector. I hope the situation improves in the future.

India celebrated 74 years of independence on 15th August, but young adults with chronic conditions like Inflammatory Bowel Disease are yet to be liberated from various shackles that bind them to the ground and hamper them from living a free, independent, and fulfilling life. 

That’s all from my side this month. Sayonara!


My IBD Life: The Road Not Taken

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Hello everyone. I hope you had a wonderful World IBD Day! 

The month of May is special to me because May 17 happens to be my stomaversary! Three years ago, on May 17, I received my ileostomy. It was a decision that I made after Infliximab a.k.a Remicade gave up on me. My doctors wanted me to try some more meds, but I insisted on the surgery. I wanted a permanent ileostomy, which was quite a surprise for the surgeons. I remember them coming up to my hospital bed and asking me questions about my education and background. I smiled and assured them that I did want my ostomy to be permanent. In a country like India, where stigma and taboo exist even with the state of being ill, it is rare for a 24-year-old person to ask for something like an ileostomy, additionally, a permanent one. 

I actually wanted an ileostomy back in 2015. I would have had a temporary ileostomy then. I had already failed most meds and immunosuppressants with the exception of MTX (methotrexate) and biologics. I could not afford biologics and the doctor I consulted then had already told me that only biologics or surgery could help me get better. Soon thereafter, I started visiting the outpatient department of the All India Institute of Medical Sciences (AIIMS) in New Delhi, which is considered to be the best hospital in the country and it is a government-run hospital, so consultations are free. However, owing to the massive burden of patients that it bears, not every patient gets the same level of care. The doctors try their best, but they are humans after all. 

When I went there, I begged the doctors to give me an ostomy. I had already watched countless videos on YouTube about young people living their lives with a stoma, and I figured a surgery would buy me some time and my intestine would heal, and I could get it reversed later. I was 22 then, and the doctors told me that a stoma at 22 would make my life very hard in India. I was thus advised to try the same medicines once again that I had already failed along with some new antibiotics and brands of aminosalicylates. I did not do any better on them. My condition was deteriorating and my scans were not good, but it was still not bad enough to get me into a bed at AIIMS. Meanwhile, in addition to my symptoms of constant bloody diarrhea and weight loss, I was beginning to experience some pain in my pelvic regions whose intensity and duration were growing day by day. 

In December 2015, I went to the GI OPD at AIIMS and cried straight for 4 hours in pain. It was then that a senior doctor saw me and I got to consult with him. I begged him to operate on me. He consoled me and assured me that I would be treated better and I was then admitted to the GI ward. I stayed there for a month amid more courses of steroids, antibiotics and scans. On January 2nd, 2016, my 23rd birthday, I was given my first dose of Exemptia (a biosimilar of Adalimumab a.ka.a Humira) which was cheaper than Remicade, and patients at AIIMS were provided with some assistance by the firm that manufactured the drug to lower the financial burden. I went home with some hope which lasted for only 2 weeks. After 2 weeks, I lay 24/7 in pain in my bed, 10 steps away from the toilet. I managed to pass some firm stools, but that made the pain even worse which was now affecting both my hips and lower back and my thighs. It felt like a thousand hot steel knives carving into the flesh inside my intestines and my pelvis. I frequently visited the ER in the middle of the night, screaming in pain to get a dose of IV Tramadol.

As I write this, it almost makes me want to stop writing further. I remember taking sleeping pills, antidepressants, and tramadol pills to sleep and kill the pain. I remember trying to end my life for 2 nights. I remember trying to hang myself. I remember giving up. My younger brother had received an offer of admission from Imperial College London, but he was working instead, to run the house and afford my treatment. My parents had separated. I figured it would be better for everyone if I killed myself. I really didn’t want to die though. I just wanted the pain to end. I eventually ended up admitting myself again in the hospital in February. An MRI of my spine did not find anything. Psychiatrists thought I was exaggerating my pain because of past emotional trauma. The SR (Senior Resident) who oversaw me in the ward did not believe me when I told him that Adalimumab was not working anymore and my symptoms were worsening. After a month, I ended up faking wellness (I told my doctor I wasn’t feeling any pain on Clonazepam, when in fact, I stayed up all night in pain and additionally did not ask for a pain shot) to get out of the hospital. 

Back home, I started taking more pain pills and anti-anxiety drugs. The biologic was not doing its job anymore and after another month at home, I was back in a bed at the hospital. This was my worst. I was totally incontinent, bedridden, and weighed 80 lbs. I passed blood and mucus incessantly even when I was ordered not to eat/drink anything. Doctors had given up on me, and Infliximab was just too costly. There was no way I could afford it. One night, the SR came in and told my mother to take me back home. That night, once again, I found myself thinking about death. I was not afraid of it, but I regretted that I could not do anything significant. My ambitions and dreams were dying with me. The next day, I and my friends started a crowdfunding campaign to gather money for Remicade, which was very successful owing to the kind generosity of my college batchmates, and I gained some more time on Remicade. But the pain never went away. It was constant and Remicade had minimal effect on it. I was still incontinent. All that any drug could do for me was to decrease the number of my visits to the toilet. Incontinence and pain were chronic. I depended on diapers, a cocktail of many pain meds, and many unhealthy, unsafe, and drastic measures to get through the day and night. I was getting Remicade infusions every month instead of the usual 8-week frequency because there were signs that Remicade too was not working. I found myself in the hospital every other month.

When Remicade finally gave up on me, and I had lost 2½ years, I decided it was time to get rid of my colon once and for all. My GI tried to persuade me to try some more treatments like FMT, but I aggressively denied. While I was being taken into the operating room, my surgeons once again asked me to permit them to retain my colon. I told them that if they found anything worth retaining, they could. When they opened me up, they found - “Hepatic flexure, transverse colon and up to upper rectum thickened. Descending colon and sigmoid colon densely stuck to parietal wall, mesentery shortened and thickened”. These are the intraoperative findings as written on the operation note from the day of surgery. The surgeons could not save any part of my colon except for the lower rectum and anus. When they told me after the surgery that they could not save anything, I was not sad. I was relieved. My pain was gone. I had a chance to re-build my life now. I would not have to stare at the outside world from the window grills of the hospital hallway anymore. I don’t know if that operation note explains my pain, but I firmly believe that I was never insane or exaggerating my pain because I never needed IV Tramadol after the surgery. Earlier, I had been labeled an addict and treated like a liar. All my self-doubt disappeared after my surgery. 

Getting back on my feet with my ostomy was not easy. I suffered from ileus immediately after the surgery and I could not keep anything down. I was sent home prematurely because that is how things work in a hospital with too many critical patients and too little beds. I was dejected and did not want to go to the hospital. I was scared because this surgery was supposed to work. I was vomiting furiously. Reluctantly, I admitted myself back after 3 days of discharge and finally after 15 days, my stoma ejected out gallons of intestinal juice like a fountain, and when it stopped, I could eat again. I went back home. After 6 weeks, I was back to work and I never went back to the hospital again, not even for a follow-up or to get my discharge papers. I had lost a lot. Now I had to get everything back. Finally after 2 years, in August 2019, I found myself in the best graduate school in India - the Indian Institute of Science.

I never want to tell my story to people, because I’m not sure what kind of message it sends out. When I go to the annual meeting of ostomates at AIIMS, I find nobody in my age group. I feel alone and wonder if I made the right decision. I wonder if I would encourage another 24-year-old in India to get the surgery. I often did many things that bordered on insanity to get through the intense pain I felt for over 2 years. I often ask myself if I could have done anything else. What do you think? What would you have done if it were you instead of me? What would you choose? When I told other patients that I was getting an ostomy, I received many messages urging me not to go for it. They told me it would destroy my life. Here I am though, living with minimal pain and no meds, in the best graduate school in my country studying Aerospace Engineering, which was my childhood dream. However, I have a very limited social life. I might never be able to work for an industrial organization. I don’t even know if I can make a career in academia. My future is still uncertain. With every passing year, statistically, my chances of falling into a relapse increase. My rectal stump still passes out mucus and blood frequently, and my stoma health is not so good. In a hurry to make up for lost time, I also haven’t given myself time to process everything that has happened to me. 

I guess in the end, it’s a journey of self-discovery where you find out who you really are, what matters to you the most and what you are capable of. I am content with the choices I made, good or bad. Things could have gone more wrong because of my choices and I might not have survived. I was prepared to take that risk though. I had dreamed a dream, and when that dream was lost from me, I wanted it back so desperately, that I was ready to sacrifice anything to get a chance to work on those dreams again. That’s who I am. I never knew if it would work out, but I sure did believe. And I hope you believe it too. No matter how bad it gets, I want you to believe that things can work out well in the end. And I want you to hold on to that belief firmly. 

I share my story in the hope that you don’t give up like the many times I did in despair. I hope that whatever road you choose for yourself ends in a brighter place than where you began. I hope that your story becomes a greater force of hope than mine. I hope.