These little universes

wp-image-863434909.

 

At the end of this year’s clinical rotations as a medical student, I realise that as future physicians we will soon be moving around hospital corridors, checking up on our patients; their records maintained meticulously by the hospital paramedics. How many of us will look beyond terms inscribed on boards like the one in the picture – ‘Bed No.’, ‘Patient’s Name’, ‘Consultant’s Name’, ‘Ref #’, ‘Company / Private’, ‘Age’, ‘Diet’, etc, etc – and think of the stories that each one of these people walked into our clinics with? How many of us will be healers and not just mere physicians?

So many of us want to see things. We want to see the future, we want to see how the universe ends, we want to glimpse the edges of time and space. So many of us want to see all of that and still be able to have coffee at home in the morning. So many of us want to live a thousand, thousand lives. And still be able to have a cup of coffee in the morning.
And as doctors, witnessing the end of a universe will be an everyday day occurrence for us. You know how?
When you will tell a bereaved son that the father who sold his ancestral home to get him through college, is dying, you will see the end of a universe.
When you will tell a devoted husband that he just lost the love of his life, you will see the end of a universe.
When you will see a pair of young parents cradling a small coffin, you will see the end of a universe.
When you will see a loyal friend cry as he sees his friend lose the battle of life, you will be seeing the end of a universe.
Those are all tragic ends to what was a universe of its own, because, after all, as Rumi said, “We are the universe in ecstatic motion”, and as Sagan reminds us, we’re “made of star stuff”, aren’t we?
You’ll witness the end of those universes, and you’ll still be able to have coffee in the morning, in your own universe.

These people around us, struggling to make ends meet. The lonely kid at the school cafeteria wanting to share his mom’s sandwiches. The tired girl treasuring the silence of the night. The sick, old mother waiting for her son. These are all the salt and pepper, an entire cosmos of hidden emotions and beating hearts. And watching these universes disperse with a light that almost blinds your heart, is what makes Time so cruel, doesn’t it? It’s what I call the ‘Twenty-fifth Hour’ – that very intangible moment in the vastness of Time that will not be sorry for its existence as it will alter your perception of life, and love, and loss.

Smiling on the wall sits the ancient clock,
Chiming away – tick, tock, tick, tock –
The day attends to your curiosity
And the night courts your dreams
And between the hours on the clock
walk our insensibilities.
The Hand of the Seconds laughs at you,
And my mind spins a tale that is beyond
The imagination of the elves
And my heart beckons to the minutes
To explain the happening miracle,
And as we slide away on the island of existence,
Our gaze looks afar, into the infinite,
Towards the twenty-fifth hour.

 

Advertisements

Good bye, Forensics! 

wp-image-4673027981

As the sixth semester of medical school draws to an end, I realise that my initial interest in the subject waned into pure disgust and never have I despised a subject as much as I have despised forensic medicine; in simpler words, it is “the application of science to criminal and civil laws, mainly on the criminal side during criminal investigation, as governed by the legal standards of admissible evidence and criminal procedure.” In even simpler words, it is the realisation that the human mind can be a diabolic powerhouse of wrecking smiles and joys through acts of ‘homicide’ and ‘murder’ that may lead to ‘asphyxia’ (a condition arising when the body is deprived of oxygen, causing unconsciousness or death; suffocation). It is the realisation that I’m alive only because my soul has an undeniable relationship with my body and when they divorce, all that will be left will be my soul for the body will be ‘putrefied‘. It is the realisation that while I can not save my body from being the food of rodents and ants, I can save my soul from being victimised by greed, lust, lack of empathy, arrogance, wantonness, miserliness, ostentation, hatred, iniquity, and envy. It is the realisation that I must invest in my soul. It is the realisation that the glamour of this world will end with the end of the last note of my heartbeat, and that could be at the hands of another mortal or even by its natural course, but it will end and what then? That. What then

In the blink of an eye, three years have flown by. Before I know it, I will be breathing my last. So, whatever little time we have left on this huge ball of water and soil, we must spend it with love because there’s so much love in there, buried deep within, for everyone. We’re all in the same boat. All of us. All of us trying to be happy, trying to find ourselves – mind and soul – and not get lost in the maze of what seems to be buzzing around, and to have an identity of our own, one that is not lost in the crowd, one that sets us all apart. 

So, I guess all those hours of sitting through gross depictions of what ‘death’ really looks like paid off: the seconds between this breath and the next is what the ancient phenomenon of time really is, and if it’s all that is left, then I’d rather live it to combat hate with love, apathy with kindness, pessimism with optimism. 



Moms and Dads 

 

This post first appeared here: https://zuatlas.wordpress.com/2017/01/23/moms-and-dads/

 

misc
PHOTO CREDITS: HADIA KHANANI

 

 

During your clinical years, you come across numerous patients, and each one of them brings out a different you – introducing yourself to the you that you thought never existed, preparing yourself for the absolute worst, helping you empathise with people you have usually always never thought about.

 

Taking down histories during your clinical rotations is really that; behind sentences heavy with medical jargon that describe ‘presenting complaints’, lies the real presenting complain. These medical histories are life stories, laden with broken hearts and unshared pain. And this is what I realised as I noted down ‘G5P1+3’ while taking down the history of a pregnant lady. Her first child – a son – had drowned in a water tank. She had three miscarriages after that. And now she was pregnant again. A precious pregnancy. And what affected me the most was the way she was holding up; her coping mechanism.

 

Having now seen several patients with histories of miscarriages, it just makes me wonder what the parents go through after each one of them. Especially the mothers; to carry a part of you and your husband inside you, to feel the feel of life growing inside you, to understand that God wants you to bring a new life and hence, a new generation into this world – a new Einstein or a new Shakespeare or a new Neil Armstrong or a new Sadequain or a new Rumi – to know that your life will be responsible for another life; and then suddenly, it’s not there anymore. It’s gone. As magically as it came, it’s gone. And a void is left behind, the kind that no other daughter or son can fill. How do you mourn the death of someone you can’t even lower in a grave? How do you mourn the death of someone you haven’t laid your eyes on? But you’ve felt their feel, you’ve felt their existence because the news of their arrival – expected arrival – had you jumping with a special kind of joy that only super-humans called parents are familiar with, and your heart seemed bigger than before and the tinkling in your spine was the kind that only your spouse felt because it was his and yours. How do they do that? When they are asked how many children do you have, what do they say? How do they feel looking at other children, even their own? Do they forever question why it happened? How does it feel to miss a child you only felt, but never saw? Do you still shed silent tears? Doesn’t it forever tear their heart apart? The mere thought of it is so devastating, so painful. It breaks your heart, doesn’t it? Because while your mind may acknowledge the medical explanation for a ‘miscarriage’, your heart cannot accept why your little love was taken away from you.

 

But you know what, Moms and Dads? You are not alone. You are never alone..you never were. Your baby is up there, smiling down at you, asking God to keep you away from thorns. And one day, one fine day, you’ll get to embrace them in the warmth of the love that is only, and only theirs! You will.

 Make A Difference 

FMHC, Ziauddin University Hospital, Clifton.

It’s nothing aesthetic. And you’ve seen boxes like these so many times, in so many places – hospitals, shops, supermarkets, at the chemist’s. Boxes like these – awaiting your donations – are sometimes, the only difference between life and death, between health and sickness.
Money is a necessity for some, a luxury for others, and an unconscious obsession for everyone. And charity? Either a religious obligation or an easy road towards a good reputation.
Economizing is an art, a skill.
When we’re busy having fun eating delicacies and buying clothes not worth the exorbitant price, let us not forget to remind ourselves that as the privileged, we owe something to the underprivileged – let us give out charity, not for God’s reward or the world’s applause, but because it’s our responsibility. Let us give out charity so that nobody avoids going to the doctor out of fear of not being able to afford the treatment.

“It’s not how much we give but how much love we put into giving.” – Mother Teresa

Let us give out charity so that everyone can be happy – they can be happy, you can be happy.

“A bone to the dog is not charity. Charity is the bone shared with the dog, when you are just as hungry as the dog.” – Jack London

Sometimes, your patients help you more than you help them

 

wp-image-485296318jpg.jpg
FMHC, Ziauddin University Hospital

 

“Sister, will you get me some juice?” the boy thrust a hundred rupee note towards the third year medical student.
“Juice? But there’s no canteen here. Where do I get you a juice from?”
“Son, come here. I’ll buy you a juice later,” his mother intervened.
She turned towards the amused student.
“Doctor, he is bugging me for this since morning. I’ll buy him some on our way back,” she was embarrassed.
“There’s actually no canteen here otherwise I would have bought him some,” it was her turn to be embarrassed.
The medical student got busy taking histories of the patients lined up in the waiting room of the Family Medicine Clinic. Schizophrenia, vaccinations, diarrhea; amidst the more grave pathologies of the human body, the student simply forget the little boy whose only problem seemed to be an unfulfilled craving for juice. But not for long. As she turned away from her last patient, she saw him again. This time, he was sitting with a pack of crisps and sipping on mango juice.
“Got your juice?” she smiled at him.
“Yesss!” he nodded his head with a firmness that was nothing but joyful. Simple, little joys.
His mother looked at him fondly.
The student smiled and gave him a thumbs-up.
Sometimes, your patients help you more than you help them.

Perfection 

When you’re reading about the intricate workings of the central nervous system, you inadvertently end up thinking about how God thought of every little detail that keeps you alive today – living and breathing and loving and caring. You realize that the fluid flowing through one of the most important channels of your body is probably what keeps you on your toes. And how and why is it even there in the first place? Because you were chosen to be here, at this very moment.
The detailed Perfection that now proudly treads on the earth, is thanklessly dependent on the composition of simple chemical fluids, and the location of tiny foramens.

 

Tsk, that is the truth of our existence, of our lives, and of those around us.
Tch, such are we!