A Doctor’s Journey: From Student To Healer, Facing A Mentor’s Illness
I had a teacher in my third year of med school, Dr. T. He taught us pediatrics. At that time, he was the head of the department of pediatrics in the busiest teaching hospital in our city, where I was working.
Every day, hundreds of children from far-flung areas are referred to our hospital with complications due to sub-optimal treatment received in their local areas, as we lack essential medications in our small hospitals and dispensaries. Health care is the least of priorities in our country.
Dr. T was not only a great teacher but also an excellent clinician who knew how to handle all the pressure of extreme patient load. He saw each child as if he or she were one of his children.
He was always available round the clock for assistance to his residents in the management of those sick children. He was filthy rich and didn’t have any other reason to work this much, just his passion and endless love for children.
He trained a lot of students, who are now serving as pediatricians in different cities of Pakistan.
In our country, the usual retirement age is 60, meaning he was below 60. He was a very tall, handsome man who was always very well-dressed, really authoritative but polite personality. I idolized him and wished to be a doctor and a teacher like him.
After I completed my med school and internship year in 2018, I met him a year later when my younger brother got sick. We took him to his private clinic, and my brother needed to see him only once, and after that, he got better.
Dr. T was still the same.
We didn’t meet again until last year, when I saw him in the oncology floor corridor one day. I thought he must be with some patient. After he left, I asked the staff, and they said he came for his consultation.
I was terrified, and when I looked into his medical records, I found out that he had been diagnosed with metastatic CA rectum. He had liver, bone, and lung metastasis and had received multiple lines of chemotherapy at some outside facility.
He came to see us because his PET scan showed progression and impending cord compression at some spinal level due to metastases, thoracic, I guess, I don’t remember exactly now.
I was so disturbed by his diagnosis that when he came again on the radiation day, I talked to him about the radiation treatment, steroids, pain management, and all of his treatment plans, but I couldn’t tell him that I was his student.
He didn’t recognize me at all, after all those years maybe because I looked quite different from med school now.
I don’t know why I couldn’t tell him I was one of his students.
Later on, over one year, we did his palliative radiation therapy for multiple cervical, thoracic, and lumbar vertebrae and many other osseous Mets. I made his radiation plans myself, God knows how many.
But I am sure of one thing I have always seen him smiling. I never saw him complaining of pain. As he was quite a well-known and famous doctor in the city, and obviously, he didn’t want other people’s pity, he would always come at 7 a.m., and he was always the first person to get treatment.
He maintained his dignity throughout the treatment. I don’t know if I should call it dignity or whatever because I don’t know the accurate word for this.
I want to share what I felt throughout his treatment. On my first encounter with him, when I saw that his disease was progressing on a lot of chemotherapy and immunotherapy, and he had literally metastasis all over his body, I was only worried about the chances of him developing brain mets.
I had sleepless nights, dreading the thoughts of him developing different kinds of possible neurological deficits. Actually, now, when I think retrospectively, I know this feeling: I was afraid of him getting bedridden or dependent on someone.
I was afraid of seeing such an intelligent man feeling helpless or having memory problems or any neurological deficit.
I never wished that he ever get the news that he has a few months to live; although being an experienced physician himself, he must be familiar with his disease progression and all possible outcomes.
I shared my thoughts with my friends at that time that throughout his treatment, I’ve been afraid of hearing the news of his demise one day. He was fighting bravely, but I was struggling to accept that he would be going to leave us soon.
I cried a lot of tears just praying for his life. But I also prayed that — Dear God, please don’t make him paralyzed or dependent on someone before death.
A few days back, I heard the news of him passing away in his sleep. I became disturbed for many days, but I didn’t cry a lot this time because now I was at peace knowing that he had transitioned into another life without pain and becoming dependent on someone else.
I’ve learned that oncology doesn’t always require exploring the best treatment options for our patients according to their health, comorbidities, and financial status, the thing that is of utmost importance is our empathy and the sincerity of the intention with which we treat our patients.
I know how much we pray and try, we can’t save anyone because we don’t have the outcomes in our hands except the effort we can make for our patients. It was a miracle that he lived for this long with such extensive disease and maintained his quality of life as well.
I’ve also learned that sometimes God accepts our prayers differently, and we can’t realize his mercy and plans due to our limited intellect and foresight.
Transitioning into another life in a pain-free state is far better than being in pain and living a life dependent on someone for years.
The last thing I have on my mind is that how much we try, we can never control our sensitivity, how much we try because that is an integral part of our humanness.
I still regret that in all my meetings with him, I wasn’t able to tell him that I was one of his students. That is how much I adored him, how much I loved him. How important he was to me, and how much I had prayed for him.
I wish I had spent quality time with him not as a treating physician but as a loving student who had considered him a fatherly figure for years. I wish I had told him that during all of his treatment, I didn’t feel myself once as a knowledgeable oncologist; I was just a kid who was frightened of losing him at any moment.
I have decided that from now on, I won’t hesitate to share my feelings with a loved one. I’ll not judge myself and overthink about feeling emotions for my patients because I have realized that I might lose them one day. I don’t want to live with this regret later on that I should have expressed myself. I’ll face my fears and try to do whatever I can, for my patients, to the best of my ability.
May he rest in peace always. Amen.
I am a physician working in oncology (a sub-specialty of medicine that deals with caring for cancer patients) in Islamabad, Pakistan.
I can be reached at https://www.linkedin.com/in/damanezehra1993/
