These days, more often than not doctors are seen as the villains of the piece. Malpractice, negligence and greed are the common charges associated with the profession today. What is not often known or understood by many is that there are bad eggs here as in any other field. The hard-working, self-sacrificing or just commonplace-efficient doctors don’t make for exciting stories or high TRPs. Also overlooked is their human face – the men and women who have worked for meagre pay and scarce rewards through their youth. Nobody tells the story of their fatigue and frustration, and the forlorn nights of their lives, as they go about juggling their own personal tragedies and insecurities, with the disease and death of their patients. Here is a versified glimpse of it all.
We hold a lot in our unsure hands,
Lives, limbs and hopes of man.
He trusts us with his faith and prayers,
To steer through a quagmire to safer havens.
Confident, even cocksure of our abilities,
Of wisdom gained on the strength of our expertise,
We look upon a soul like a code to be deciphered,
A jigsaw to be solved, an engine to be jumpstarted.
While they navigate the maze walking or waltzing,
We strut down corridors, a spring in our steps.
All the science, the logic; drugs and magic,
Are ours to command, ours to dispense.
The harbinger of despair announces itself innocuously enough,
A number that is off or an alarm that sounds.
Responses are varied, it sits with a certain mind,
The turn of the day or the circumstance.
Is it an annoying blip that will soon fade away,
Or a momentary setback to rally round during the day?
Presently, though, realisation dawns and our countenance is drawn
Haunting the bedside wondering what went wrong.
Hiding from kin, fighting to keep despair at bay,
Hoping for a turnaround at the dawn of day.
Prayers at a premium and blessings scarce,
We breathe deep sighs, at wits end, desperate.
The once-hopeful eyes spear you with a million questions,
Did you do what was right? Did we act a little too late?
Should we apportion the blame?
Or is it something you would take.
‘What might have been’ is a lonely cemetery,
In there you’ll find a youth who was his mother’s glory,
A father, no more his little girl’s sanctuary,
A husband, a sweetheart, those promises of eternity.
When the last shock is given and the final plug pulled,
A strange languidness settles in my limbs - a warm relief.
Records are written and the chapter is closed,
We move on to our tomorrow, to the autumn that is to come.
The author is a senior consultatnt. Email: drhemanair@gmail.com
