an itinerant observer

Illustration / Photo-credit: Saniya Kamal [inspired by Dali's 'persistence of memory' ] “How much time do I have?” Very few fortunate brain tumor patients (such an oxymoron) had the sad opportunity of asking this themselves. Most of the time the question was asked by someone from the family. But the question always came up, so it was by no means unexpected. But much earlier than I expected. Or liked. How I dreaded answering it. He was 35, tall for his ethnic background but still short for the global average. Brownish, medium weight when I first met him, but much lighter now after all the ‘treatments’ he had received. He was part of the country’s shrinking educated, middle class, an engineer working for a local firm, apparently doing really well. With him used to be his wife, a pretty girl, a few years younger and a mother of two, a boy and girl, neither older than three. The wife hardly ever participated in the discussions. I once met his parents too, but the

Illustration / Photo-credit: Ansul Noor Her Sister Your arm is draped Around her shoulder, Her weeping face rests On the small of your chest. She sobs and looks towards The cancer ridden remains Of what she thought Was still her sister. CLEAR. The body bounces, But remains lifeless. The doctor calls The time of death; Offers her condolences And ushers the staff Out of the room. She forces herself free Of your embrace And moves towards the bed; Her palpitating hands Caress the cold remains, Of what she thought Was still her sister. And you picture that moment Two hours back, When you stealthily Made your way Behind the bed, And managed to disconnect The oxygen tank From the corpse - That wasn’t her sister.  [from Narrative Medicine]     CREDITS : About the Poet: Dr. Taha Sabri , AKU MBBS Class of 2014, has  eclectic interests in poetry and the performing arts. He is also actively invol

Photo-credit: Saniya Kamal, AKU MBBS '18 We're doctors. 'Be strong, ' they tell us. 'Always be professional,' they add.  'You must never get emotionally attached to a patient, ' they insist. But then, once in a while, you come across someone who makes you break all those rules; all the boundaries that you had set for yourself. The water breaks through the dam, pushes out and finds the life it belongs to. And by water, I mean actual waterworks. So I met a patient in the ward today. And I realize that because of the Hippocratic Oath, I am not allowed to say who, what, when or where (but whatever, who needs those anyway); a story can still teach us the most important lesson ever learnt, without mentioning any of those insignificant details. One, of human values: respect for the most basic thing - the human relationship. She was an 86-year-old lady (see how I avoided the 'who' - demographics don't matter), suffering from a s

Illustration/Photo-credit: Saniya Kamal The life so short,  the art so long to learn Opportunity fleeting, experience treacherous Judgement difficult Hippocrates  'Of Medicine’ Learning in medicine is a lifelong occupation. Apart from the books, patients are the main source for one's medical education. But as doctors we rarely give them credit for what we learn from them. In our busy lives and even busier practices, patients are reduced to `cases' and `cases' to a set of signs and symptoms. Cases are only interesting when they present in an unusual manner or are rare. The fact is that like an individual, every `case' is unique and every patient, no matter how common his illness, a rare learning experience.   On the first day of House Job at the Civil Hospital, Karachi, Pakistan I am allotted 'my' beds -  eight in all. They are a mixture of hernias and hemorrhoids, appendicitis and cholecystitis. On two beds are young boys - 10 and 1