an itinerant observer

Illustration / Photo-credit: Ansul Noor 1 am. The witching hour had passed. But for us ER doctors, the hours have no name. It was a chilly October night and a Twilight-Zone calmness gripped the steely corridors of the General ER of Dubai Hospital where I worked. The fog of silence languidly crept through every examination room lending an almost dream- like air of solitude to the usually jam packed and chaotic world of trauma and emergencies. For an ER doctor, lack of chaos can be distracting and I battled to keep my wits about me and stay busy in my head since the quiet had started to creep inside my soul as well. Before 1 am. I set about applying the finishing touches to a few admission notes; a man in his 50’s with liver cirrhosis, a child with febrile convulsions, and finally, a lady who had presented with an acute abdomen and anemia. With little gap between patient intakes, I scurried from one room to the other, preparing all the initial lab/diagnostic work-u

It didn’t happen Hasan. There was no   6 am   phone call on the   12th of January . We didn’t tell Amu, who became numb with shock. We didn’t jump into the car and make our way to the hospital; our sobs turning into moans of bewilderment. I didn’t see your mother walk out of the gate, turn around and see me running towards her, as if she was sleepwalking. I didn’t see her stunned face crumple in disbelief I didn’t catch her as her knees buckled. The four of us didn’t huddle on the dewy road outside the hospital, crying, watched by curious bystanders. I didn’t get in the ambulance with your shrouded body; stroking your covered hands and face, trying to memorize the feel of you. I didn’t stare at my sister in anguished silence as she looked into my eyes uncomprehendingly, desperately, saying   ‘maaro dikro* …maaro DIKRO!” I didn’t hear Lumyah crying out,   “But he’s only thirteen.” You didn’t just die in your sleep Hasan, my boy. Your parents d

Illustration / Photo-credit: Ansul Noor Scar Healer never far from the wound its throbbing pain dripping blood warming a being fast becoming pain Labourer embroiled in toil sending trickles of salted sweat titillating thirst tingling the pain of hunger satisfying the lust of oblivious exhaustion Seeker carrying a knowing of the destination its tangled co-ordinates locked tight in his throbbing bosom a chest of charms glistening treasure Lover hovering in flames of brimming fire, barely contained heat, pouring pain into a yielding receptacle awaiting to glow embers within Sinner locked in a Utopia of Paradise in veiled grasp, awaiting divinity, that instant of light which makes shadows real Healer never far from the wound its throbbing pain dripping blood warming a being fast becoming pain [from Narrative Medicine]     CREDITS : About the Author: Alya Mian is a psychologist and therap

Illustration / Photo-credit: Saniya Kamal Every story has a beginning, middle and an end. This is my story - a story which had a happy, energetic beginning…a beginning which was to blossom into a vivacious and thriving middle, but was soon ravaged by a chronic disease. A beginning which soon plummeted to its precarious end.  This is the story of a doctor who knew the symptoms and complications of a chronic illness in her patients, but in a cruel twist of fate became the one suffering from that illness. This is the story of a newlywed 24 year old woman who had to face the questions written on the faces of people in terror.  This is the story of a pregnant mother, who was desperate to salvage her story for her future son. It began while I was a house officer in the medicine ward of a large federal government tertiary care hospital. I used to work for 36 hours straight, due to my passion for medicine and my dedicated, devoted personality. The head of my department lauded me for