Hardly anyone forgets a first.
As a medical student, the first nurse I worked with on a pediatric ward was the formidable Ms. Shanta, who left a lasting impression. She wasted no time correcting a few cocky students, efficiently and without ceremony. “An old nurse is any day better than a new doctor,” she would say. And she was right.
Just as one never forgets a first kiss, one also never forgets a first house call. And specializing as I did in geriatrics included becoming a specialist in house calls.
At the university where I did my fellowship, the university contracted with a hospice company, which provided me with my first exposure to house calls, as well as to interdisciplinary teams—including social workers, chaplains, and volunteers. The hospice case manager was Nurse R, a seasoned 30-year veteran. She invited me to ride with her, zipping through Chicago’s narrow streets in her station wagon and parking in impossibly tight spots.
Two Drops of Relief Read More »
A doctor rarely imagines becoming a victim of workplace violence leading to chronic pain. I was a young, idealistic geriatrician fresh out of my training when I began working in a memory care facility. It was a high-turnover unit, with residents dying or moving and new patients with dementia admitting almost daily.
“Life without hope is like a bathroom without soap,” our mathematics teacher Mr. R—who often lapsed into unexpected philosophical musings—said aloud to a class of seventh graders.
The class of twelve-year-olds burst into giggles, finding it funny.
It took me a decade to realize the profoundness of the loss embedded in that statement.
A Bathroom without Soap Read More »
Starting to see hospitalized patients saved my life.
I can’t count the number of times I thought about quitting during my preclinical years of medical school. But in India, quitting or switching careers felt like suicide. I hated dissecting dead people, pithing living frogs, peering into microscopes, dropping chemicals into a terrified bunny’s eyes. But I wasn’t ready to say goodbye to the medical world, so I slogged on, earned good grades, and eventually reached the clinical part of medical school.
A Life Saved in the Hospital Read More »
I was 25 years old when I started my internship. My heart palpitated on my first day, as I made rounds on a long patient list. I was dressed in a long skirt and blouse under my white coat. My raven hair, brown eyes, and Indian accent made me stand out.
All my patients were cooperative and my day was going well—until I got to my last patient.
Mrs. S was a frail lady with tightly permed silver hair. Peeking out from under her covers, she took one look at me and asked in a Southern accent, “Who said you can enter?”
One of the first house calls I made during my internal medicine residency many years ago was to visit Mr. R: a 70-year-old veteran, retired electrician, devoted grandfather, and church volunteer who’d shown signs of memory loss for six years. His forgetfulness was initially dismissed as “senior moments.” Then he forgot his wife’s birthday—something he’d never done in 40 years.
The turning point came when he got lost after picking up his grandson from school. They were finally found two hours away, where a flustered Mr. R had been driving in circles. Taking away his car keys was traumatic, and subsequent memory testing confirmed a probable diagnosis of Alzheimer’s disease.
A Disease with Two Victims Read More »
As a noun, grit is defined as “courage and resolve, strength of character.” It often emerges in the face of great challenges. We associate grit with heroic figures: army captains holding their ground against tremendous odds, navy commanders saving sinking ships, air force pilots navigating disaster zones. Yet, many gritty individuals remain unsung heroes, quietly shaping lives. My maternal grandfather was one such hero.
A Legacy of Strength and Perseverance Read More »
An arranged marriage followed by childbirth within the next year was the lot of many Indian women for centuries.
Moving to the USA provided some reproductive freedom. With little support from extended family in a foreign land, I wanted to complete fellowship before having children, but the dreaded biological clock was ticking louder. I remember feeling conflicted: wanting to wait, but acutely aware of aging eggs. We decided there would never be a perfect time.
The Love of Her Labor Read More »
Had Dad not passed this month fifteen years ago, we would be celebrating his birthday today. He was born–and died–in October.
This was the time when India was still a British colony. Vaccinations, antibiotics and potable water were not yet available, and infant mortality from infectious disease was high. When dad was two years old, his mother noticed that her active baby went from running to limping, and his left leg looked strange. Terrified, she took him to a country doctor who diagnosed paralytic polio and stated that his leg would be paralyzed forever.
Sometimes I have to pinch myself. Is this really my twenty-fifth year of practice as a palliative care physician? My head is full of memories of caring for hundreds of patients as they navigate their final days of life.
Feeding Tubes – To Place or Not to Place? Read More »
Years ago, I had a bedridden patient—Mr. T—with extremely advanced Parkinson’s disease.
He was Caucasian, and the nurses warned me that he harbored extreme nationalist tendencies. Most of the caregivers in his nursing home were female and either immigrants from Africa or Black Americans. He was utterly cruel in his treatment of them. When they’d help transfer him from his bed to a wheelchair, for example, he tried to kick or punch them and issued a stream of profanities. His use of the B-word and the N-word was commonplace.
An Anti-Racism Pill? Read More »
