“I’m afraid it will not be possible.”
Once again, I repeated the same sentence to yet another patient’s family. The people begged and begged to have one last glance of a human being who was once full of life, and whom they still loved dearly. Death, especially under such sudden circumstances, could not be prepared for. Quite honestly, the current situation was not something I had fully understood or adapted to. I had never imagined that things would turn out like this.
When I was younger, I had wanted to become a fairy. Someone magical, brave, and kind. As I grew older, these wants shaped into a dream of becoming a doctor. I dreamed of saving lives, of imparting joyous news to hopeful families. I did not see the somber side of it.
A surgery failing is a rare case that doctors are well prepared to handle. A worldwide pandemic wiping out millions of lives, an international shortage of medical supplies, and the complete lack of knowledge about the disease was something none of us ever thought we would experience.
I have studied medicine my entire life. I have spent hours memorizing diseases and cures and learning exactly how to treat a patient with care and comfort. Every disease had a cure, that was the staple rule we worked by. However, how does one find a cure for a disease that has not even been fully analysed or understood? How do we tell our patient’s families that though we will try our best, luck will decide the fate of their loved one?
It wasn’t even about being unable to find a cure. We could not even provide treatment to some. People were clamouring for beds, begging to be assigned a spot, just so they had a chance to survive. I do not think I have ever seen our emergency rooms so full.
Even then, the huge problem of a shortage of oxygen cylinders loomed over us. Demand was massive, and supply was miniscule. Watching a patient slip away from between your fingers, knowing you could have saved them if only you had the means, is by far the worst experience a doctor can have.
During those days, at the peak of the pandemic, I barely went home. Every moment was precious, and every patient needed saving. There just wasn’t any time to spare.
Then the deaths started. We had already become accustomed to the fact that all the patients would not survive. That alone was hard enough to cope with. But watching our colleagues lose their battles with the virus and slowly leave us, was worse. Just like that, the stuffy PPE kits, the masks, the constant tests, all seemed useless. The doctors had knowingly taken the risk, yes, but one never really thinks of the consequences as real, do they?
Fear crept in. Not only were we struggling to save other people’s lives, but we were also fighting to keep our own. What would happen to my family if I was gone? Who would look after them?
Yet watching the desperate looks on people’s faces kept me going. I had taken up this career to save lives, I wasn’t going to abandon it for the fear of losing mine.
Some days, the world just became too much to handle. Work hours were longer. There were very few breaks for us to catch our breaths. There was a constant inflow of bad news about the increasing number of cases, but I realised that without the work we were doing here at the hospital, those numbers would be much higher. I would get moments of joy when I told anxious families that the patient had come through all right. Those tiny moments kept me going. This was my home, our home, and I was content knowing that I was doing my part, however small, to save it.
Then, I left the family to themselves, and went back. To do my job. To save the people who still had a fighting chance.
There are thousands of nameless doctors who have lost their lives to this war, who died so others could live, who fought to save our home, acting as our invisible army. They may not be remembered. But they will forever remain immortal in the hearts of the people of the world, for generations to come.
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