How Far is too Far

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The contrast between the lives of two people is sometimes so stark that it baffles me. Keeps me preoccupied for days. And I am the kind of person who almost never thinks about patients after dealing with them.

They are mere subjects to me. Body parts. As callous and impersonal as that sounds, that is how I have always been. You could push me to my brink, I still wouldn't mix work with leisure. Some may call it a coping mechanism; some may call it a lack of empathy.

Choose your poison.

The one time I actually took work home with me, it wasn't even a patient of mine.

It must have been a Thursday or Friday, that little detail evades me. I had just gotten out of a very boring lecture and was making my way to the Gynaecology ward. A million thoughts swirled in my head. From the preceeding lecture and the stress of the upcoming ward test to a friend's odd behaviour to the realisation that we were never friends to begin with.

I trudged up the stairs of the Surgical building and reached the white marble hallway. I kept my head down, trying to make my way to the ward as quickly as possible instead of being sucked in the throng of people. Little did I know, I was going to get sucked in regardless.

I heard a sniffle to my right. A silent sob. I dared to lift my gaze to the source and found a woman comforting a younger one.

"All we can do is have sabr," the older woman said as she stroked the veil clad head of the young girl.

The man standing across the hallway asked the older woman, "What do we do about the funeral arrangements?"

I had seen people wail and raise hue and cry when their loved ones died in the OR. But here they were, a family, one less than they had arrived with. They cried silently. They did not scream to the heavens and God that the world was unfair. They did not blame the doctor who had been assigned to their loved one's care.

They accepted the cards they were entrusted with.

They accepted their dark fate.

Maybe it was their silent acceptance that would keep me thinking about them for the next three days. Or the fact that she gave me room to pass when she was clearly in agony.

I had just taken a left turn to the Gynaecology Ward when I almost bumped into a man. He was holding a newborn baby. Maybe a son, maybe a daughter. He held it close to his chest like a precious jewel, and smiled down at the baby like that little bundle was his entire world.

It was then, that I realised my throat felt a little tighter than it had been a minute ago. And as I beheld the contrast of life and death, I wondered how far would it take to push me over the brink of feelings, how much would it take for the flood of emotions to let loose.

How far, would be too far?

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Maheen Mansoor

FJMU'22 





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