BrainTumors

They say the stethoscope is a symbol of trust, care, and scientific authority. I say it's also a glorified necklace I once wore for 10 straight hours, forgetting it around my neck like a medical-themed fashion fail.

But here’s the truth nobody tells you: that cold steel instrument may listen to hearts, but it never taught me how to handle one when it's breaking.
Not a single medical textbook warned me that medicine is 60% science, 30% soul, and 10% Google searches I pretend I didn't make.

So here it is—a prescription of lessons I learned the hard way. Lessons that have no billing code, no discharge summary, and no YouTube tutorial.
1. “How to Not Cry in the Bathroom Between Patients”

Let’s start with a classic. Nothing in medical school prepares you for the first time a child dies in your care. Or the day you have to call a family and say, “I’m so sorry, we did everything we could.”

Spoiler: you did, but it won’t feel like enough.

So you go to the bathroom, hug your stethoscope like a comfort blanket, and let silent tears fall—because you're the “strong doctor,” remember?

That’s the moment medicine becomes more than a degree—it becomes human.
2. “How to Speak Grief in 10 Seconds or Less”

In the movies, it’s all soft music and perfectly timed tears.
In real life, grief looks like a mother grabbing your hand and begging, “Please. Just one more try.”

What do you say when science has reached its limits, but their hope hasn’t?

You say:
"I'm here."
"I'm sorry."
"I'll stay."

You hold the silence, not because it’s comfortable, but because it's the only language that makes sense.
3. “That Laughter is a Medical Intervention”

Once, a 6-year-old patient with a bald head and the sass of a teenage diva told me:
“Doc Apu, your lipstick is brighter than my future.”

We both burst out laughing.
That moment was medicine.
Not IV fluids. Not chemo.
Laughter. That was the dose we both needed.

I prescribed her jelly beans and gave myself permission to be human.

4. “How to Translate Between ‘Google MD’ and Real Life”

Patient: “I think I have a brain tumor. Google says so.”
Me: “Actually, you have a migraine. And maybe too much screen time.”
Patient: “But I matched all 7 symptoms!”

Stethoscope didn’t teach me to debunk internet-induced panic with empathy, patience, and memes. But now, I do it daily—with a smile, some reassurance, and occasionally a cat video.
5. “That Sometimes, I’m the One Who Needs Healing”

When my father passed away, I went back to the hospital 72 hours later.
Because I thought, healing others will heal me.
But instead, I ended up treating someone else's father while mine was still cold in the ground.

That day, I realized:
I can’t pour from an empty cup—even if I wear a white coat.

And that’s okay.

6. “That My Hijab Isn’t a Barrier—It’s My Superpower”

Yes, I wear a hijab.
No, it doesn't affect my hearing through the stethoscope (I checked).
Yes, some people stare.
And yes, some patients trust me even more because of it.

Because my hijab doesn’t make me less of a doctor—it makes me a whole person.
Visible. Grounded. Sacred.

7. “That Every ‘Case’ is a Human Story”

Behind every “chest pain” is a father with three daughters.
Behind every “abdominal mass” is a woman who once danced barefoot in the rain.

The stethoscope hears the heartbeat.
But the heart hears the story.

And if we forget the story, we forget to heal.

My stethoscope is a faithful companion.
It swings from my neck like a badge of responsibility.
But the truth is—
what it couldn’t teach me, life did.
What it couldn’t hear, my heart did.

So here’s to the lessons from hospital beds, prayer rugs, mother’s tears, and children’s jokes.
The ones that made me not just a doctor…
But a healer. A listener. A feeler. A woman who holds lives in both hands—and sometimes, let them go.

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#whitecoatwhispers #empathyinmedicine #humansideofhealthcare #Doctorlife

Today, I’m going to send my mom the briefest of texts: “Happy Mother’s Day, Mom. I love you.”

She isn’t going to respond.

The reason is very complicated. Suffice it to say that my parents are 88, and sorting through the facts of an abusive act by one of their children is beyond them at this stage of their lives. They’d rather avoid the whole thing, and to blame the victim.

There is great irony in this stance. When my mom was seven, her ten-year-old sister stayed home from school one day with a cold. She died that day. My mom wasn’t allowed to attend her funeral. Her father made it a rule that no one could even say her name. It wasn’t until my mom was 25 that she learned that her sister was born with a brain tumor.

As a result of this dysfunction, my mom went overboard in personal honesty with us. I happily exploited her openness to absurd lengths. I sat in the kitchen with her as she worked, “interviewing” her with inappropriate questions that she always answered. Will you rate the four of us kids by looks? (I came in second). Which one of us would you grieve the most if we died? (One of my twin brothers, because “he needs me most”). Were you and Dad virgins when you married? (Mom: yes, Dad: no). She never told me I was out of bounds, even when I clearly was.

I wore the shirt in the photo every day for I’m not sure how long when I was three. I asked her once why she let me wear it so often. She responded, “You have so little control over things at that age. I couldn’t see any harm in it.” She was amazingly intuitive as a mom, following her own instincts instead of the prevailing cultural norms of the time. We went barefoot instead of wearing the recommended stiff white shoes. She didn’t buy a playpen so that we could roam freely. In my baby book is an essay about how children are cherished guests of their parents, not belongings.

My mom didn’t have the same instincts for raising teens, though. And she declared that she wouldn’t suffer any Empty Nest Syndrome. She was happy when we moved out, and she detached emotionally from us. I started a career and family without having her once ask how I was doing. I have grown kids now, and I can’t imagine treating our bond so carelessly.

Yet. She saved my shirt. And blessedly, the shirt survived our house fire. When I look at it, I see the woman I adore, the one so in tune with my feelings, who would answer my ridiculous questions. I can still feed off her warmth, her gentleness, the way her stomach rose and fell as she breathed more deeply than anyone I’ve ever known. For me, a child with anxiety that was off the charts, her quiet peace was an oasis for my troubled soul.

So today, I will celebrate my mom without her participation or recognition. I will let go of what she won’t give me, and be glad for what she did. I’ll never stop being a concerned, involved mom to my own kids. Most of all, I won’t underestimate those precious early days of tender connection.

Happy Mother’s Day, Mom. I love you.

#Bipolar #Depression #GAD #OCD #PTSD