BrainTumors

It was a Friday night in October of 2012. While our three kids were in high school, Friday nights in the fall meant that my husband and I were in the football stands. We enjoyed the games, but we were really there to see the marching band perform at halftime.

But this night was different. My husband and seventeen year old son had arrived directly from the hospital. Our son, S., had received a CT scan to see if his paranoid delusions were caused by a brain tumor.

When it came time to march, he performed perfectly, hitting all the notes on his trumpet and keeping up with the beat.

Yet outside of those fifteen minutes, he was barely functioning. He was deeply suspicious of everyone around him. He moved in slow motion, and couldn’t read or really concentrate. He looked terrible.

After marching, he couldn’t find his trumpet case. His best friend’s dad went on the field, found it, and held it open for him. That image is burned in my memory.

S. saw a psychiatrist nine days after he first showed signs of psychosis. One of his delusions was that I was evil. He refused to look at me. The doctor prescribed Abilify, and within a half hour of taking it, he looked me in the eye and smiled.

The psychiatrist wanted him to stay home from school. But my husband and I campaigned to have him attend his first hour class, which was band. My husband sat in the back of the class. S. couldn’t lift his head to take in the room. But once again, he could play his trumpet.

After he successfully marched in a competition, I asked him how he managed. “Muscle memory,” was his explanation.

He attended classes in the computer lab for the second half of the year. He went to prom with his best friend, riding in a limo with a bunch of kids. At his senior supper, there was a mock Academy Awards ceremony. His classmates voted him Best Music.

The other winners swaggered and mugged through their speeches, as kids will do. But S. said, “Thanks, everyone. I’ll miss you.” The simplicity of those words touched people.

Over one hundred people came to his graduation Open House- the same number as his older brother. Somehow, his illness didn’t alienate anyone. He even grew closer to his best friend.

The psychiatrist balked at his college plan, which was to live in an off campus apartment with his brother and two friends. But once again, my husband and I believed that he would be ok. He was accepted into the college’s marching band, and joined a music fraternity.

The life that had been shattered a year previously was mending. S. was thriving. His psychiatrist called him one of his biggest success stories.

Today, he is thirty years old, but in some ways still stuck in adolescence. He is self-absorbed, constantly trying to sort out his identity. He doesn’t make enough money to live on his own, and he’s never had a serious relationship.

But his life could be so much worse. I’ve talked with him about the role that music has played in his recovery. I’ve researched it, but I haven’t found a specific study about its effect on schizophrenia. I really believe it’s healed his brain.

S. also plays keyboard and has tried guitar. He’s taken voice lessons, and joined a community choir and a community band. He was a writing major, and he’s dabbled in short stories. Lately, he’s been serious about macro photography. He likes to draw and has tried painting.

I had an epiphany yesterday. The positive symptoms of schizophrenia- delusions, halluciations, hearing voices- are often resolved by medication. But negative symptoms like a lack of motivation, depression, and a flat affect are much harder to treat.

My realization was this: I think S. has an instinct to avoid passive ways of spending his free time. He dislikes watching TV, and he often wants to create music instead of listening to it. He may know somehow that he needs to have active engagement in things so he won’t lose function.

So maybe music has saved my son. I don’t know for sure. But a cool thing is that his best friend has a tattoo of a trumpet behind her ear to honor him. He really does play the best music I’ve ever heard.

#Bipolar #Depression #GAD #OCD #PTSD

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