Doctorlife

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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