The clock strikes 7:30 pm. It is an odd time to strike, but it does. He sighs, with happiness. Again, it's odd, but he does. He packs up his things and leaves his clinic, fully aware that he has finished for the day. His blood has been drained. His voice is strained. His post op patients are alright and surgeries for tomorrow are all sorted. He's satisfied everyone and done his best (at least that's what he thinks he has done).
All his patients think of him as a good person. A polite person. Someone to look up to and who gives them the strength to fight their illnesses. (At least he thinks so).
Nevertheless he's done for the day. His cuffs are rolled up, tie is loosened as he gets into the car and now he's ready to be himself. Music is on, he's screaming out the lyrics of the Taylor Swift song (in his head, lest anyone see him). He's lighting up his favourite cigarette with his zippo lighter in one go and taking a deep drag, filling his lungs with the smoke and sending out wave after wave of white puffs. A smile washes over his face, as he imagines what a person would say if they saw him in his office clothes, enjoying something that is considered a health hazard. His hand clench the steering wheel harder as he's brought back to reality. There is no cigarette. He can't light it. What would people say?
Finally after a 1/2 hour drive he's reached his destination. A small quaint little joint in the corner of the city. Close to his home but yet he's hopeful no one will recognise him. Three of his old school pals wait outside as he’s late. They curse him but he knows THEY understand that patients are the priority. He curses them back for being early.
Before he gets out, he removes his tie and throws it in the bag. He doesn’t want to appear what he’s supposed to portray to the society. He’s dropping his facade for the next few hours.
The next 2-3 hours fly by as he and the guys discuss politics and cricket and the latest dating apps over the cheapest whiskey. Two are married. None of the three are doctors. Conversation revolves around the past carefree days, fresh mutual funds to punt on, cars, bikes and whatever. Cursing is passé. His friend hears his joke and pipes up, “what kind of doctor says this stuff?”
As they stand outside, this time he does light up his cigarette and take a few drags. All the while, his mind in a haze of alcohol, he hopes no one will stop by and say hello. He prays no one will recognise him and stop to have a chat. What will they say? “Does this doctor drink and smoke?”
“What kind of doctor is he?”
Finally the night is over, bidding adieu to the three amigos he trudges home with the thoughts of next day already in his mind. Luckily, nothing to operate. Nothing early. He gets in to the house on the first attempt with the keys and is immediately at attention as he cannot let people think that he is out of control.
He pops a painkiller and an antacid to ensure the morning is smooth and lights out.
As the morning lights up, he’s up by 8:30. His phone is ringing off and on. Today seems to be a day where it may be busy. He’s happy that there is work and he’s in demand. It is a cut throat world and even in his profession being available is key. Barely finished breakfast and he’s answering calls with the slick mannerism of a trained call centre employee.
“Yes ma’am, I will be there by 2.” “Yes sir I will be able to help your son on a phone call.” “No sir, it is not my area of expertise but I will refer you to a colleague.”
There is a happiness in his heart when his phone rings and people want him. People need him. It feeds his desire to be wanted. What kind of a doctor doesn’t want to work more?
He leaves his home with a smile and a wave to his wife, wishing her a great day and hoping to have one himself.
Prayers are said, to ensure that he has conveyed his gratitude to the Gods and they help him to do their will. He is God fearing.
The day passes by, not by the hour, but by patient to patient. Each one unique and each one exacting his/her toll on him. Each one giving him their absolute trust. Each one giving him happiness.
One has a specific issue which he can help. The other is insanely nonspecific and expects him to bow to his every whim. He smiles graciously and attends to each. He hopes no one is dissatisfied, because after all it is a consumer-service provider relationship. There are some that he wants to help but cannot, because of his lack of expertise/experience.
A brief pause in the work and he puts up his feet on a chair and listens to some music. Well, he tried. The phone rings and someone wants him to attend an emergency. He does so, willingly and happily, because he’s needed.
His clothes have to be proper. He must not be unkempt. Are his shoes clean? Why is there an ink stain on your shirt? Can you believe his thoughts? He knows these things don’t matter. Yet, he also knows they do.
He has to ensure that he’s taken seriously. He has to ensure he has empathy. He has to do his best every 20-25 minutes.
Because he might have seen 20 patients and number 21 is just walking in. But for each he is the only one.
He has to be at his best. Every time. For however long it takes.
The gap between patients, sometimes 5 minutes, sometimes hours, is his “me time”. Unwind with a chat on WhatsApp with close friends. Candy crush or even just browsing the net. That is his time. People wonder what kind of doctor has all the time in the world to be in touch?
He has ensured there is an intimation given to him before a patient is sent in. He doesn’t want to get caught laughing out loud over a joke, or cursing the latest political gaffe trying to lord over the healthcare system, in front of a patient. He’s afraid of being judged. “What kind of a doctor is he? Should we take him seriously?”
His thoughts wander. He thinks about how he reached this place. The natural talent he may not have but he has worked hard and reached this place by the will of Almighty. He can cure people. He can help people. An ordinary person can be made happy and relieved or be subject to despair and finality, based on his word.
Does he want this ability? Is it too hard some days? Or is it a high that no drug can match?
There are great days. He feels he’s on top of the world. He feels invincible and is smiling and happy all day long.
There are days it is hard. Days where there has been a complication. How could he mess up? It isn’t allowed. He can’t take it and succumbs to the pressure. He may sound irritated to his patients and not really communicate. Those days he regrets because he is SUPPOSED to be made of stronger mettle. “Why did he do that?” “Isn’t he supposed to have his shit together?”
“Why would a DOCTOR speak out like that?”
He has been lost in these myriad thoughts when the phone rings and a patient walks in. He sighs. With a final thought, that lets push these thoughts out of mind. Because the one walking in needs you at your best.
After 15 minutes when the patient walks out smiling and thankful and says those words as well (THANK YOU DOCTOR), he sighs again. (He’s quite the melodramatic person). This time though, it is a sigh of satisfaction.
Once again the clock strikes 7:30 pm. He’s happy again and carefree. His mind is already with his friends and family. He’s off work, his tie is loose. Today, he remembers The Office and smiles wishfully remembering Jim and Pam. As he drives home he recounts his experience of the day. What could he have done better? Where did he think he lacked? Which patient could he have helped more?
As he rests his tired head, the thought will never cease to be at the back of his mind, because every thing he does or says, is now looked upon by two sets of eyes. His own, most importantly. Secondly, the society and people living in it. They both ask the same question.
“WHAT KIND OF DOCTOR ARE YOU?”
Him or Him?
