A 67-year-old man, a known case of metastatic liver cancer, was brought to my emergency department a few weeks ago with severe abdominal pain and a distressing feeling of tightness in his abdomen since morning.
He had been undergoing treatment at one of the
city’s premier cancer hospitals, but that day, he came to us because he had
only been prescribed oral medications for his unbearable pain and was not being
admitted there — perhaps because there were simply no beds available in such an
overcrowded hospital.
At first glance, I assumed the family might not
be financially capable of affording treatment at a corporate hospital. But
assumptions don’t heal people. So I spoke to him gently, examined him
carefully, and treated him the same way every patient deserves to be treated —
with patience, empathy, dignity, and a simple human touch.
His frail body trembled with pain as I explained
the likely possibilities to his family — ascites, spontaneous bacterial
peritonitis, maybe even intestinal obstruction — all conditions that would need
urgent investigations, IV medications, admission, and further management.
His wife stood silently near the bed clutching
the edge of her saree. His son and daughter exchanged helpless glances before
finally saying, almost apologetically, that they did not even have enough money
for the investigations. Admission was impossible for them.
For a few seconds, the room fell silent.
“Abhi filhaal dard ke liye injection dete hain
inhe… phir dekhenge aage kya karna hai,” I said softly.
The son slowly opened his wallet and counted
the few crumpled notes they had brought with them. After discussing quietly
among themselves, they agreed for the injectables.
As the medications were started, I kept
walking back to his bedside every few minutes, asking whether the pain was
easing, whether he felt a little better, whether he was comfortable.
And then, about half an hour later, something
unexpected happened.
The old man suddenly broke down crying.
Not the restrained tears patients often hide.
He cried like someone whose suffering had finally found a voice.
Alarmed, I went near him and asked, “Kya hua? Bahut dard ho raha hai kya?”
He looked at me with eyes full of tears and
said words I don’t think I will ever forget:
“Aaj tak mujhse kisi doctor ne itne achhe se
baat nahi ki hai… meri bimari jaankar log jaanwaron jaisa vyavhaar karte hain.”
(Till today, no doctor had spoken to him with
kindness. People changed the way they treated him the moment they heard about
his disease).
For a moment, I could not respond.
I just stood there… completely numb.
His wife started crying. His children lowered
their heads, wiping tears silently as they looked at the old, exhausted man who
had already endured more pain, humiliation, and helplessness than anyone should
have to.
And in that moment, I realised something
heartbreaking.
For those few minutes, the relief in his eyes
was not because of the painkiller flowing through his veins.
It was because someone had spoken to him like
he still mattered.
Like he was still a human being.
Not just a terminal cancer patient.
Not just another file.
Not just another bed number.
Those words, those tears, and that moment
still echo in my mind.
Before they left, I instructed my staff to
charge them only for the medicines and consumables and not for the IV therapy,
bed charges, or other expenses. Hearing that, the family folded their hands
with trembling gratitude, tears rolling down their faces.
As they walked out together, I kept thinking
about how little they had actually received medically from us that day — just a
few injections and some temporary relief.
And yet, perhaps what touched them most was
something medicine textbooks never truly teach us:
Kindness.
Time.
Listening.
Humanity.
Over the last few days, I have kept asking
myself a painful question:
Are we, as caregivers, slowly losing the most basic part of healing — the ability to make our patients feel seen, heard, and human?
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