"You Are Our God”: An Unforgettable Lesson on Kindness and Healing

Embarking on a medical internship is a rite of passage for every aspiring doctor. After completing my MBBS degree, I began my mandatory one-year rotatory posting, which involved working in various departments like General Medicine, Surgery, Obstetrics and Gynaecology, Community Medicine among others.

My journey started in the Obstetrics and Gynaecology department, a two-month stint that was both challenging and enlightening. Internship is a demanding phase in a medical student’s life. Unlike the structured hours during our academic years, the internship requires us to be on call almost constantly. We juggle learning, performing medical procedures, and handling numerous administrative tasks. Most of our time is consumed by completing paperwork, such as case files, discharge summaries, investigation requests, and so on.

A doctor’s handwriting is notoriously indecipherable. I strongly suspect that the handwriting deteriorates further during internship days when we write while standing at the bedside or even running across wards, multitasking and short on time. My nursing superintendent used to joke that a doctor’s worth is judged by how closely their handwriting resembles an ECG.

However, it’s during this time that we truly apply the knowledge we’ve accumulated over the years. We interact with patients more frequently and become more invested in their treatment regimens. So, I would say, as Charles Dickens put it, “it was the best of times, it was the worst of times.”

During my Obstetrics and Gynaecology (OBG) posting, I encountered a patient with Systemic Lupus Erythematosus (SLE), an autoimmune disease that complicates pregnancy. This patient had been trying to conceive for years, and by the time I met her during my postings, it was her seventh attempt! Tragically, she had lost her previous pregnancies at various stages. Her case was fraught with risk, requiring constant monitoring, and I was assigned to her care. Of course, as an intern, I was at the lowest rung of the patient care team, with professors and postgraduate residents above me. However, I would be spending the most time with her, following up on all the medical orders.

Despite the challenges, I grew close to her and her husband, who came from a humble background. Their desire for a child was profound, driven by societal and familial pressures. I often stayed back after rounds to explain medical updates and accompanied them to other specialty consultations. Their determination was palpable, and I found myself emotionally invested in their journey.

As my posting at the OBG department neared its end, the patient required a blood transfusion. How it works is that the blood bank would usually utilize the required blood at the time of transfusion from their storage and ask the patient or their bystanders to replace that storage through a voluntary donor. So, it’s not necessarily the donor’s blood that ‘flows’ through a patient’s blood vessels after a transfusion.

In this case, the blood bank needed a matching donor to replace the transfused blood, and I discovered that I shared her blood type. Without hesitation, I volunteered to donate. It was my first time donating blood, and while I assured them it was a simple act, the couple’s gratitude was overwhelming.

After completing my duties in the department, I moved on after my posting. But the case lingered in my thoughts and I later learned that the pregnancy couldn’t be sustained, and they had to terminate it. I couldn’t bring myself to visit them during their discharge, unsure of how to face them.

Weeks went by, and I became fully engaged in my work across various departments. One day, while assisting in the General Medicine outpatient clinic, we noticed that the quota of patients registered for the day had been reached. Just then, an attendant informed us that someone was waiting to see the doctor — not as a patient but for a different reason. Since it was the OP clinic of the Professor and Head of the Department, we all assumed this person was there to meet the senior physician. To my surprise, it turned out to be the husband of the SLE patient. I immediately stood up to approach him, and as I did, he folded his hands and bent down to touch my feet — a gesture customary in Indian culture as a sign of respect.

I was taken aback, as were my colleagues, but I quickly composed myself and helped him stand. I could feel the entire clinic’s attention on us. With his hands still folded, he looked at me and said, “Neenge Kadavul,” which in Tamil means, “You are our God.” He explained that although the pregnancy hadn’t succeeded, my blood donation had saved his wife’s life. To them, it was a miracle, and they felt deeply compelled to thank me in person.

I tried to explain that blood donation is a common act of kindness and that, had I not been available, someone else would have been. But I understood that my words wouldn’t change their perspective. I then met his wife, who was waiting nearby, and learned that they were coming to terms with the possibility of never having a child.

As the months passed, I completed my internship, received my professional certification, and continued to donate blood whenever I could. The memory of my first donation had gradually faded until a recent meeting with the blood bank authorities at my current hospital, who were grappling with a severe blood shortage. At that moment, the impact of that early experience came flooding back. I may not know where that patient is today, but their story remains deeply etched in my heart. I realized then that sharing this experience when advocating for voluntary blood donation was essential. It’s a powerful reminder of how a simple act of kindness can ripple outward, touching others profoundly and transforming oneself in the process. This journey has shown me that compassion and empathy are as indispensable to the healing process as medical expertise.