I’m a Doctor; Not a God

One day in the pediatrics emergency department, during a long night shift, a father walked in at 3 a.m. carrying his 6-year-old daughter. He apologized for coming so late, explaining that they had just arrived from another hospital via a 36-hour-long train journey from the other end of the country. On the child’s right hand, an IV catheter was still in place.

The father began to tell me that 10 days ago, his child was well. She was playing outside and came in to tell her mother that she had a headache. She felt warm and was subsequently put to sleep. After a while, they suddenly heard her shout. The parents walked in to find the girl shaking violently all over her body. At this point, the father rolled up his eyes, stuck out his tongue, and imitated the episode to me, saying, “She had a fit like this.” I had to bite my tongue to suppress my smile.

The parents had then rushed the child to a local hospital where they were told that the girl was very ill, with no further explanation. Over the past 5 days, she was given IV drips among other unknown treatments. There were no medical reports. The father looked at me helplessly with tearful eyes. Through a cracked voice he explained, “My baby was totally fine. When we went to the hospital she was walking and talking. I don’t know what they did there, but since we went, she hasn’t walked or spoken. She doesn’t eat or play. She won’t even look at us and smile.”

The father left the hospital, taking his sick daughter with him. He believed the child was intentionally sedated so that the family could be extorted by the hospital. Unfortunately, it is not uncommon for patients to have a deep distrust of the medical system in India.

With a heavy heart, I examined the girl. Her eyes were rolling up and down, unable to focus. She made incomprehensible sounds and only withdrew to pain. She was too hypotonic to walk. I went to the senior consultant who explained that the cause was likely a post-infectious encephalitis syndrome. She was likely being given a host of medication to reduce further brain inflammation and treat the cause in the previous hospital. She needed to be on an intensive medication regimen for 10 days continuously and the break in the care could result in a poor prognosis. My attending said "They shouldn’t have left - tell the family there’s nothing much we can do except restart medication. But the damage is done, and recovery is unlikely.”

Recovery is unlikely. Three harrowing words that all but decided that family’s fate. I went back into the room, no trace of the smile remaining, to be the bearer of bad news for a patient for the first time in my life. Having to shatter the dreams of a hopeful parent of a child that could have been treated, even cured, was beyond heartbreaking.

After explaining the probable cause and treatment that was required in a language I was only recently familiar with, I sat quietly, feeling the weight of the silence. The patient’s father pleaded to me: “You are a doctor. You are like God. Please, I join my hands, save my child.” In response, I said, “I’m not God, I’m only human like you. I’m sorry. We can try our best but can’t promise the outcome.”

Distraught, the father left the hospital that morning with a life sentence that sealed the family's fate. The helplessness was all too real. All to think that with a little bit of communication and compassion, that child might have had her life back.

I had just started working and was stunned by the ground reality of a country that holds my roots. This is a multifaceted issue: doctors are often overworked and overwhelmed by virtue of the sheer population. They often lack the time to explain diagnoses to worried and often illiterate patients. This deeply disturbing experience taught me a very important lesson that day: while the science behind the study of medicine is no doubt vital, a commitment to patient communication and compassion in the medical field goes a long way.

Anyone in the medical field knows that doctors are well respected. They are sometimes looked at as almost a divine figure, a “God,” so to speak. Growing up in a family of doctors, the respect my parents and sister received inside and outside of the hospital environment was palpable. It is certainly a factor that drew me to medicine as an adolescent.

Today, when faced with the question, “How are you a person of science and still believe in God?” I have a simple response: I’m a person of science, and that’s WHY I believe in God. Hospitals are a place of constant miracles. It’s remarkable how some patient events can quickly unfold, sometimes inexplicable to physicians.

Medicine humbles you every day; it’s a constant reminder that your knowledge is limited and you will never know it all. I may be a doctor, but I am certainly not God.

-Dr. Nikita Egbert