Jan 31, 2022
As the years passed by, the gardens in the college became lusher and even more beautiful. Especially the trees that were planted by the students during the annual tree plantation drives. There were many green nooks and crannies which were ideal as cool study areas in the blistering heat. Similarly, under a cluster of the now grown trees, just near the older neem trees, there was a small Masjid (mosque) nestled under the branches and shaded by the canopy of green leaves. It seemed so serene in the shade. A blossoming magnolia tree as well as some jasmine bushes added their fragrance to the idyllic ambience.
The little Masjid was situated in one of the farthest corners of the college compound, and very few people would make their way there in the hot afternoons. The little squat single-story building had only two open airy rooms and was surrounded by a small courtyard that had a low concrete wall surrounding it. The floor was paved with the red flagstones indigenous to the area, their retention of cool temperatures making it pleasant to walk barefoot on. Yes, that little Masjid was a pleasant and cool place to sit, pray or simply meditate.
One day, deciding to have a post prandial walk, I wandered towards the area, and was intrigued by the peace as well as the shade of the luxuriant trees that I saw there. Suddenly I had a thought. This was the perfect place to study in the afternoons when the library was closed! Since I was definitely not going home for my study leave. There were too many attractions to divert me from my studies, so I had actually found the perfect place to prepare for my finals. The last exams before I could finally put the coveted prefix of Dr. in front of my name!
Medical Students usually like to pull all-nighters when they studied for their exams. The boast of the day would be how long into the night they studied and how many cups of strong tea or coffee were consumed. How much was retained, was a different story and obviously one we never got to know.
I never could stay up so late, and my concentration would wane once the sun had set, and night fell. But I had formulated a different study schedule than the others for myself. As a matter of fact, to my amusement, there was a rumour going round that I didn’t need to study (much) since my father was politically well connected. People used to speculate that was the reason why I used to sleep soundly at night while the others studied. Little did they realise that according to my timetable and set plan, I used to get up early, have a good breakfast and spend my mornings in the library, come back for a nap in the afternoon, and then study till 10pm when the library closed for the night.
Once I was back in the dorm, the sweet realm of Morpheus would claim me, and no amount of noise could wake me up. Since I ensured that I had enough sleep, I was usually quite alert and fresh while studying during the day and I rarely nodded over my books. But as the finals loomed near, I felt that the afternoon hours had to be used to study as well since I was consistently making notes of topics and subjects that I had compiled from different texts and reference books.
Consequently, the Masjid was perfect. No one disturbed me there, and the cool breeze under the trees made for a comfortable nook to study. I loved that place. Not only was I able study quite intensely there, but I also meditated, convened with nature, and basically relaxed without the stress from my colleagues who tried to psychologically intimidate everyone by bragging how far along, they were with their studies.
Sometimes, I would even take a short, half an hour power nap, and curiously, I never felt scared in that lonely place. As a matter of fact, I felt calm, (as if I were taken care of by some benevolent entity), secure, and I would always wake up quite refreshed.
One day, I dreamt of an ancient man in white clothes who came to visit me at my serene retreat. He radiated peace and tranquility, and there seemed to be a light shining from a place near where his heart was supposed to be. At the time, I was going through unprecedented stress because of a private matter and seeing this old man sort of melted away my fears and anxiety.
In my dream, he started to talk to me in a soft melodious voice. I listened attentively even though I was surprised at the vividness of the dream and the presence of the old Sufi.
He said that he had been watching over me since I was a little girl, and had bestowed some gifts on me, some of which I was already aware of, and some would be revealed to me as I grew older. He told me that I should not be afraid, he would always be there when I needed him, and that I will become a good doctor. In his soft, gentle way he also told me that I will make my mark in the world. Awesome!
One day, as I was exploring my dreamscape, the ancient one advised me to eat three dates every day. He said that the nutrients were easily absorbed by the digestive system and provided energy to all of the essential organs, especially to the brain cells, muscles, red blood cells and marrow. The dates would help me study and retain whatever I had ploughed through. He went on to say that a handful of nuts every morning, with a glass of milk were also supposed to be good for the brain.
You know, I thought that one could not mix allopathic medicine with herbal or traditional medicine. But just for a lark I did try that out, and I was surprised that I became aware of an increase in my concentration and energy levels. This created quite an impression on me. So much so that nowadays, I try to blend the good points of all forms of healing to create a well-rounded and holistic approach for my patients.
As the days went by, word got around that I was studying in the Masjid in the afternoons, some friends asked whether they could join me. I agreed on the proviso that they stayed in their own corners. This was not a place where we “group study” and caused a loud ruckus. It was a place of serenity and quiet. Anyone violating that cardinal rule had to go. Surprisingly, the peaceful ambience affected the others as well and this rule was strictly adhered to. However, in the end only four of us remained.
It was a remarkably successful “retreat” so to say. We meditated together, even started off with a short yoga session before we went to our respective corners to study. I am incredibly pleased to say that when the time came, the four of us passed our exams stress free and with flying colours.
Jan 29, 2022
Another day in the life of Sarah the Medical Student:
The miracle of birth is wonderful, that’s the only word that I can use to describe something that even after working so many years as a doctor. I still get emotional and tears of happiness well in my eyes when I watch a child come into this world. My friends keep teasing me about the tears that spill over at times. They nudge each other and smile good naturedly when they see me get emotional. But the first cry of a newborn baby is the most beautiful sound that I could ever think of.
However, I have come across some New Age healers who think that a “gentle” birth where the baby doesn’t cry immediately at birth, is good for the future psyche of the baby and will ensure a healthy and calm growth. It’s a good idea, no, it’s an amazing idea…in theory. I wish it were true. The reality is that a baby has to take a deep breath and cry at the time of birth to organically switch from its Foetal Circulation to the mature or adult type circulation of the blood.
One has to understand that during a pregnancy, the fetal circulatory system works differently than the one after birth: It is a well-known fact that the fetus is connected by the umbilical cord to the placenta. This miraculous organ is rich in blood vessels that carry nutrition and oxygen from the mother to the baby. The point is that while the baby is still in the uterus, his or her lungs are not being used to filter or oxygenate the blood. The baby’s liver is also not fully developed. So, the circulating blood bypasses the lungs and liver by flowing via different pathways and through special openings in the heart called shunts. Once the baby takes a deep breath, along with a vigorous cry, the shunts close. It is the force of this first breath and the strong cries of the baby that expand the lungs and the circulation transforms almost immediately into the adult type as we all know it. From that point onwards, the lungs start working on oxygenating the blood as they are supposed to. Quite ingenious I dare say.
The first time that I was allowed to deliver a baby is still etched in my mind. I was still a medical student and was obviously supervised by one of my teachers. I was so excited that day, because I was told that morning that the next delivery in the labor room would be mine. Since our obstetrics ward was extremely busy, and we were the nearest and largest tertiary hospital catering to a wide rural and urban area, I didn’t have to wait long.
My patient was wheeled into the birthing room and to my consternation she was a frightened 16-year-old girl, and her confused and terrified husband was only 17 years old. I think they were too young to realise the implications of what was going on and they clung to each other as if they were trying to reassure themselves by having close contact with each other.
Her age and apparent pallor were evident that this was a high-risk pregnancy. Additionally, she hadn’t had any antenatal care whatsoever, and was extremely thin and fragile looking. Her bloated, pregnant abdomen looked almost obscene on her little malnourished body. She was so delicate that one would think she would be more comfortable playing hide and seek in the fields with her friends, rather than being here with us in the hospital. In the throes of painful labor pains, wracking her immature body.
As soon as I first saw her, I was galvanized into action and immediately started to make my patient comfortable. In addition to that I had to draw blood for a spate of laboratory tests. I was utterly horrified when I saw that the results of the bedside haemoglobin reading were only 4mg/dl, whereas the normal reading at her age should have been at the very least 11-12mg/dl. Therefore, after I took the requisite detailed history and conducted a thorough external examination, (students were not allowed internal examination at that level). Once I had some initial data, I informed my attending professor about the case and the unfortunate condition of the young mother. With her consent and guidelines, I swung into action and tried to arrange an emergency blood transfusion for her. (The emphasis is on the word “tried”).
Wanting to start my patient’s treatment as soon as we could, I asked one of her parents and her husband to accompany me to the blood bank so that we could arrange the required blood. It was thought to be cheaper and obviously better quality-wise if a member of the family donated their own blood for their patients. I also told them that in cases of emergency, we could get some stored blood from the blood bank for the expectant mother. While talking to them I looked up and saw that the family had terrified expressions on their faces when I mentioned a blood transfusion! It was as if I told them that I would be performing a voodoo spell on their patient. And donate blood? No way! How can the doctors even think of sucking blood out of their body! What if they died? The family continued to adamantly refuse to purchase or donate blood, saying that they were not comfortable with infusing another person’s or a stranger’s blood into their patient. (Bad karma?)
I tried persuasion, arguing, and even firmly admonishing them desperately for a long while but with absolutely no success. Finally, after a long debate and failed persuasion techniques, the real reason was revealed…an uncle confessed that they were as I had guesses earlier, all scared! They thought that they would die a horrible death if they donated even a teaspoon of blood!
Jamila, the young mother to be, by then started to fade and was getting weaker with each contraction that was wracking her frail body. I was getting frantic. There was no way that I would let my first obstetric patient slip away from me! I had to hurry! To save time I grabbed a cross matching kit from the laboratory and cross matched her blood with mine. It was a match! Once again, I dragged the father as quickly as I could to the blood bank, and donated 500ml of my own blood. I had the process rushed and the blood prepared for immediate transfusion. You have to realise that this was the pre-AIDS prevention period, so it was easy to get the blood almost immediately. The reason I took the husband with me was that I wanted to show him that donating blood wasn’t life threatening in case we might have needed some more.
We were just in time because by the time we reached back to the labor room once more, Jamila’s contractions came to the point that she desperately felt like pushing. As soon as we could, we hooked the blood infusion and a bag of plasma to her veins through two IV cannulas in both of her arms. The slow, painful progress of her labor seemed as if it was going to be a long and painful day. Not only for Jamila, but for all of us. As it is, it usually does take a bit longer with primigravidas (first time pregnancies). While listening for the foetal heart sounds, and recording the foetal heart rate during the contractions, I asked the midwife when the last foetal heart sound was measured by either a nurse or a doctor. She confirmed that it had been a short while ago, but she wasn’t exactly sure when since she had just started her shift.
Everyone was under the impression that this was a normal run-of-the- mill delivery that had been handed over to a hysterical medical student. Remember, we didn’t have any data or findings for Saira because she hadn’t attended any of the antenatal clinics, and she had just arrived as an unbooked patient that morning. She was already in the initial stages of labor. As I mentioned before, I wasn’t allowed to examine Saira internally. That was done exclusively by the attending obstetric resident or specialist, but when I did palpate and auscultate her incongruously enormous abdomen, I felt two heartbeats resonating within instead of the expected one. To be sure, I asked the midwife to show me exactly where she heard the baby’s heartbeat, and she pointed on the right lower quadrant of the abdomen, while I auscultated the upper left side. I was right!! There were two heartbeats!
As I was just a student, I didn’t want to take things in my own hands in case there were complications, I immediately turned (once again) to my instructor. The Obstetric Resident. After a quick examination, she confirmed my suspicions and promised to monitor me during the whole delivery. I was confident that my senior would jump in in case of any perceived complications or dire emergency. I was pleased that she gently continued to coach me in the background, thus increasing my confidence.
Trust me to get the complicated cases on my first day in the labor ward and for my first ever delivery!!
Since the first baby’s head was already engaged in the pelvis, it was already too late for a c-section. In any case she was considered too anemic and weak to go through the surgical procedure. Therefore, unless it was considered an emergency, or we thought that her condition was life threatening, we just continued to monitor the delivery process very carefully. If Jamila would have had proper ante-natal care, and we had enough relevant information, we could have prepared her as well as our own selves for the risky delivery. But there was no time for recriminations, she needed our help, and we gave it to her to the best of our abilities.
After a strenuous bout of pushing, we finally saw the head of Baby A who was born surprisingly easy considering it was the mother’s first pregnancy. The baby cried immediately and lustily as soon as she was born. Baby B took her time since she decided to come out upside down. Thankfully she came quicker than expected in spite of the small build of the mother, and we didn’t have to resuscitate her or provide baby Cardio Pulmonary Resuscitation (CPR). We were so worried, because breech babies could get very easily asphyxiated, or the umbilical cord could have been wound around the neck, causing the baby to choke. That is one of the reasons why breech babies are more or less born by elective c-sections nowadays to prevent any birth injury or other serious sequalae. Two normal and healthy babies! Both beautiful girls. We were so relieved that all went well. Saira was extremely lucky. Her babies were a little small for their gestational ages, but they were born with a lust for life, and thankfully thrived well.
Going back to the dorm, I was tired but exhilarated, because those babies were the first, I had ever delivered, and they were normal and healthy. Most of all, the whole team was thankful that the mother survived despite all the odds against her. I was thrilled and didn’t come off cloud nine for quite some time. On the way to my room, I told my story to anyone who would stop and listen. I must have sounded quite annoying!
That evening, I was surprised to receive an unexpected visitor. The husband of Jamila met me at my dorm and handed me a large ornate basket filled with a cornucopia of fruits. He said that he was grateful for all I had done that day, especially that I had donated my own blood to save his wife’s life. He said he had brought me the fruit because he heard from the nurses in the ward that it was a good idea to eat fruit or anything sweet after donating blood. I was touched and thanked him but so that he wasn’t offended, I just took just one apple from the selection and told him to take the basket back to the hospital. I made him promise to feed the fruit to his wife. Having just given birth to twins she would definitely be needing the extra nutrition. Oh, at least it was nice to feel appreciated.
Another day another drama, but such a blissful feeling. THIS was why being a doctor was such a good idea! The circle of life begins here, and though we also have sad stories, the good ones outweigh the bad, and most mothers go home with their bundles of joy firmly tucked lovingly in their arms.
Jan 28, 2022
Narrated by Dr. Sarah Shah:
Besides learning about run of the mill cases in medical college, it was exciting to see and experience the weirdness of the human psyche and physiology. That was how we met Mazen who was a cocky 16-year-old when he walked into the out-patient clinic for the treatment of his chronic abdominal pain. As was usual with walk-in patients, the attending doctors would expect the students to take the detailed history and do the prelimary examination of the patients. He smiled most of the time and thought it was hilarious that so many young women in white coats were so seriously focused on him. He was very ticklish and giggled all through his baseline examination. We had to ask all the relevant questions from him…How long had he been ill? Did he have constipation? Diarrhea? What and when did he eat last? More giggles (and eye-rolls).
Well, the general history was taken, and though we tried, he did not give us any specific information about his diet or what he ate last. Yes, he did have constipation off and on. He looked a bit pale, and his pulse was a bit fast and thready, but we didn’t think it was significant at the time because he was active and very responsive.
When it was time for the professor to examine him, we all crowded around to hear what was being discussed and most of all what the professor thought about the differential diagnosis of the patient. We were interested, no were desperate to know how he was ultimately going to come to the diagnostic conclusion of Mazen’s abdominal pain. I did notice that the patient was a bit furtive and tries to avoid a few of the pertinent questions.
All of a sudden, just as he was about to be palpated by the professor on his abdomen, Mazen turns on his side, groans and vomits a projectile of fresh blood! We immediately sprang into action and put up an IV bag with saline in one arm and took a blood sample to cross match his blood for an emergency transfusion. But within 10 minutes we were performing high quality CPR (Cardio Pulmonary Resuscitation) on him. Unfortunately, our efforts were futile and he died quite soon after that.
We learnt a major lesson on how to communicate bad news to a bereaved family that day. It was even more excruciating for us since it was our first time, and the patient was so young and full of life when he came to us. How do we tell a family that a young child who walked merrily into the clinic had just died? And we could not tell them about the exact diagnosis at once. Understandably, once we had given the sad news to his family, they were very upset. They wanted to take him away to be buried immediately. But our professor was able to convince the family to have an autopsy done since he came to us with his mysterious abdominal pain followed by his vomiting of fresh blood. We needed to know what the actual diagnosis was so that it could be treated or even prevented if we came across another patient with these symptoms in the future.
Since our study group was present when he visited the clinic, we were all allowed to attend the autopsy as well. After all we wanted to know the conclusive diagnosis as much as anyone else. While waiting for the autopsy to begin, we tried to out-guess each other by tabulating the various causes of bloody vomiting, especially in his age group. We were acting like over-zealous puppies. (Nothing new). The “I know better than you” interns were also there in full force, looking at us medical students with their usual disdain. And as usual we ignored them.
Finally, the autopsy commenced and as usual, the body was opened with the thorax to abdomen Y-incision and was painstakingly examined. We realized that with our speculative pre-autopsy discussions, we had already unknowingly suspected Mazen’s diagnosis when the stomach was palpated before it was sliced open. Examining it carefully, we saw that it had unusual bruising all over it, some fresh and some in their healing phase. There were also unmistakable signs of where it hemorrhaged and most of all, it had some really strange lumps. The stomach seemed quite solid and heavy for a normal organ when it was lifted out of the abdominal cavity. However, once the wall of the stomach was incised, we saw to our morbid fascination that it was filled with sharp metal objects! Razor blades, random pieces of metal, countless needles, and even a small pocket-knife!! No wonder he was in pain and no wonder that he literally bled to death. His stomach was so full that a partial intestinal obstruction had already formed, and it was concluded that the abdominal pain was due to the strong peristalsis (movement of the gut) trying to push the blockage forward. Instead of that helping, due to the strong movements, the sharp edges of the razors had rubbed against the stomach wall where ultimately an artery was severed. That led to Mazen’s fatal hemorrhage.
Mazen had suffered from a rare form of pica, (an eating disorder characterized by a tendency to eat substances that provide no nutritive value) called Acuphagia. This is a condition where people ingest sharp objects willingly. Usually, this type of pica is found in mentally ill patients, but so-called normal people, have also been found to have this disorder.
Although very few cases of Acuphagia have been reported in the medical literature (particularly in adults), most of these suggest that those displaying the symptoms have psychological disorders, (except of course if the behavior is part of an “entertainment” act). Well from whatever information we were able to garner with our brief acquaintance with Mazen, he seemed active and alert, though he did give the impression of being an extrovert, like a class clown. It could be possible that he was showing off to his friends or he swallowed the sharp metallic items on a dare…On the other hand, it could be that he was impressed by some magician in the movies, and his quest for entertainment became his nemesis, and he ultimately died a painful death.
Moral of the story…don’t eat what you shouldn’t. It can kill you.
Jan 27, 2022
As Narrated by Inspector Tanya:
Even though we are now well into the 21st century the inclusion of women in the Pakistani police force remains low. From the overall 1% in the 70s and 80s the numbers have just increased to a minimal 1.8% today.
I have always believed that recruiting more policewomen in the force was a great step towards empowering women as well as strengthening the rule of law. One must keep in mind that having policewomen arrest those perpetrators who harass or humiliate women would not only discourage this threat but would also make Pakistan stronger and more stable.
Unfortunately, violence against women is still rampant in the country, however, NGOs and activists say the recorded cases are just the tip of the iceberg, as most cases of gender-based violence go unreported in the country. In many instances, women do not come forward and report the abuse to authorities.
One of the reasons behind this is a deep fear. Since most of Pakistan’s police force and judiciary is male-dominated, women are reluctant to interact with them. There have been reports of harassment in police stations during investigations. Having female police officers at the time gives the women a sense of comfort and the belief that a woman would be more inclined to get justice for them than a man. Therefore, many human rights groups are urging the government to establish special courts for rape trials, so that victims feel more secure. They also demand that the number of female police officers and female judges be increased in order to deal with such cases.
At the time that I undertook my training, I do admit that it was grueling and at times even humiliating, since we were trained by the men who didn’t look kindly at having female competition. We were always given tasks to set us up to fail. But our small batch of recruits were bold, but unfortunately we were also still quite rare. There was at the time and still is today to some extent a misconstrued understanding among many male colleagues that the “big” jobs should be left to the men. But to reach the zenith of a career that had to ensure that the law and order in the country was taken care of in an ethical and compassionate manner, we had to at times suffer and realise that a bruised pride, humiliation, and discrimination were often tangled up in the progression of our career. Thankfully it is now widely acknowledged that having more women in the police is crucial to building an institution that protects the rights of women and girls that facilitates, rather than hinders, their access to justice. Therefore just like the patient spiders we had to persevere.
I am happy to say that the UN has argued that policewomen and female peacekeepers are particularly valuable in establishing stability particularly in post-conflict states and crimes against women.
To sum it up, despite all the trials and tribulations that my team and I have suffered, I am proud to be a policewoman.
Jan 26, 2022
Narrated by Dr. Sarah Shah while in her second year of medical college:
Anatomy is not the only subject taught in the first two years of medical college. At this period of time, we were immersed in the intricacies of Physiology and Biochemistry of the human body as well. In fact, I loved the Physiology Practicals. They were lots of fun because here, in the laboratory, we learnt baseline clinical skills, like measuring our blood sugar or blood pressure.
To gauge the difference between resting and post exercise blood pressure, we had to run laps around the college, and it was entertaining, when the weather was good, not so when the weather was forty five degrees centigrade in the shade. Just to add a quick fun fact, and the reason why we had to gallop like camels in heat around the campus: the systolic blood pressure increases after exercise while the diastolic measurements always remain the same. To be more specific, during aerobic exercise, the systolic pressure should gradually increase as the heart beats harder and faster and the arteries contract to pump more oxygen-rich blood. However, because the arteries in the working muscles start to dilate rather than constrict, the net result normally is little change in the diastolic pressure.
Another somewhat entertaining practical that would appeal to little boys, was to dissect frogs in the laboratory. Not to identify the anatomical structures like when we dissected them in school, but to understand physiological processes like skeletal and cardiac muscle fatigue. Our frogs were “grown” in an immense amphibian tank outside the laboratory, near the college courtyard, under a large shady banyan tree. It was always damp there, and the ground was spongy. Probably to create a comfortable environment for the hapless animals. Therefore, we had quite an adequate supply of the live amphibians for our experiments but since we didn’t want to unnecessarily hurt or decimate them, we tried to keep the numbers down as much as possible. But some people, like my unamusing lab partner used to get their juvenile thrills by putting frogs into their neighbors’ pockets. Not funny!
Jan 25, 2022
My Austrian grandmother, on my mother’s side loved me to bits. I was her first grandchild and obviously could do no wrong. Even as a child, she called me “Fraulein Doktor.” I used to feel so happy and proud when she said that, because to me, it felt as if it was an endorsement of what I wanted to do. Of good things to come. My only regret is that she was not there to see that her prayers for me came true. However, I did visit her grave when I graduated and talked to her, told her how I felt, and how much I missed her. As I stood there talking to her, I felt a soft warm breeze blow around me. Just like a gentle hug. It seemed as if she was there with me, and it dawned upon me that she had always been there through my trials and tribulations, all along. The caress of the breeze on my cheek while I stood there trying to hold my tears back was as if her gentle hands were reassuring me of her presence in my life, at that time, as well as in the future as it will be going along.
Trials and tribulations? Yes, I guess you could say that achieving my goals was full of that, but it was also lots of fun, as it was exactly the path that I had chosen for myself.
Studying always came easy to me. As a matter of fact, if I didn’t learn or understand something the first time I read it, I used to get mildly irritated. Yes, I know it sounds egotistical, but that was just the way I was. Actually, I used to be quite disruptive in class because I got impatient when the teacher was asked to repeat things by other students. I just couldn’t understand why they wanted the teacher to repeat the simplest of things again and again. Nowadays, they would probably have misdiagnosed me with Attention Deficit Disorder. I think anyone that’s mistakenly diagnosed with ADD and put on drugs should first be given an IQ test and should be intellectually challenged in school….but I don’t want to digress from the narrative.
My nemesis (well, yes, everyone has one, don’t they?) was Urdu, and of course all subjects related to this language. Hey! It’s not my fault! It’s neither my mother’s nor my father’s tongue, and we hardly spoke the lingo at home. And yet, I had to plow through poems and grammar put together by old dusty poets and writers who thought that odes to pretty boys were romantic. (sic Ghalib[1]).
To tell you the truth, as the youngest in my class in college, (pre-med), I was a lively 15-year-old, and after a strict almost militant bedtime regimen at home, with discipline and meals on time etc., I went a bit wild. Nothing extremely dangerous or ominous. Just doing things that would not be allowed by the parents. Like going to bed late, skipping classes, and playing practical jokes a la Enid Blyton. Though thinking back, it was all so innocent. Just the antics of a naïve naughty child.
Suffice to say, I failed a few of my subjects in my second year of college, after hopping around like a hippy wannabe sans drugs, (yes, I loved wearing colorful beads and flowers in my hair), and scribbling everywhere “make love, not war,” as was the slogan of the times, not really understanding what it actually meant.
Well, that was a big kick in the you know what… here I was, this person who had her life all planned out since she was four to be the great healer and doctor of all times, and I go and mess things up just by wanting to have fun. I was extremely depressed for all of 18 hours, and then bounced back with the resilience of youth. I realized that I had time to spare! Most of my class fellows were 18 to my 16 years, so I really did have time to spare!!!
Alright, so I thought to myself, let us think positively; maybe God wanted me to have a bit of fun before the serious stuff starts, but I needed a reality check as well. I was able to sign up to repeat my exams, but asinine as I was, I applied to do ALL of my subjects over again, even the ones I passed earlier, so that I would have a certificate that said I had passed the examination as a whole, not in parts.
The other thing I did in the meantime was enroll in language classes during the holidays. That was my contingency plan. If I couldn’t get into medical college, I would study languages and become a linguist, and work at the UN as a translator. Quite ambitious, I dare say.
Subsequently, I threw myself into preparing for my exams till I was cross eyed….those darn repetitions! But I swallowed the bitter pill and thankfully passed with good enough marks for the university to consider my admission into a medical college.
My father was a brilliant engineer—a genius, some would say. He joined the Electrical, Mechanical Engineers in the Army and also was in the diplomatic corps at the High Commission in London. He subsequently retired as a colonel. My mother says he used to be her encyclopedia. Well, it so happened that since my parents had to travel abroad and around the country every two to three years, my father applied on my behalf to be admitted in an all-girls medical college, despite the fact that I was offered a place in a co-ed institution of particularly good repute. I still wonder today what my father thought his rambunctious daughter would get up to. Anyway, the college I was admitted to was under the auspices of the then 100-year-old provincial University of Sindh, with the same standards and guidelines, though later on I always thought that the quality of education and the graduates from our college were of a higher caliber. It was evidently a fact that when we went to apply for internships, our college graduates always got the best residency jobs, much to the chagrin of the other colleges’ candidates.
The sweetest thing that I remember my father doing for me at the time was buying the immensely heavy tome called Gray’s Anatomy, which is a doctor’s and medical student’s basic anatomy bible. The way he reverently carried it from the bookshop towards our car, where I was waiting, was a sight that has been burned into my memory forever. He had such a proud look on his face! After all, I was the first girl in his family to get admission to a university and proceed for higher studies, so in a sense I was a trailblazer.
Oh, well, medical college was medical college, whether here or there, so I shrugged, pulled up my socks and turned my face towards the bumpy road that hones physicians into the healers they ultimately turn out to be. I was actually quite excited!
But that does not mean that we were serious throughout the college years… does it? I mean, in the beginning, we were all teenagers. As I said before, I was the youngest in my class and entered the hallowed halls of learning, trying to follow the Hippocratic doctrines, at the tender age of 17! You have to realize that to be dedicated at this age, one has to sacrifice the “fun years” of being a teenager. Parties, discos etc. were rarely part of the curriculum or extra activities.
Ironically, our college was situated in a small town, Nawabshah, deep within the rural areas of Sindh, Pakistan. Our batch had the distinct honor of being the first to step into this hallowed hall of learning, so everything was brand new and squeaky clean. We were, in essence, pioneers, paving the way for many girls to follow our footsteps, which was actually awe inspiring. This was because we were living in an era where there were limited seats allocated to female students in the other medical colleges. Admissions were by a quota system. Once the quotas had been filled, many intelligent and hopeful girls were deprived of the opportunity to be doctors. Many opted to reluctantly use their pre-med credits and turn to nursing, and in the beginning, the resentment and tension between the female doctors and the nurses used to be quite palpable. Therefore, in this new medical college, it was absolutely amazing that they were able to initially accommodate 200 students! And that was just for the first batch. Every year, 200 more students were subsequently admitted, thus expanding the reach for optimal medical services in the far-flung areas of a conservative country where rural as well as urban women were more comfortable with doctors of their own gender.
I am so glad to be a pioneer and a trailblazer!
[1] https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Ghalib
