FictionDoc

"Did that war forge the one that remained?

No, Amaram. All the war did was identify the spear that would not break."

At first, they love without limits, driven by the need to please and the fear of abandonment; making them easy targets for narcissists and manipulators. This cycle continues until a breaking point, where deep betrayal or emotional abuse shatters them entirely.

But destruction leads to transformation.

They rebuild with boundaries, self-respect, and emotional intelligence. No longer naive, they become empowered empaths- kind, but intentional. Compassionate, but no longer exploitable.

They don't lose their empathy-they learn how to wield it.

The year-long internship is ending in a couple of months, and I had thought it would be an uneventful start to the year before I got posted in pediatrics.

NICU postings are supposed to be the most hectic out of all the postings, with 14 hour duties every day where you forget to even drink water, or even have lunch. There's always something happening. And the deaths. Neonatal mortality had only seemed like a theoretical concept before. Anyway..

It was one of those days when everybody forgot to have lunch because the emergencies kept coming throughout the day. It was almost evening, and we were really hungry so the resident ordered pizzas for everyone.

Around 5 pm, just as everybody was gonna eat, one of the relatives of a patient barged in, asking whether their baby was stable or not. I got irritated and came out of the doctor's room with him, telling him their baby is fine and they don't have to pester the doctors so much because everybody was pretty fatigued.

Just then, another man came holding his baby with his wife accompanying him. The sight was terrifying. The baby had turned blue, with its mouth half open and eyes closed. Now, BD (brought dead) cases weren't an unfamiliar sight. The terrifying part was that it's chest was still moving just a little bit. The resident came out of the doctor's room to see what's up and saw the baby with the same terrified look. He took the stethoscope and placed it on the baby's chest as everyone watched. "Brady-" he muttered..

Two- or three seconds later, mayhem ensued. The resident picked up the baby and ran inside the NICU, shouting just the one word.

"Bradyyy!!"

Usually our heart rate varies around 70 and in new born babies it's supposed to be north of 140. A heart rate of less than 40 in adults is alarming. In babies it's certain death. This little creature had a heart rate of less than 25. He was almost gonna call quits at the age of 5 days. While the residents ran in to start the resuscitation protocol, the baby's father held me back, saying,

"Doctor Saab, just do us one favour when you go inside, say the name 'Abdullah' in his ear."

Apparently in their culture, if a baby is to die, it should have a name before it's death. I went in, and the residents were hard at work.

They had junked all protocols and had already started intubating the baby. Within the next 3 minutes, they had a ventilator attached and were pumping the AMBU with 100% oxygen, while the nurse prepared the adrenaline shots and I looked for a vein in his small, cold leg.

After some time, the baby started moving it's hand and legs. By then the monitor was connected and it showed a heart rate of 80. Soon after, he let out a feeble cry and started turning pink again as the oxygen saturation and heart rate started improving.

It really was one of those times when every second was crucial. It felt like every member of the team had a different role and the only goal was to stop little Abdullah's soul to walk out of the NICU. One of those rare times when we actually helped to make a difference.

It was after his stabilization when we realised everyone was barefoot, nobody was wearing a mask and the two residents were the only people wearing gloves. Although infection wasn't something we were worried about, as the baby was most likely in a septic shock himself.

This is what I call goated writing man

Emergency duties, double on-calls, toxic work environment, all of these slowly eat your conscience, so much that you stop caring after a while.

It goes on until a point where you see doctors yelling at innocent patients, calling them dumb and patients desperately looking for some support in an otherwise overcrowded place full of sick people.

It was one of these days when a pregnant lady visited the OPD. She was about 32 weeks, and hypertensive.

The resident doc couldn't care less, and kept yelling at her until the patient started crying.

We were sitting in the nearby cubicle, with the job of measuring the blood pressure of every lady who came for ANC (antenatal care).

I tried talking to her in a calm voice, and she completelybroke down while talking to me.

Said her husband had asked her to leave the house, and she was living with her brother, who wasn't very keen on taking care of her either.

Since she was suffering from pre-eclampsia (a condition where pregnant females become hypertensive, can lead to a risk of maternal as well as fetal death) she was admitted to the ANC ward.

She used to greet me everyday, and we used to have a small talk once in a while. Her relatives rarely visited her, and she was pretty much by herself the whole time.

Last tuesday I assisted her C-section and delivered this baby, a healthy boy who sleeps and cries a lot.

Yesterday I met her in the LSCS ward again and she said she'd be getting discharged today. When I was leaving, out of nowhere she said, "I'm going to name him after you."

That's when it hit me. I didnt even look after her the whole time. All I did was talk to her once in a while, reassuring her that things would be okay eventually.

Ob-Gyn postings always seem like hell, with the NICU calls and emergency C-sections and running around between the blood bank and labour room..

But once in a while, they let us interns conduct the easier deliveries. Today was one of them.

but you only get to be a cameo in most others.

They waited before the round tower, the red mountains of Dorne at their backs, their white cloaks blowing in the wind. And these were no shadows; their faces burned clear, even now.

Ser Arthur Dayne, the Sword of the Morning, had a sad smile on his lips. The hilt of the greatsword Dawn poked up over his right shoulder.

Ser Oswell Whent was on one knee, sharpening his blade with a whetstone. Across his whiteenameled helm, the black bat of his House spread its wings.

Between them stood fierce old Ser Gerold Hightower, the White Bull, Lord Commander of the Kingsguard.

“I looked for you on the Trident,” Ned said to them.

“We were not there,” Ser Gerold answered.

“Woe to the Usurper if we had been,” said Ser Oswell.

“When King’s Landing fell, Ser Jaime slew your king with a golden sword, and I wondered where you were.”

“Far away,” Ser Gerold said, “or Aerys would yet sit the Iron Throne, and our false brother would burn in seven hells.”

“I came down on Storm’s End to lift the siege,” Ned told them, “and the Lords Tyrell and Redwyne dipped their banners, and all their knights bent the knee to pledge us fealty. I was certain you would be among them.”

"Our knees do not bend easily,” said Ser Arthur Dayne.

“Ser Willem Darry is fled to Dragonstone, with your queen and Prince Viserys. I thought you might have sailed with him.”

“Ser Willem is a good man and true,” said Ser Oswell. “But not of the Kingsguard,” Ser Gerold pointed out. “The Kingsguard does not flee.”

“Then or now,” said Ser Arthur. He donned his helm.

“We swore a vow,” explained old Ser Gerold. Ned’s wraiths moved up beside him, with shadow swords in hand.

They were seven against three.

“And now it begins,” said Ser Arthur Dayne, the Sword of the Morning. He unsheathed Dawn and held it with both hands. The blade was pale as milkglass, alive with light.

“No,” Ned said with sadness in his voice.

Been working in the Trauma ICU for a while now.

Most of the times it's boring work, continuously monitoring the patient, waiting for signs of collapse or changing the dose levels of drugs...

Only this time it was a special day in a weirdly sad sense.

A 60 year old man was stretchered in during the late evening. He had been undergoing treatment in our hospital for PVD, or peripheral vascular disease. It's a condition where the arteries get blocked by deposits of fat or calcium and the entire limb turns black due to gangrene

Well, his dead limb wasn't our concern, because the guy's systems had started shutting down one by one, his heart barely beating.

We immediately intubated the patient while the intensivist was pushing adrenaline through his veins, but the monitor still kept showing flat lines.

The senior resident decided it was time for the good old CPR.

Us being the freshly passed out medical students were more excited than ever to finally be able to save a life, managed to give the best CPR we could.

2 minutes of CPR and a couple of DC shocks later, the man's heart started beating again. I was happy. Thought we had saved the man. But the resident told us he still wouldn't last much longer.

He was stabilised and the relatives were informed about the slim chances of survival. One by one, they started coming in to say their goodbyes.

I got busy with other patients while trying to ignore the quiet sobs behind me. I thought I had finally grown a thick skin when a little girl, about 10 years old came up to me and asked,

"Aren't you a doctor? Why aren't you saving him?"

I froze right there

7 and a half years of studying, 4 and a half years of medical education and couldn't answer a 10 year old girl.

How could I tell her, that we had tried everything we could to save her grandpa?

That he was getting the best possible treatment to keep his heart beating?

That, despite everything, a person has to leave this world?

Her mother saw her standing in front of me and quickly pulled her away.

She gave me a glaring look before they left the T-ICU.

The man died after an hour and they took him away on the same stretcher.

10 year olds aren't supposed to understand death.

Trauma ICUs in government hospitals are called the backdoor to heaven. People say anybody who goes in doesn't come out alive. That the doctors 'kill' the patients because of the lack of available beds.

Little do they know, we make an effort for every case. Every person who's staring in the face of death. We make an effort, even if it means the person will stay alive for a few more minutes. Those minutes may not matter so much to us, or the doomed man, but they do matter for the people close to him. To say their goodbyes.

Perhaps the little girl will grow up and forgive me for not saving her grandpa.

You will eventually find they won't stand up for you.

The bad news is, we don't know how many."