During my sub-centre posting, there was a day I was posted alone. My co-interns were on leave, and the Medical Officer was expected to arrive late. So, it was just me, holding the fort.
That morning, a woman in her sixties walked in with a warm smile. She instantly reminded me of my late grandmother—only younger.
I smiled back. “You came alone?”
She just kept smiling and didn’t say anything.
I asked her to sit down. It surprised me that no one had come along with her—she looked too frail to be out on her own.
“Where is your home, Ma?”
She said it was just a few blocks away and that she had come for a BP and sugar check. “Who all are there at home, Ma?”
She kept smiling.
“Children? Where are they?”
Her smile slowly faded.
“My husband passed away a few months ago,” she said softly. “Heart attack.” Her eyes welled up. “I had only one son… he died in a car accident last year.” She broke down, crying.
I was stunned. I felt stupid for pushing those questions.
Quickly, I said, “Don’t worry… I’m your son now, right? Right, Ma?”
She wiped her tears and nodded.
I felt the need to lighten the mood. “What did you have for breakfast, Ma?” “Pathiri and chicken curry.”
“Really?” I perked up. “That’s my favourite food!”
“You made the chicken curry, Ma?”
She nodded. Her smile returned, slowly.
“Tell me how you make it, Ma.”
And just like that, she started describing the entire recipe, her voice full of warmth and pride. I listened—not as a doctor, but as a child listening to his grandmother’s tale.
“You love cooking, don’t you?”
She nodded again, her smile growing wider.
“Do you have any left?” I whispered. “If you do, I’ll come by this afternoon and finish it off for you!”
She laughed. A deep, full laugh. Relief shining on her face.
“You come, son. I’ll make a new one just for you—no problem.”
We both laughed.
I checked her BP and GRBS levels—slightly high—and advised her on the DASH and diabetic diets. I wrote her prescription, explained the meds.
“Okay, Ma?”
She nodded and looked at me, eyes soft with affection.
“No Ma,” I said gently, “I won’t be coming for the chicken curry… But is it okay if you make a dua for me instead? You know… to become a good doctor, and always have the strength and kindness to help others?”
She looked at me with all the love in the world.
“Yes, son,” she said, “I’ll make dua for you after every prayer.”
I smiled. She smiled. And then she left.
That moment has stayed with me. It taught me more about medicine than any lecture ever could. We are trained to take histories, diagnose, and treat—but no one really teaches us how to care.
Empathy cannot be taught through PowerPoints or standardized patients. It is learned in the quiet moments when we choose to listen, comfort, or share a laugh with someone who has lost everything.
In a system often driven by numbers—BP readings, HbA1c values, case logs—we risk forgetting that patients are not checklists, but stories waiting to be heard.
When my patient called me son, it reminded me that medicine is not only about healing the body, but also about holding space for another person’s pain. That human connection is, in itself, a form of care.
We live in a world where we chase achievements and titles. But sometimes, the greatest honour is to be seen not as “Doctor,” but as someone’s son.
No wonder the Prophet Muhammad (ﷺ)said:
“Part of respect for Allah is to show respect to the old.”1
I don’t know where she is now. But sometimes, I feel it—I feel her prayers. And I hope, wherever she is, she still remembers me in her duas.
All identifiable details have been altered to preserve privacy.
Photo by Martha Dominguez de Gouveia on Unsplash
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Works Cited
- Al-Adab al-Mufrad, 357 ↩︎
Arshad Ashraf
Arshad Ashraf is a recent medical graduate from Yenepoya Medical College, Mangalore. Originally from Malappuram, Kerala, he is passionate about reflective writing, medical humanities, and exploring the intersection of faith, compassion, and healthcare. His work often draws from personal experiences in medicine and the lessons found in everyday human encounters.
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