For the last couple of weeks, the infusions have been happening at home. I used to never understand the rush when patients practically forced us to discharge them before they were fully recovered.
Now, I do.
Do I have empathy burnout? Most certainly. Do I still struggle to understand why someone would complain about taking necessary medicines? Yes, very much so. But do I see the quiet ones—the ones who don’t complain, but simply look disinterested?
Yes. I see them.
I hear their unspoken knowledge: that most people offering advice on how to navigate an illness have no earthly clue what it actually feels like to live it. They know that the people delivering blanket platitudes about positivity would likely crumble if forced to step into their shoes. And I know that even when I, as their doctor, gently ask them to hold on for just one more chance, one more day, one more breath—part of them simply wants to walk out of my OPD.
Yet, they smile, nod in polite agreement, and let it go. When your body is in full rebellion, you become fiercely protective of your energy; a meaningless argument is the very last priority.
I know a young boy who developed hematemesis while on chemotherapy. I’ll never forget what he told me: “Ma’am, while waiting in the emergency room, I kept hearing my father repeat, ‘It’s taking so much time!’ Hearing that over and over made me decide never to bring my parents to chemo again. And I never did.”
He shared another moment: when he described his bloody vomiting to a family friend, he was casually told not to worry, because the friend had “also thrown up last week.”
Looking at me, he observed: “Ma’am, people will only walk with you as far as their own threshold allows. Beyond that, they trivialise your struggles as their own coping mechanism.”
I agreed. This phenomenon isn’t unique to illness; it extends to every realm of human struggle—financial, emotional, or professional. We left the conversation on a shared truth: most people genuinely mean well, they just do not know how to show it. It is remarkable how much perspective the young can offer if we are willing to listen.
Other well-meaning friends advise an ostrich approach—to bury my head in the sand, close my eyes, and ignore what is happening. This is an exceptionally fascinating approach to life that however , I think would require immense strength . And as I wrote earlier – I am anything but brave !
It is amazing how varied advice can be. As the spoken word track “Wear Sunscreen” so apt put it:
“Advice is a form of nostalgia, trading it is a way of fishing the past from the disposal, wiping it off, painting over the dirty parts and recycling it for more than it’s worth.
“I hold a firm, daily conviction that I will see remission. I manifest it constantly, and I feel it waiting just around the corner.
Yet, I know my life will never be quite the same. Every minor flu, every viral upset, every sudden fever will linger as a quiet terror—a fear of waking up to find a foot drop, or another setback.
I have learned to live alongside this fear. Most days, I rise above it and laugh as if nothing is wrong. But some days still pinch, and on those days, the fear gets the better of me.
Yet I remain—a clinician rewritten by the very care I give, learning that true healing is not the absence of fear, but the willingness to keep walking through it.To every silent patient who has stopped asking questions —I want you to know that I see you, and I hear what is in your heart.
I hold on to the hope that one day, I will find the precise, perfect words to say to you . It is only on that day, when my words match the quiet depth of your endurance, that I will consider my medical education truly complete.
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