I woke up this Friday with an eerie weight in my chest. It wasn’t the fear of pain—I’ve grown accustomed to that. It was the sight of the infusion pump and those six needles waiting to be claimed by my abdomen. They are more than medical tools; they are cold, sharp reminders of helplessness.
But the day doesn’t wait for feelings. I moved through the motions: waking my daughter, the school run, the transition into my white coat.
In the OPD, my second patient—an innocent 87-year-old man—flared up in frustration. “Will I ever be off these inhalers?” he demanded. The doctor in me took over, explaining with practiced ease: It’s just a puff. No pain. No heavy devices. No immobility. It is simply the breath of life. As I spoke, my eyes welled up. I was describing a freedom I didn’t have. His daughter chided me for a delayed message, her voice a distant hum of perceived slights. I took a deep breath, finished the consultation, and moved on. Later, I found my residents tangled in the bitterness of their duty schedules, comparing their “grass” to the “greener” side. I chose silence. I chose not to engage.
By the time I picked up my daughter from school and returned to face the needles, my mind travelled back eleven years to a man named Pankaj Paranjpe.
He was a force of nature in my ICU. Despite a history of colon cancer, a partial gut resection, and a colostomy bag, he remained vibrantly alive. One night, during a bout of severe diarrhea at 3:00 AM, I stood by his bed, exhausted and apologetic. “I’m so sorry,” I said. “You can’t even sleep because we’re changing this bag so often.”
He looked at me, genuinely puzzled. “Are you kidding? I’m lucky. Other people have to run to the bathroom when they’re sick. Here I am, comfortably in my bed.”
I was stunned. “Sir, you can’t be serious. You aren’t irritated?”
He told me something then that carved itself into my soul: “The problems in life begin when you have too many choices. When you have no choice, your problems become very limited.”
We lost Mr. Paranjpe during a subsequent heart surgery, but his wisdom stayed behind.
Today, I finally understood. My patient complained because he had the choice to be “well.” My residents complained because they had the choice to be “elsewhere.” They are all staring at the grass on the other side.
For me, there is no other side. This is my grass. It will be as green as I am capable of making it. There is no one to compare myself to, and no one to blame.
And so, a strange calm has settled over me. These six needles don’t irritate me today. I can’t speak for next Friday, but for now, my choices are narrowed down to two: Do this and hope for the best, or do it anyway.
Thank you, Mr. Paranjpe. I don’t know if you’re looking down from heaven, but I am looking up and smiling. And these days, a smile that comes from the bottom of my heart is a rare and beautiful find
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