There was a time when doctors would live and patients would die. For 25 years, it worked for me. But now I am as vulnerable as the rest. By God, it’s scary. For the first time, my patients and I are in it together. I feel the tightness in his chest, his helplessness, his fear. The low oxygen saturation. And I’m no longer God’s agent telling him of his fate. How can I, when I’m no longer sure of my own? If I removed my mask, he would see my fear and anxiety. Fortunately, all he sees are my eyes. And my eyes can lie.
As a GP, I don’t get to see the living-dead awaiting resurrection or being boxed in. I get to see people who still have the strength of denial. And that isn’t something you can treat with antibiotics, fluids, rest and isolation. It requires begging. But for how long can I beg? At times, it is quite tempting to just let the patient go. Statistics thrown around by careless officials tell me that his chances of survival are 98 percent. So, why bother? Why make my voice hoarse and my mouth dry by insisting? Why try changing his mind when he’s not willing to listen? Why make him understand that his bravery is selfishness? Who am I trying to save? Can I even save myself? Isn’t he responsible for himself? Why should I manage his life? Do I do it for money? Or is it required of me? Why make me beg!?
A year ago, I could laugh at people removing their masks to listen, to speak, to cough or to sneeze. The funny part vanished long ago. For me, a mask-less person is Covid. And I’m frightened of him. I leave my office and puff on my electronic fag to calm my nerves. I refuse to come out of my hole until the person’s face is all wrapped up. I simply do not wish to see naked faces anymore. I’m tired of staying alert looking for lapses.
A year ago, I could laugh at people removing their masks to listen, to speak, to cough or to sneeze. The funny part vanished long ago. For me, a mask-less person is Covid. And I’m frightened of him
I understand. The poor have no choice but to violate the SOPs to keep affluent ‘comfortably numb’. But I refuse to understand why one has to rush mask-less to buy fancy clothes. Why is it that a driver wears a mask but the person at the back doesn’t? Why has a mask become a symbol of power? I could say with full confidence that anyone and everyone would wear it if the Army chief were there. Is that driver not simply worth it? Is he not human? Do his parents and family not count? How can we be so self-centred? Is it our culture, the power of faith or a false sense of superiority? But it can’t be. This is global. So, what is it, then? For me, there’s no left or right, no socialism or capitalism; it boils down to stupidity and its opposite. Gone are the days when you would have trouble spotting one. Now you can see them everywhere. Among the rich and poor, in cars and on bikes, young and old, men and women. Sometimes I wish masks were branded, too. Call it selfish but soaps are advertised and this has helped. Though it is a matter of national shame that we had to learn it this way.
If there were branded masks and multinational companies promoting these, I would have been spared the abusive language. I have been left on my own to enforce masks at my clinic. You have no idea how hard it can be, especially if this virus is casually downgraded to ‘flu’. Also, I’ve been accused. I’ve been called a kafir, a Jew, a Jewish agent. Apparently, there’s a difference. The funny thing is that every time it happened, the only trick which worked was the threat to close down the clinic unless that person was shown the door. Is that how people feel towards me? Help came from religious scholars. They blamed women for the disease. Women caused it and we, the doctors, propagated it. So please forgive me when I derive satisfaction from watching The Ertugrul-Virus Denier trembling at the thought of being hospitalised. It is rather telling how quickly the brave-heart crumble. Shameless of me? I know. I feel shame already. For charging my patients
But I am also disgusted. By our top guys doing next to nothing. I suffer pain. I get fever. I feel frustration. I smell the rot. There wasn’t much hope to begin with but the unceremonious death, so far reserved for the minorities and downtrodden, is upon me now. I feel their fear. And like them, I’m helpless too.
So what makes me go to my clinic? The answer is: Love.
Denial is the most difficult thing to treat but no one loves me more than a convert. And I love them back, wholeheartedly. My Covid patients are the ones who will remember me if I’m no more.
Fingers crossed.
The writer is a Pakistan-based General Practitioner