MEDICAL PROFESSIONALS NEED TO BE VERY COMPASSIONATE TO PATIENTS

MEDICAL PROFESSIONALS NEED TO BE VERY COMPASSIONATE TO PATIENTS

May 2025 remains solid in my mind as the month that my family and I went through a rough time; my health scare. Thankfully, Allah’s grace was sufficient, and I made a full recovery; even attempting a major long surgery on my comeback just 2 weeks after my discharge – of course, an MO had to come in and help me complete it when I realized I wasn’t as strong as I thought yet. I didn’t want to slack off while recovering; I needed to get myself back into action to redeem my crown.

One day, I was minding my business in the clinic when I noticed a pregnant woman near the door, drenched in sweat, restless, and attempting to kneel on the floor due to pain. I thought to myself, ‘This is labor, but why send her here instead of maternity direct?’ I requested the client I was seeing to kindly excuse me for a moment while I attended to the lady in distress. We supported her in, and she was a lady going into some form of shock; her hands were cold and clammy, she was very restless, her clothes were drenched, and she was writhing in pain – not touching her third-trimester belly but her epigastric and upper abdominal quadrants regions. Due to the severe pain, she couldn’t provide a comprehensive history but handed me her imaging report. There, I got a shocker; memories of my May experience came rushing back. She had exactly what I had in May 2025, with the only complication being that she was in advanced pregnancy. I knew right there that I needed to resuscitate her with fluids, as she was ‘third-spacing’ and going into hypovolemic shock, and manage her severe pain, and do specific key tests, hoping that they wouldn’t come back as bad as they were for me. I turned to go finish writing notes when she had a severe projectile vomiting episode that messed up all my walls, and I had to step back and help her back onto the bed. I felt so much empathy towards her. It was like a mirror image of my experience earlier in the year.

I settled her in the next room when the lab called, saying her labs weren’t looking good. It reminded me of myself. I had to admit her to the hospital but wondered if the nurses would follow all instructions to the latter, especially regarding fluids and pain management. Would they bother to call me if she wasn’t responding to care? You see, during my time, I was admitted to one of Kenya’s finest and biggest private hospitals in Nairobi, and I was under the care of the top specialist in that field in the nation—a professor of repute and a great man full of humility. I had the best nursing team, save for just one nurse who caused me deep emotional scars. She was much younger than me, must have been in her late 20s. I happened to be under her care the night things were very thick. She was clearly irritated by me; I guess she expected me to be a very difficult patient just by virtue of being a doctor—I’m not sure she even believed I was a specialist—I didn’t look like it at the time—illness can do a number on you, and looks stop mattering.

I remember ringing the bell because the pain was at a million decibels more. My heart was racing due to the pain (my heart rate was in the 140s, 150s), my oxygen levels were dropping, and I was so scared—I feared I could easily get an arrhythmia. She gave me the most unforgettable lecture of my life. ‘Why are you calling me, and I have already given you all your pain meds? Tell me, Khadija, what do you want me to do; why did you ring the bell? Unataka nifanye nini sasa?’ She went on and on. A parting sentence as she was walking away shook me to the core: ‘Or are you an opioid, morphine addict now that you are a medic—labda ndiyo maana husikii dawa?’ I cried. If I, a specialist in one of the top government departments in this nation, could get such treatment from this one individual tasked to take care of me, what would the mama mboga, housewife Mama Swaleh be subjected to?

I quietly texted my professor, bit my bed sheets literally between my teeth to tolerate the pain, breathed in and out as I peeked at my vitals monitor, and waited for the day to break; I was too scared to make any movements—another lecture would finish me. The good professor came in early by 7 a.m. that Sunday (the sacrifice touched me), wondered why my pain meds weren’t escalated, why he wasn’t called, and made changes in my treatment. The new changes worked, and I had a pleasant deep sleep during the day; my relatives had to wait for the next visit for me to wake up. Don’t get me wrong, all other nurses were spectacular and spoke such words of affirmation. One even moved me to a more airy bed next to the window and spoke such positivity. She encouraged me and told me I had made wonderful progress and that she was sure I would be home safe in a week—her words came to pass; I wrote her a very long message of appreciation at my discharge.

Back to my patient. I got home and got very worried if the nurses would take good care of her as per my admission instructions. If they would safely optimize her pain and report any danger. I made calls deep in the night (much to the disturbance of my bed partner), but I didn’t want her to go through that one night I suffered in my hospitalization. Just one wrong night can mess up a whole year of good care. I wonder if my experience probably made me a better doctor. I reflect on all those patients we discuss very crudely during ward rounds and forget that they are human and digesting all bad news we discuss so casually. I wonder if I should reach out to the nurse and give her feedback that she gave me very horrid treatment, but my husband had strongly warned me against it. He told me, ‘Let go! Instead, think of all the other nurses/medics who gave you a five-star treatment and service.’ He is right! But as medical professionals, let us treat each individual as a whole human being deserving of good treatment, empathy, compassion, and the best care. Have a reflective week.