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Below - first image from bottom: Bhai Kanhaiya administers to the foe on a 17th century battlefield.

Faith

First, Do No Harm

by FELICIA KAUR JODHKA

 

My day used to begin with His Name on my lips and my head at His feet. Now, it begins with the names of my patients and me at the feet of their beds. 

It used to be that the soothing rhythm of Rehraas and Kirtan Sohila would lull me into a peaceful sleep.  Now, it is fatigue that forces me into a state of overt oblivion. 

It used to be that my ears would listen with great attentiveness to the words and melody of Shabad Kirtan.  Now, my ears have been trained to listen to the song of an incessantly beeping pager. 

Five months into my first year of residency, I have experienced much.  I now sit here under the fluorescent lights of the Resident's Call Room with a dictation phone to my left and a stack of patient lab reports to my right. 

My last inkling of sleep was approximately 26 hours ago.  I have not showered, nor have I combed my hair.  It sits in a frazzled, unkempt bun, soiled with the sweat of physical and mental exhaustion.  After having delivered three babies, the moans and laboring cries of mothers-to-be have subsided.  The loud voices of nurses and doctors ordering them to "Push! Push! Push!" have ceased.  The usual 4 AM rush of the ER has transiently and indefinitely trickled to a stop. 

My beeper is temporarily at a standstill.  The air, like my heart, is filled with a quiet inner void, and for once, I am able to regroup my thoughts during this Amrit Vela, and suddenly I realize how much I yearn for my Guru.

"Any resident to third floor stat!" the hospital intercom blasts.  As quickly as this "quietness" came, it disappears.

I reflexively jump to my feet and, like second nature, everything is forgotten.  I become immersed not in His Word, but rather in my work - in examining, in interviewing, in diagnosing, in treating, and in managing.  As exhausted as I may be, I pay no heed to my aching back, my sore feet, and my empty stomach.  It is as if my ailments had never even existed.   

Standing beside the patient, nothing else exists - not even my Guru.  The patient, in a sense, is my Guru; I concentrate on him and meditate on his words hoping to find a diagnosis.  I build a rapport hoping that our relationship may strengthen, so that he may provide me with the sacred information to his originating pathology.  My patient's existence, however fragile it may be, becomes the sole purpose of my life. 

Yet, when the diagnosis is made and the treatments have been administered, and the discharge paperwork is completed, I come back to the Call Room and for a few, short minutes, my transiently idle mind and empty soul regroup, and I am left, once again, with an emptiness that spans across the deepest of canyons and the widest of oceans. 

Oh, how I miss my Guru!

No doubt, medicine is a commitment.  With the overwhelming work load and the surmounting responsibility, I had expected personal sacrifice.  I realize, however, that I may have had to sacrifice much more than I had ever imagined - specifically, the relationship I have built with my Guru. 

There are many early mornings when I have enough time to recite only the first five pauris of Japji Sahib during my short drive to the hospital.  And more often than not, I have awakened to the alarm clock in the morning finding my bedroom light on and a gutka in my hand, opened midway through the bani of Rehraas Sahib which I had begun reciting the previous night before exhaustion, unbeknownst to me, triumphed over my faith. 

Amidst the ER admissions, the pages from nurses, the Code Blues, and the deliveries during twenty-four hour call, I can both literally and figuratively forget to finish the recitation of any bani.  And when the hustle and bustle of the hospital subsides, it is not my Guru, but sleep that sounds the most enticing at that moment. 

For months, I retreated to guilt and frustration until one particular interaction with a patient enlightened me.

She was a middle-aged mother.  Having been in pain, and having been away from her family and children, "Mrs. Smith" was in great distress.  I sat at the foot of her bed and listened.  She spoke of fear, of death, of being separated from her family, of pain, of her condition, and of great uncertainty.  I took her hand and with a gentle voice informed her of her condition, consoled her, and dispelled her fears. 

Within minutes, her beautiful hazel eyes brightened. 

"Thank you.  God bless you, my dear", she replied with a smile and embrace. 

The warmth of her embrace lingered around me for the rest of the call night.   

Had I solely read her the word-for-word description of her condition from Harrison's Principles of Medicine, a hefty 3000+ page medical textbook that sits on my bookshelf, I am certain I would not have received the same response. 

There is something more to the medical profession than just being knowledgeable about the human body.  Medicine is not just a science; it is also an art - a humanitarian way of doing, of living. 

Sikhi, I find, is no different. 

As a physician, I am obliged to abide by the words of the Hippocratic aphorism which flowed from the mouth of Hippocrates, the Father of Medicine:  "Primum non nocere (First, do no harm)". 

Guru Nanak establishes the groundwork of this notion when he begins Guru Granth Sahib with his powerful, resonating message of "Ik Onkar", reminding me of His existence in each and every being I interact with, whether it be patient, stranger, friend or family member. 

These are the principles that were inherent in Bhai Kanhaiya as he crossed enemy lines providing water and dressing the wounds of both friend and foe alike. And as Guru Gobind Singh embraced him, I felt that through "Mrs. Smith", He also embraced me.   

In retrospect, I look at all the experiences with my underserved and indigent patients and consider myself privileged to have been given the chance to interact with them, for they have taught me what no medical text or top-notch professor would be able to teach. 

They have taught me not only the essence of medicine, but also the essence of Sikhi itself. They allow me to implement and live on the foundation of my Guru's Words - compassion. 

I may be working rigorously, and my work may not allow me the time to fully recite His Name, but my patients give me enormous and ample opportunity to live His Name. 

And for that, as a doctor, but most importantly as a Sikh, I am eternally grateful. 

 

November 4, 2008

Conversation about this article

1: Tejwant (U.S.A.), November 04, 2008, 3:02 PM.

His Word is not only in chanting Japji, Rehras or any other Paatth. His Word is in the expectant mother's crying for more strength to push the new born to the new world when you ask her to. His Word is in you holding hands of the unknowns who feel helpless and consoling them. His Word is not in the moments you have free moments to chant Paatth but in the intercom calling for you to rush to console and help another helpless one. His Word is in your thoughts and feeling that make you yearn, yet your being in His presence all the times. His Word is in the medical manuals and in the gutkas, the only difference is the transport of His thoughts from one to the other so that the needy can have their needs fulfilled. You are His walking, living Word, even though the journey goes through sleepless, hungry nights and days. You are following His Word in a commendable manner. It is okay if you do not have the time to recite gurbani. Because you are living it!

2: Pritam Singh Grewal (Canada), November 04, 2008, 8:34 PM.

Yes, as Guru Nanak says, compassion is the cotton from which the sacred thread or 'janeoo' of Sikhi is made. Japji also commends compassion by calling it the mother of Dharam. 'Rog gavaey apna ta Nanak vaid sadaey' - To be accepted as a healer, one must first cure oneself of diseases like ego and greed. Remembering the Guru and Nam Simran can go on while working with your body as advised by Kabir Ji - 'Haath paon ker kam sabh, cheet niranjan naal'.

3: Dr Jagmeet Kaur (Bhopal, India), November 05, 2008, 12:11 AM.

Dear Felicia, I empathize with you completely and totally, by nature of being a Paediatrician myself. I remember all that you are going through when I was doing my residency. In fact, I can still remember the last moments of premature babies and, with a prayer in my heart. I would turn with anguish to my Lord and ask why did they have to go so soon. But the Lord did give answers and I have felt His presence in a few patients and truly felt blessed. So, keep up the good work and relax, all your banis are being done through your work.

4: D. J. Singh (U.S.A.), November 05, 2008, 5:39 PM.

Happy moments, praise God. Difficult moments, seek God. Quiet moments, worship God. Painful moments, trust God. Every moment, thank God.

5: D. J. Singh (U.S.A.), November 09, 2008, 10:32 AM.

The first Master taught us Naam Japna (remembering God at all times). When the Tenth Master left Anandpur Sahib during the night of 5th-6th December 1705, the Sikhs were engaged in morning prayers even while the Mughal army was in hot pursuit.

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