Bustling OPDs can always be likened to a cafeteria. 

With patients picking their doctors and then moving on through a number of examination stations.

But the emotions that are intervowen in all those encounters are overwhelming when analysed.

There’s a tired husband watching as I review the single preretinal haemorrhage over his wife’s optic disc, whose ward file shows me that she’s been admitted for over three weeks and is receiving regular blood transfusions.

Two teenage girls walk in. 

One is thrilled with her newly straightened visual axis thanks to her corrected squint, and she can’t stop gushing and thanking all the doctors.

The other one presents with watering and papillae and when I advise an anti-histaminic and tell her to refrain from the use of kajal, she smiles sheepishly at me as she notes my eyeliner.

I correct myself and tell her to use it only on her upper lid and make sure she’s using a good quality brand.

A young child is playing happily with her mother, and I note that she’s been referred for me to check that her optic disc is normal and not swollen as her next dose of chemotherapy is due.

A hypermetropic boy with constant headaches comes back to tell me how his quality of life has improved so much with a simple spectacle prescription.

A young couple holding their infant with global development delay, listen gravely to their child’s visual prognosis.

It’s a roller-coaster of emotions for us. Happiness interspersed with bursts of sorrow and pity.

Separating our emotions from our profession is almost impossible.

It’s something I’m still working on. Because it’s too hard to deal with.

The emotions that hit me when I see a mother counting out her money, wondering how much she can afford to spend at the overpriced coffee shop on campus, when I see poor relatives pouring out tea into three cups as they sit around their relative’s bed hoping for a miracle, and when I see families with small children camping outside the ward as they wait for their admitted relative, post visiting hours, are intense.

My heart goes out to them everytime, knowing that I could be in their place some day, and the tables could turn for any one of us.

I think in such situations, we must be kind.

Even if it’s just a smile as I pass them by, I know I’ve added a little bit to their day.

Ruffling a child’s hair and squeezing that pudgy arm as I examine their retina, adds a bit to my day. 

As a doctor, I know I’m blessed in many ways. But one of the greatest blessing in my book is the ability to give back with not just my work, but also my kindness. 

I know that thanks to my patients, I’m becoming a better person, one day at a time. 

So let’s get inspired by Cinderella, by having courage and being kind.

It’s makes a world of difference.