SOURCE:
http://medicaleconomics.modernmedicine.com/memag/article/articleDetail.jsp?id=109019
THANK YOU, DAD
Jun 4, 2004
By: Navreet Kallar, MD
Medical Economics
A review of her father's medical records 20 years after his death taught the author a lot about her father and about medicine.
It's funny how just as we begin to become complacent in our profession, something happens that rejuvenates us and reminds us of the privileges of being a physician. For me, that something was a review of my father's medical records from almost 20 years ago.
Dad was a physical medicine and rehabilitation specialist. He died of Takayasu's arteritis when I was 13 years old. Initially, I requested his records as an academic exercise, to learn more about the disease, which is rare and usually occurs in young Asian women. In the end, I learned more about my father—and myself—than I could have possibly imagined.
Getting the charts wasn't easy. Only my mother had the authority to release them, and she was reluctant to do so; she didn't want to relive the more painful memories of Dad's illness. I told her reviewing his charts would benefit my education, that he would have wanted me to learn more about medicine in any way possible. I don't know if she believed me, but she relented.
Details of a protracted illness come to light
Given the length of time that had passed since my father's death, it took months for the hospital to locate his records. In fact, I had forgotten about them by the time I was paged to come pick them up.
The records had been broken down to the bare essentials. The chart began with my father's medical history summary, written in 1984, a little more than two years before he died: "This patient is a 41-year-old physician whose current cardiovascular history started approximately eight years ago."
That would have made him 33 when he became symptomatic, only a year older than I am now. I couldn't help but wonder how I might have handled receiving a major diagnosis at such a young age. When he became ill, Dad's life, for all intents and purposes, was perfect. He had been married to my mother for nine years, had two healthy young children ages 8 (my brother) and 4 (me), and was enjoying a fulfilling career working at a local hospital.
After a hunting trip in 1976, he noticed a diminished right radial pulse. A later Doppler diagnosed this as right subclavian stenosis. As I read this in his chart, I recalled watching him periodically swing his arm in circles when I was a child. At the time, he told me he was trying to get his blood circulating. Now I realize he was trying to adapt to disruptive paresthesias.
"At age 37," the chart continued, "the patient began to develop symptoms of angina." That led to cardiac catheterization and subsequent coronary artery bypass surgery, both within the same year. Dad was eventually given corticosteroids. The debilitating myopathy, malaise, and fatigue he later developed finally explained the time when my father could no longer lift me or play outside with me. My mother later told me that he stopped taking the corticosteroids altogether, finding the side effects intolerable.
Once the Takayasu's arteritis took hold, my father developed coronary graft stenoses—which required six bypass operations—and aortic insufficiency, which led to three aortic valve replacements. Each time he recovered briefly, then the symptoms of dyspnea and fatigue would return. He had gone from an active, fit tennis player to a weak, tired patient. As time went on he began to walk more slowly and to tire more easily.
As a little girl, I didn't understand what was wrong with my father and it frustrated me. Now I realize how frustrated he must have been. To him dyspnea meant being unable to race his kids around the house. Myopathy meant debilitating muscle aches that kept him from working as a physician, a job he loved. And near the end of his life, intractable nausea and vomiting meant being unable to keep down even his favorite meals.
After the last surgery failed, Dad was told that the only option left was a heart transplant, which at the time was still an experimental procedure. Soon, I, too, began to feel the worry, sadness, and despair that showed on his face.
I still remember the night before he died. My mother and brother were puttering about in his bedroom, while I sat next to him on the edge of his bed. I sat to his right side, with my left arm draped lightly across his back, my hand resting on his shoulder. My arm couldn't have weighed more than five pounds, nor had it been there for more than two minutes when he asked me to move it because it was getting too heavy.
I responded with tears. The memory still stifles me, like a wool blanket worn in the heat of summer. That night, before I went to sleep, I asked myself, "What would happen if Dad died?" It was the first time I had allowed myself to consider such a thing. The next morning, he was gone.
A father's suffering gives valuable life lessons
When I look back on my decision to review Dad's medical records, I realize I did it because I wanted to get to know him from a new perspective. I now appreciate his bravery and how difficult it must have been for him, as a physician, to deal with his disease and face its implications. As time went on, he knew he would never live to see his retirement or to see his children grow up. But he never allowed the reality of his disease to taint his will to live.
I began to think of how often we get so caught up in worrying about the future that we lose the moment we're in. Even before he became sick, my father never took a second of his life for granted. He spent as much time as he could with my mother, my brother, and me, talking and making us laugh. He loved his family, his friends, and his profession.
I've since tried to emulate my father's approach to life. Whenever I feel stressed over something in the future—how I'll find time to attend a conference or pay for retirement, for instance—I remind myself of my father's lesson: Think only about now.
Even my patients have noticed how better focused and more attentive I've become. I listen more carefully and ask questions when they complain of a medication's side effects. Besides treating their current complaint, I ask how they're dealing with their chronic illnesses. Looking back at what my father faced has given me a sobering appreciation for what my chronically ill patients must go through each day. How often had I taken their medical conditions and emotions for granted? What I had seen as a self-preserving detachment was in some respects ignorance.
My medical training has taught me the science, but my father's illness has taught me the humanity and true essence of our noble profession. Just as I should never take my duty to treat patients lightly, I should remember my responsibility to become a more compassionate person both in and outside the office.
Thank you, Dad, with all of my heart.
NOTE: Dr. Navreet Kallar is an internist from Richmond, VA.
http://medicaleconomics.modernmedicine.com/memag/article/articleDetail.jsp?id=109019
THANK YOU, DAD
Jun 4, 2004
By: Navreet Kallar, MD
Medical Economics
A review of her father's medical records 20 years after his death taught the author a lot about her father and about medicine.
It's funny how just as we begin to become complacent in our profession, something happens that rejuvenates us and reminds us of the privileges of being a physician. For me, that something was a review of my father's medical records from almost 20 years ago.
Dad was a physical medicine and rehabilitation specialist. He died of Takayasu's arteritis when I was 13 years old. Initially, I requested his records as an academic exercise, to learn more about the disease, which is rare and usually occurs in young Asian women. In the end, I learned more about my father—and myself—than I could have possibly imagined.
Getting the charts wasn't easy. Only my mother had the authority to release them, and she was reluctant to do so; she didn't want to relive the more painful memories of Dad's illness. I told her reviewing his charts would benefit my education, that he would have wanted me to learn more about medicine in any way possible. I don't know if she believed me, but she relented.
Details of a protracted illness come to light
Given the length of time that had passed since my father's death, it took months for the hospital to locate his records. In fact, I had forgotten about them by the time I was paged to come pick them up.
The records had been broken down to the bare essentials. The chart began with my father's medical history summary, written in 1984, a little more than two years before he died: "This patient is a 41-year-old physician whose current cardiovascular history started approximately eight years ago."
That would have made him 33 when he became symptomatic, only a year older than I am now. I couldn't help but wonder how I might have handled receiving a major diagnosis at such a young age. When he became ill, Dad's life, for all intents and purposes, was perfect. He had been married to my mother for nine years, had two healthy young children ages 8 (my brother) and 4 (me), and was enjoying a fulfilling career working at a local hospital.
After a hunting trip in 1976, he noticed a diminished right radial pulse. A later Doppler diagnosed this as right subclavian stenosis. As I read this in his chart, I recalled watching him periodically swing his arm in circles when I was a child. At the time, he told me he was trying to get his blood circulating. Now I realize he was trying to adapt to disruptive paresthesias.
"At age 37," the chart continued, "the patient began to develop symptoms of angina." That led to cardiac catheterization and subsequent coronary artery bypass surgery, both within the same year. Dad was eventually given corticosteroids. The debilitating myopathy, malaise, and fatigue he later developed finally explained the time when my father could no longer lift me or play outside with me. My mother later told me that he stopped taking the corticosteroids altogether, finding the side effects intolerable.
Once the Takayasu's arteritis took hold, my father developed coronary graft stenoses—which required six bypass operations—and aortic insufficiency, which led to three aortic valve replacements. Each time he recovered briefly, then the symptoms of dyspnea and fatigue would return. He had gone from an active, fit tennis player to a weak, tired patient. As time went on he began to walk more slowly and to tire more easily.
As a little girl, I didn't understand what was wrong with my father and it frustrated me. Now I realize how frustrated he must have been. To him dyspnea meant being unable to race his kids around the house. Myopathy meant debilitating muscle aches that kept him from working as a physician, a job he loved. And near the end of his life, intractable nausea and vomiting meant being unable to keep down even his favorite meals.
After the last surgery failed, Dad was told that the only option left was a heart transplant, which at the time was still an experimental procedure. Soon, I, too, began to feel the worry, sadness, and despair that showed on his face.
I still remember the night before he died. My mother and brother were puttering about in his bedroom, while I sat next to him on the edge of his bed. I sat to his right side, with my left arm draped lightly across his back, my hand resting on his shoulder. My arm couldn't have weighed more than five pounds, nor had it been there for more than two minutes when he asked me to move it because it was getting too heavy.
I responded with tears. The memory still stifles me, like a wool blanket worn in the heat of summer. That night, before I went to sleep, I asked myself, "What would happen if Dad died?" It was the first time I had allowed myself to consider such a thing. The next morning, he was gone.
A father's suffering gives valuable life lessons
When I look back on my decision to review Dad's medical records, I realize I did it because I wanted to get to know him from a new perspective. I now appreciate his bravery and how difficult it must have been for him, as a physician, to deal with his disease and face its implications. As time went on, he knew he would never live to see his retirement or to see his children grow up. But he never allowed the reality of his disease to taint his will to live.
I began to think of how often we get so caught up in worrying about the future that we lose the moment we're in. Even before he became sick, my father never took a second of his life for granted. He spent as much time as he could with my mother, my brother, and me, talking and making us laugh. He loved his family, his friends, and his profession.
I've since tried to emulate my father's approach to life. Whenever I feel stressed over something in the future—how I'll find time to attend a conference or pay for retirement, for instance—I remind myself of my father's lesson: Think only about now.
Even my patients have noticed how better focused and more attentive I've become. I listen more carefully and ask questions when they complain of a medication's side effects. Besides treating their current complaint, I ask how they're dealing with their chronic illnesses. Looking back at what my father faced has given me a sobering appreciation for what my chronically ill patients must go through each day. How often had I taken their medical conditions and emotions for granted? What I had seen as a self-preserving detachment was in some respects ignorance.
My medical training has taught me the science, but my father's illness has taught me the humanity and true essence of our noble profession. Just as I should never take my duty to treat patients lightly, I should remember my responsibility to become a more compassionate person both in and outside the office.
Thank you, Dad, with all of my heart.
NOTE: Dr. Navreet Kallar is an internist from Richmond, VA.
3 comments:
My Sister was suffering from pulseless disease (Takayushu)since 1982.I have seen her agony and hope from the modern science.She was bedridden and lost her vision in one eyes.At every span of time she was loosing weight,energy tct.We had sent her medical reports to almost all the well known doctors of the world and seeked their advices.But sadly so no positive outcome.
I was told that there is no sure cure for unknown reason of the disease.
As she was suffering and no medicine is helping.I was suggested to go for herbal food supplements.
Believe me Miracle had happened and fast recovery started within a months time.ofcource loss of vision is not repairable.She is active, energatic and out of bedridden challenges.
I had given her daily doses of Aloe vera gel 50 ml morning and night
Omega3 & 9-twice after lunch and dinner
Garlic-Thyme-twice after each meals
Ginkgo plus-Twice after each meal
God is great.
I miss Baltej Chacha ji. He used to talk with us about his days in usa and about his childhood and his days spend with my dad in childhood. He always made us laugh whenever he visited us in India. We all always always remember him.
parvez singh sidhu
newzealand
Well done Reeti.You are brave daughter of my Dearest Chacha ji.I has his cards which he sent to me.He always use to visit us at Bhatinda.My dad tld us how he topped in 10th grade and made his teachers proud.When my brother Parvez was born at Rajindra hospital and he was there.He and his frien Dr.Dhawan gave me lots of ice-cream.Reeti reading about chacha ji makes me so sad and can never think how much he had to suffer.He was such a good person.His brother and sisters miss him.
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