In old-fashioned trust and prayer for our doctors

I am not particularly devout or spiritually inclined. So my husband was quite bemused to hear me the other day, praying fervently, hands folded, eyes closed, asking God to shower his blessings on my doctor and physiotherapist. Family and friends took second place.

But is this so surprising? You will surely agree that the moment you fall sick, your doctor becomes the centre of your existence. He is your friend, guide and philosopher. He is the only one who can save you from pain and misery. He is the god to whom you surrender, unconditionally.

A medieval Tamil poet proved his understanding of this human tendency when he declared categorically, “Even if he lances you, and roasts your limbs one by one, you cannot rid yourself of your infatuation for the doctor.” Note that he didn’t say “trust”, but “infatuation”.

Not to say that doctors have not changed over the decades. Remember the family doctor of your grandpa’s time who came to your house in a cycle rickshaw anytime anyone fell ill? You ran to carry his heavy leather bag in, with implements you can only see in a museum today. For every illness he seemed to prescribe the same remedy — an evil-smelling carbonative mixture in a corked bottle. You had to collect it from the compounder at the clinic. When this didn’t work, he stuck a huge needle into your bottom. The fear of its repetition got you up on your feet. 

As the doctor turned to leave he would catch sight of some youngster and remark, “She has calcium deficiency. Make her drink two glasses of milk morning and evening.” Finally, after enquiring about every member of the family whom he knew by name and ailments, he would exit amidst fond farewells. My grandfather actually had a resident doctor whose entire family lived in our house. His duty was not so much to cure as to ensure that everyone remained well.

My first visit to the doctor’s clinic was sheer trauma.  Poor Dr Fernandes could not have imagined the impact of the painting above his head — Christ with a pierced, bleeding heart — on the trembling child before him  It wasn’t any better in Dr Shrivastav’s waiting room which had the picture of a patient held forcibly down as a longbeard (legendary Susruta) operated on him!

That was in childhood, But now I am as devoted to my doctor as are my friends. We argue about the merits of our own physician with heat and conviction.

Sometimes unlikely combinations work. When I decided to give up attending the London Film Festival because of a huge ankle problem my doctor taught me yoga poses that I could manage to do only with pillows, or clutching window grills. In two months I was fit enough to run down the London subway. Once at a studio, I saw the recording engineer walk out to stand under the midday sun. “I thought I had arthritis, but my doctor says it is vitamin D deficiency,” he explained when the session resumed. A friend with a chronic stomach problem has started a roof garden. “My doctor says that the company of plants will make me better.”

Doctors come in many forms. Some are gruff, others say “Tsk! Tsk!” in sympathy as they press your aching muscles. Still others hum as they examine your knee or spine. But I am now absolutely convinced that not only cures, but just simply getting better depend as much on the treatment as on your trust in your doctor’s wisdom and invincibility.