Patients come to us for medical assistance, but sometimes end up helping us instead

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On a slightly weary Thursday evening, just as I was about to go into surgery at 6 pm, I got a frantic phone call from a son about his 75-year-old father. “For the past few days, my father’s balance has been off. But since this morning, his speech has been slurring, and he’s becoming incoherent and confused. It almost seems like he’s slipping in and out of consciousness,” the son went on, slightly frenzied.

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“We took the advice of our family physician and got a CT scan of the brain. We’ve been told he’s slowly bleeding into the brain and needs an emergency operation,” came the vague description from the other end. “Why don’t you take him to the hospital closest to you,” I suggested, channelling my inner GPS. “Doctor, we live in Juhu. Do you come this side of town?” 

I politely declined. 

“Even in his completely incoherent state, the only thing my dad keeps saying is, ‘Take me to Mazda. I’ve read every single column of his in the paper and I know he’ll be able to fix me!’” the son pressed on, almost panting on the other end. “He’s a big fan and a very stubborn one. Please do something,” he urged. “He keeps chanting ‘Mazda, Mazda’, as if it’s a medical mantra.” 

To be honest, I had a huge smile on my face, almost blushing a little. Until now, I thought my fan base consisted primarily of 70-year-old women, and it was good to have some male cheer—a dopamine boost mixed with some testosterone. It took away the tiredness of a long Thursday, after having done a six-hour brain tumour surgery followed by a three-hour spine operation. “Bring him to my hospital and........

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