by Kaisar Ahmad Malla
There is a need to relearn how to respond to grief. Pain should draw people closer, not turn them against those who try to heal.
Once, the white coat symbolised something sacred. It carried the weight of healing, the assurance of care, and the promise of hope. People placed their trust in doctors as if entrusting their lives to a force greater than themselves. But today, that faith is fraying. What was once reverence is now giving way to suspicion. Fear and frustration linger in hospital corridors, often turning volatile.
A recent incident at SMHS Hospital captured this shift with painful clarity. A young doctor, fatigued yet determined to save a patient, faced the wrath of grief. After the patient’s death, a family member struck him. The slap was not just directed at one individual; it resonated across the medical community. For many doctors, it felt like an assault on the very ethos of their profession.
Fear Inside the Emergency Room
What was once a place of solemn duty has become a space shadowed by fear. Doctors now wonder, before even examining a patient, whether they will be blamed or attacked if the outcome is unfavourable. This fear is corrosive. It steals the clarity required for life-saving decisions. It casts doubt on actions motivated by care and professional commitment.
The role of a doctor is not confined to diagnosis or treatment. It extends to providing comfort when suffering deepens, strength when bodies weaken, and reassurance when families begin to unravel. These are the same doctors who go without food, forego sleep, and lose track of personal time. Not because they must, but because someone else’s emergency matters more than their own needs.
Yet now, they gather in silence outside hospitals, not in protest, but in quiet grief. Not from disease, but from disbelief. It is not the failing health of a patient that crushes them. It is the failing faith of the public.
Strain on the System
Hospitals across Jammu and Kashmir are struggling with overwhelming demand. Emergency wards see an unending stream of patients. Staff are stretched beyond capacity. Nurses and paramedics, like their physician counterparts, push their limits daily. They are not immune to exhaustion or emotion, but their dedication keeps them moving.
They do not ask for much. Not bonuses, not praise. Just respect and safety. These are not privileges; they are the bare minimum required for them to carry out their duties.
Grief, especially after a loss, is a force that can drown reason. It is understandable. But that sorrow, when directed as rage at those who attempted to help, only worsens the suffering. A doctor may not always succeed in saving a life, but rarely does one ever stop trying.
Bearing Witness to Suffering
The moments spent beside a patient in their final hours are some of the most intimate in a hospital. Doctors are there not only to resuscitate or diagnose but also to hold hands, to make dying less lonely. Nurses suppress their tears while tending to those of strangers. Paramedics risk their safety for a heartbeat they may never restore.
These actions often go unnoticed. But they matter. And when violence erupts in hospitals, it dishonours that silent commitment.
Doctors do not grieve loudly. Yet they feel every loss. Violence replaces compassion with fear, and trust with suspicion. It repels those we rely on when no one else can help. If left unchecked, it may lead to a future where fewer choose the calling at all.
A Plea for Compassion
There is a need to relearn how to respond to grief. Pain should draw people closer, not turn them against those who try to heal. The loss of a life is irreparable. But adding fear and blame to that loss serves no purpose. It makes a difficult job impossible.
We owe our doctors not just applause during a pandemic or tributes in crisis, but everyday decency. That means patience, trust, and space to work without fear. They are human, bound by limitations but driven by purpose. They cannot promise miracles, only effort.
A Call to Remember
To every doctor who has stayed behind after their shift to check one last pulse, to every nurse who has watched monitors while hiding her worry, and to every paramedic who has braved angry crowds and chaos for a chance at revival, this is for you. Your silence is seen. Your courage is known. And your pain is not yours alone.
When we next walk into a hospital, let us carry not just our ailments, but also our patience. Let us carry the hope of recovery, but also the grace to accept loss. And above all, let us carry the awareness that the simplest gestures, a nod, a thank you, a moment of restraint, can be more powerful than any medicine.
Sometimes, in the middle of despair, gentleness is the last form of healing left. Let us not take that away. Let the white coat breathe.
(The writer is a Staff Nurse at GMC Baramulla. Ideas are personal.)
