I read the editorial ‘Love in the time of COVID: The value of the hug’ with great interest. This shows how therapeutic it is to give and receive compassionate care, both for the children and the clinician. I have often found that the view from the side of the child and the family is very different. We may not be able to make it better, we may not always get it right, but what families seem to remember most is that we tried our very best, that we were kind. It takes me back to a simpler time when I was a postgraduate doctor in India in a tertiary government hospital. We received patients from all parts of the state, they came in buses, travelling overnight with seriously ill children in their arms. The resources in the hospital were minimal, every investigation had to be planned carefully. Clinical diagnosis was key, timely treatment was of absolute essence. As junior residents, we paced the intensive care setting with 20 beds, silently through the night willing our patients to remain alive. Sitting at the bed of a child with TB meningitis, another with encephalitis, treating an infant with sepsis, treating a child with status epilepticus. Comforting parents, reassuring an old grandparent who must have been 80 if she was a day and the sole carer of the child with TB meningitis. The children, magically resilient, got better, not because of us but probably in spite of us. In a few days, they would give us a single red rose, a bunch of bananas or in one case an overflowing bag of beans. The parents would tell us that specific instructions had been issued by the 5-year-old (who had arrived unconscious and was treated for encephalitis) that the freshest and the ‘reddest’ rose be procured for the doctor from the market. Our shifts would go on for 36 hours. At five in the evening, I would drag my weary self to the bus stop to make the 1 hour journey home. Some of my patients who had got better would also be on the bus. There would be great excitement as I boarded. The bus driver would greet me like an old friend. An expansive welcome. He would ask the passengers who sat in the seat parallel to the driver's seat, to move. I would smile gratefully and sink into the vacated space. I would be wedged between flower sellers, old grandmothers (with huge smiles) weaving garlands of jasmine, the younger ones would be squeezed together near my feet. The driver would be very pleased once I had settled in. The moving bus, the loquacious chatter of the driver and the eager contribution of the passengers would lull me to sleep surrounded by the fragrant smell of jasmine. An hour later, I would be gently nudged awake by a tooth less grandmother with the most wonderful smile. And waved off cheerfully by a cohort of people. If I was not careful the driver would probably have taken the bus off the highway and dropped me straight at the door of my house. A different life, a different way of looking after each other and the children, because you could and because it mattered. It was a kind of love. And a simpler time. Amongst the many lessons that COVID has taught us, perhaps the most important ones are that compassion and empathy are a vital part of human interactions, now more so than ever.
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