Different Shades of Pain

For more than half my life as a doctor, I’ve been confronted with pain and suffering almost every day. It has become my daily mission to alleviate that pain, but getting here took an immense amount of effort. The journey being a doctor involved years of grueling academic training, long working hours, and dealing with inadequate working conditions and facilities. And once the academic hurdles were cleared, a life of personal sacrifice began. But despite our best efforts, do we always win against pain and suffering?

The answer is, unfortunately, no. No matter how hard we try, there are times when we fail. Despite applying all the science, knowledge, and judgment at our disposal, patients are lost. Death is a battle we cannot always win. It is the ultimate boundary to our efforts, a limit we cannot surpass. And when death strikes, what haunts me first is the pain—not just the pain of witnessing the grief of those who have lost someone they love, but the painful doubt that creeps into my mind: “Did I miss something?”

Death is a universal truth—inescapable. Much has been written about it, and countless philosophies surround its mystery. Scientifically, I understand its inevitability, but it still brings pain. It stirs self-doubt, making me question the decisions I made, the steps I took. Even knowing the finality of it, I find myself re-analyzing my choices, searching for ways to improve for the next patient. This doubt I face with each loss, rather than discouraging me, pushes me to become a better doctor.

Today, I find myself reflecting on this familiar sense of pain after finishing a book. It’s the story of a retired IAS officer, a man who had an honest and illustrious career. The book delves into his inner conflict—how he grappled with being right in his convictions yet forced to take politically correct steps. Every time a decision didn’t lead to the desired outcome, doubt would creep in, and he would sometimes blame himself, even though he knew his choices were limited by factors beyond his control.

His self-doubt and blame felt deeply familiar to me. As I read, it felt as if the author had tapped into my own emotions, as though someone finally understood what I feel. The shared experience of that kind of pain, the uncertainty, connected me to the author in a profound way. I realized that nothing binds people together quite like shared pain.

I’ve been fortunate to have many friends in my life. Once, someone asked me how I would define a close friend, and without hesitation, I answered, “Someone I can call and cry to without feeling embarrassed.” It’s easy to share happiness—we hand out sweets to everyone we know, even acquaintances, when we’re celebrating. But when we’re in pain, we only reach out to a select few. Pain, unlike joy, is something we share only with those who are truly close. The ability to share pain reveals the depth of our relationships.

In this way, I find pain to be strangely fascinating. It’s uncomfortable, but it can be inspiring. It hurts, yet it connects. We should never leave someone to suffer alone because pain can also be the beginning of something beautiful—lifelong, meaningful relationships.

– Amit.