A Lifetime of Tears from One Moment of Disbelief

The majority of patients in Bangladesh do not trust doctors. They have no confidence or faith in them. As disheartening as this reality may sound, it is indeed the truth. This insight comes from over three and a half decades of experience in the medical field. When I began my medical career in the early 1990s, my heart was pure, and I was determined to devote myself entirely to helping others—though not to the extreme of sacrificing everything, as some might do. I still remember 1990, when, in the early hours at Dhaka Medical College’s emergency department, a young man who had been severely injured in a road accident arrived. He was bleeding heavily, and there were no family members with him—only a colleague by his side. His blood pressure had dropped, and his oxygen levels were declining. In panic, he cried out, “Sir, please save me!” (though I was no ‘sir’ in the conventional sense!). I was a simple intern, struggling to make ends meet with a meagre stipend of 2,500 taka. I instructed my colleague to administer a volume expander (a type of saline solution), and then I rushed to the blood bank. Fortunately, my blood type matched his, so I donated blood. That patient survived. I believe that countless interns in medical college hospitals still work tirelessly day and night, risking their own lives to serve the helpless and suffering.

Time passed, and I accumulated bitter experiences during my long tenure in the BCS cadre. Nothing was accomplished in government offices without bribery. I never indulged in party politics, so I was never favoured by the government. When I witnessed the overwhelming corruption, internal factionalism, and administrative abuse, I decided to resign from the prestigious BCS cadre job. Having loved the medical profession and never being inhuman towards patients, I never feared the battle of life. Over the years, I have received the love and respect of countless individuals, witnessing their diverse emotions, characters, and lack of trust. Through the various ups and downs of our healthcare system, I have reached this point. In the year 2000, people from Bangladesh had to travel to Kolkata, Delhi, or Bangkok even for a simple angiogram. Now, we can perform nearly all heart treatments here in the country. Bypass surgeries and open-heart surgeries have become as routine as appendix operations were in the 1990s.

But does this mean that people’s travels abroad for treatment have stopped? No, that would not be accurate. Some individuals have accumulated substantial wealth and feel comfortable going abroad for medical treatment, whether necessary or not. That is their right. However, in emergencies, one must seek treatment here. Otherwise, the loss will be yours, and your family’s.

Let me share a story about a recent incident. Yesterday was International Labour Day, a public holiday. While offices were closed, the body does not take a break. Hence, even on holidays, we had to go to the hospital to attend to the patients. After completing my duties, I was on my way home when a gentleman in his fifties entered my chamber, referred by one of my previous patients. As soon as I looked at his face, I realised he was unwell—he was struggling to breathe, his face showing discomfort. He had been experiencing chest pain since the previous night. Initially, he had thought it was gastric, but the medicine didn’t help. He was sweating profusely. Unable to find a solution, he went to the government’s National Heart Institute, where the doctor conducted an ECG and confirmed a heart attack. They advised him to be admitted immediately. However, the hospital was overcrowded, and the environment was unsanitary, so he left and went to the Heart Foundation Hospital. There, the doctor gave him the same advice, but he did not trust the diagnosis. He then went to Ibrahim Cardiac Hospital, where he received the same diagnosis. The doctor said heart attack, but he didn’t believe it—he thought it was just gas. He said, “Doctors in this country are butchers; they call gas a heart attack! Let’s go home.”

The night passed, and the next day, his gastric condition was not improving. He began experiencing breathing difficulties. He reached out to people he knew, and one of them—a former patient of mine—advised him to see me.

I realised it was a critical situation. He was the epitome of a typical Bangladeshi!

“You’ve visited three hospitals within hours, and all of them say you’ve had a heart attack. Your symptoms and the ECG clearly indicate it. A heart attack is a life-threatening condition. If the blocked coronary artery isn’t opened immediately, your heart will suffer permanent damage, and your life is at risk. You must be admitted right now.”

He responded, “Just give me some medicine. I’ll go to Bangkok for treatment. I already have a doctor there.”

I insisted, “You can go to Bangkok, but you must get emergency treatment here first. Otherwise, it will be detrimental to your health.”

“No, just give me the medication. I won’t be admitted to any hospital in Bangladesh.”

At that point, I had nothing more to say. I provided the necessary treatment as best as I could and let him go.

This morning, I received a message from my former patient: “Your patient from yesterday passed away in the early hours of the morning.”