When we are not the doctor

We spend most of our lives calming fears. We explain the stats, reassure patients and often tell them it’s probably nothing. Most times, we’re right. We train ourselves to stay logical, not to overreact, and to keep emotions away from the science. We remind ourselves and others that most chest pains aren’t heart attacks, most headaches aren’t tumours, and most lumps aren’t cancer.But then it hits close to home. It’s your father, your sister, your child, or your partner. Someone you love walks in with a cough, a lump or a shadow on an X-ray and suddenly, all that textbook knowledge falls away.You don’t see low probability. 95% benign doesn’t cross your mind. You forget all those times you reassured others in the same situation. Instead, you jump straight to the worst outcome. You know it’s not rational. You teach those numbers, but when your loved one is the patient, you stop being the doctor.Read: Dr. Jabir Jassam: In memory of MyernaAt that moment, you’re just a child, a partner or a parent. Everything you’ve trained for feels useless. You look at lab results like you’ve never seen one before. You wait for the phone to ring, feeling like you’re waiting for a judgment. You start Googling things you’ve told others not to even think about. What you’d normally brush off now feels like the end of the world.You forget how to breathe. It’s a tough spot to be in. It’s scary and all too real. Beneath the white coat and calm demeanor, we are just people who care deeply. And when a loved one is even slightly at risk, no amount of data can calm that storm inside.I have been there. I have caught myself spiraling, picturing worst-case scenarios that don’t make sense. I’ve observed myself from the outside, knowing precisely what I was doing but unable to stop it. This part of being a doctor isn’t something we often discuss. It’s the part where our knowledge can feel like a burden.We don’t just know what usually happens. We understand what else can happen. We have seen the rare, the unfortunate, the tragic. And once you witness those events—even if they are few—they stick with you. They shape your thinking, especially when the person at risk is someone you love.So, we reach out to colleagues. We ask for help. We pass on the care—not because we cannot handle it, but because it’s too personal. We are too human. And that’s alright.Maybe the hardest thing in medicine isn’t about diagnoses or treatment plans. Maybe it’s about knowing when to step back and just be the daughter, son or partner. To hold their hand, to cry in secret, and to pray without needing to refer to research.We teach others to stay calm, but when it’s your own, sometimes you just can’t. And that doesn’t make you weak; it makes you real.Dr. Jabir Jassam is a family physician in Ottawa.

When we are not the doctor

Register for free access or login.

Related Topics

Business Topic