Vivek Gumaste's Blog: Musings - Posts Tagged "medical-related"
V.Q.E Tale of an Indian Physician in the United Kngdom of the 1980's
Book Extract
Title: V.Q.E: The Tale of an Indian Physician in the United Kingdom of the 1980’s
Paperback: 224 pages
Printed: IngramSpark
ISBN: 978-1-64467-978-4 (sc)
ISBN:978-1-64467-854-1 (ebook)
Price: $7.99; $2.99 (kindle)
Author: Vivek Gumaste
He was tall, easily over 6 feet, distinguished looking and some would say even handsome for his age. Clad in a gray suit under a physician’s white coat he was busy demonstrating the cruel effects of rheumatoid arthritis on the proximal interphalangeal joint (the joint closest to the base of your finger) when I stumbled in to join the rounds, already a few minutes late and still dazed from the weekend call.
He broke off his sentence in mid-stream, turned to me with a benevolent smile and asked politely, “Where are you from, sir?”
“Epping,” I blurted out without realizing the incongruity of such a response coming as it were from a brown-skinned Indian or Asian house officer.
He froze paused for a moment, the irritation clearly showing on his face, and then persisted., “I mean originally,” he persisted.
“From India.” I said.
It was the 1980s, the world was still relatively insular and I suppose the English consultant could be excused for his pattern of questioning which was obviously prompted by the color of my skin. However 30 years later despite a vastly changed global environment, diehard British attitudes like this appear not to have changed. Even if you have been born and brought up in Britain and know no other land other than Britain and no other language other than English, you are still subject to uncomfortable questioning because of your color, as this excerpt from an article titled, “Tired of being asked where I am from” by Ariane Sherine which appeared in The Guardian in March 2010 (nearly 30 years after my experiences in the UK) indicates:
“So here’s a ready-made answer for the overly curious. Last weekend, I had The Conversation for the 3,897th time — and this time, it took place in central London just two roads away from the hospital where I was born. As usual, it went like this:
Stranger: Where are you from? (Translation: You look a bit brown. Why are you brown?)
Me: London.
Stranger: No, where are you really from? (Translation: You are clearly telling me untruths. Brown people do not come from London.)
Me: London.
Stranger (exasperated): No, where are your parents from? (Translation: Now you’re just being obtuse.)
Me: Africa and America.
Stranger (confused): Erm...so where are your family from, like, back in the day? (Translation: People who come from Africa and America do not look like you.)
Me: Iran, India, Africa, America and England.
Stranger (relieved): India and Iran! Do you ever go back?
At this point, I have to explain that it’s hard to go back to somewhere you have never been. I’ve lived in London since I was a zygote, have a London accent and don’t speak any languages except English — yet just because I’m cashew-coloured, I’m often questioned about my heritage. “
Despite this awkward introduction, my subsequent interaction with Dr Howard-Williams, that was the consultant’s name, was without incident. Dr Howard-Williams was a kindly gentleman who spoke in a soft polite tone that exuded genuine empathy. He had a special interest in rheumatology or joint diseases. Accordingly, his ward consisted of mostly patients with joint diseases. The burden of arthritis in the UK is enormous and imposes a hefty strain on society. Arthritis is in fact the most common cause among people receiving Disability Living Allowance (DLA) in the UK. No wonder rheumatology, unlike in India was an important subject and a distinct specialty.
My exposure to joint diseases during my training in India was limited. Arthritis in India was not a common medical student topic as in the UK and the chronic nature of the diseases made it an item of less priority; infectious diseases and other life-threatening disorders took precedence. Rheumatology was a little bit of a novelty for me and I found the rounds fairly interesting. I would be less than honest if I used any other term stronger than that to describe my feelings for this field. Rheumatology by nature was pedestrian, not glamorous like cardiology or cardiac surgery and even less exciting than specialties that concentrated on the digestive system or lung problems.
Nevertheless, Dr Howard-Williams was a good teacher and I learnt a lot from him in those two weeks that I spent on his unit. Specifically, I learnt how to differentiate between rheumatoid arthritis and osteoarthritis, the two main commonly encountered joint problems.
Dr Williams was the epitome of English punctuality. He started rounds exactly at 9 a.m. and was very particular that every member of his team be there on time. The team itself consisted of three other physicians apart from me. There was Tom Waitman, the senior registrar who appeared perpetually tired and had good reason to be. He was nearly 40 years old, with thinking hair, and was yet to land a consultant position. All his energy was consumed in looking for one. He was the friendliest of the lot and one who came across as truly good at heart.
Nice is not a word that I would use to describe the other two: civil, but definitely not nice. Next in the hierarchy was John Smith, the registrar, a red-haired Englishman with a goatee who was extremely uptight on rounds but who did loosen up once Dr Williams had left the scene. He had been to India once and made it a point to comment on the inefficiency and corruptness of the Indian bureaucracy whenever he got a chance. The last member of the team was Mindy Turcot the SHO who constantly peered at me through large thick glasses, was physically on the heavy side and did not stand out as being particularly knowledgeable with regard to medicine.
Rounds usually lasted for about three hours but on some days could go on for four to five hours with a break for lunch between two sessions. Rounds were not confined to medical topics and frequently the conversation veered to include local issues and international politics. Without such distractions, rounds can become unbearable especially towards the fag end.
Dr Williams, like many English consultants, was a frequent visitor in a professional capacity to many of Britain’s former colonies. Libya’s Muammar Al-Gaddafi was at the height of his eccentricity in the 80s and Dr Williams had just returned from a trip to Libya. He spent a good half hour one day recalling his recent visit there, regaling us with details of camel jaunts into the desert and telling us of how he had made his displeasure explicitly known to his local contacts with regard to Gaddafi’s wayward ways, in particular his repressive policies.
Post-rounds banter was also interesting, sometimes even more interesting than the rounds themselves. Juicy tidbits surfaced that could not be voiced on rounds. It was a free-for-all. No topic or individual was off limits. A gossip piece doing the rounds was that Dr Williams had just married someone 20 years his junior and was desperately trying to keep in shape to match her age. Whether this was true or not I never really was able to confirm. Sexual peccadilloes of junior doctors and nurses were another staple item with specific events often being described in great detail and with relish.
Title: V.Q.E: The Tale of an Indian Physician in the United Kingdom of the 1980’s
Paperback: 224 pages
Printed: IngramSpark
ISBN: 978-1-64467-978-4 (sc)
ISBN:978-1-64467-854-1 (ebook)
Price: $7.99; $2.99 (kindle)
Author: Vivek Gumaste
He was tall, easily over 6 feet, distinguished looking and some would say even handsome for his age. Clad in a gray suit under a physician’s white coat he was busy demonstrating the cruel effects of rheumatoid arthritis on the proximal interphalangeal joint (the joint closest to the base of your finger) when I stumbled in to join the rounds, already a few minutes late and still dazed from the weekend call.
He broke off his sentence in mid-stream, turned to me with a benevolent smile and asked politely, “Where are you from, sir?”
“Epping,” I blurted out without realizing the incongruity of such a response coming as it were from a brown-skinned Indian or Asian house officer.
He froze paused for a moment, the irritation clearly showing on his face, and then persisted., “I mean originally,” he persisted.
“From India.” I said.
It was the 1980s, the world was still relatively insular and I suppose the English consultant could be excused for his pattern of questioning which was obviously prompted by the color of my skin. However 30 years later despite a vastly changed global environment, diehard British attitudes like this appear not to have changed. Even if you have been born and brought up in Britain and know no other land other than Britain and no other language other than English, you are still subject to uncomfortable questioning because of your color, as this excerpt from an article titled, “Tired of being asked where I am from” by Ariane Sherine which appeared in The Guardian in March 2010 (nearly 30 years after my experiences in the UK) indicates:
“So here’s a ready-made answer for the overly curious. Last weekend, I had The Conversation for the 3,897th time — and this time, it took place in central London just two roads away from the hospital where I was born. As usual, it went like this:
Stranger: Where are you from? (Translation: You look a bit brown. Why are you brown?)
Me: London.
Stranger: No, where are you really from? (Translation: You are clearly telling me untruths. Brown people do not come from London.)
Me: London.
Stranger (exasperated): No, where are your parents from? (Translation: Now you’re just being obtuse.)
Me: Africa and America.
Stranger (confused): Erm...so where are your family from, like, back in the day? (Translation: People who come from Africa and America do not look like you.)
Me: Iran, India, Africa, America and England.
Stranger (relieved): India and Iran! Do you ever go back?
At this point, I have to explain that it’s hard to go back to somewhere you have never been. I’ve lived in London since I was a zygote, have a London accent and don’t speak any languages except English — yet just because I’m cashew-coloured, I’m often questioned about my heritage. “
Despite this awkward introduction, my subsequent interaction with Dr Howard-Williams, that was the consultant’s name, was without incident. Dr Howard-Williams was a kindly gentleman who spoke in a soft polite tone that exuded genuine empathy. He had a special interest in rheumatology or joint diseases. Accordingly, his ward consisted of mostly patients with joint diseases. The burden of arthritis in the UK is enormous and imposes a hefty strain on society. Arthritis is in fact the most common cause among people receiving Disability Living Allowance (DLA) in the UK. No wonder rheumatology, unlike in India was an important subject and a distinct specialty.
My exposure to joint diseases during my training in India was limited. Arthritis in India was not a common medical student topic as in the UK and the chronic nature of the diseases made it an item of less priority; infectious diseases and other life-threatening disorders took precedence. Rheumatology was a little bit of a novelty for me and I found the rounds fairly interesting. I would be less than honest if I used any other term stronger than that to describe my feelings for this field. Rheumatology by nature was pedestrian, not glamorous like cardiology or cardiac surgery and even less exciting than specialties that concentrated on the digestive system or lung problems.
Nevertheless, Dr Howard-Williams was a good teacher and I learnt a lot from him in those two weeks that I spent on his unit. Specifically, I learnt how to differentiate between rheumatoid arthritis and osteoarthritis, the two main commonly encountered joint problems.
Dr Williams was the epitome of English punctuality. He started rounds exactly at 9 a.m. and was very particular that every member of his team be there on time. The team itself consisted of three other physicians apart from me. There was Tom Waitman, the senior registrar who appeared perpetually tired and had good reason to be. He was nearly 40 years old, with thinking hair, and was yet to land a consultant position. All his energy was consumed in looking for one. He was the friendliest of the lot and one who came across as truly good at heart.
Nice is not a word that I would use to describe the other two: civil, but definitely not nice. Next in the hierarchy was John Smith, the registrar, a red-haired Englishman with a goatee who was extremely uptight on rounds but who did loosen up once Dr Williams had left the scene. He had been to India once and made it a point to comment on the inefficiency and corruptness of the Indian bureaucracy whenever he got a chance. The last member of the team was Mindy Turcot the SHO who constantly peered at me through large thick glasses, was physically on the heavy side and did not stand out as being particularly knowledgeable with regard to medicine.
Rounds usually lasted for about three hours but on some days could go on for four to five hours with a break for lunch between two sessions. Rounds were not confined to medical topics and frequently the conversation veered to include local issues and international politics. Without such distractions, rounds can become unbearable especially towards the fag end.
Dr Williams, like many English consultants, was a frequent visitor in a professional capacity to many of Britain’s former colonies. Libya’s Muammar Al-Gaddafi was at the height of his eccentricity in the 80s and Dr Williams had just returned from a trip to Libya. He spent a good half hour one day recalling his recent visit there, regaling us with details of camel jaunts into the desert and telling us of how he had made his displeasure explicitly known to his local contacts with regard to Gaddafi’s wayward ways, in particular his repressive policies.
Post-rounds banter was also interesting, sometimes even more interesting than the rounds themselves. Juicy tidbits surfaced that could not be voiced on rounds. It was a free-for-all. No topic or individual was off limits. A gossip piece doing the rounds was that Dr Williams had just married someone 20 years his junior and was desperately trying to keep in shape to match her age. Whether this was true or not I never really was able to confirm. Sexual peccadilloes of junior doctors and nurses were another staple item with specific events often being described in great detail and with relish.
