It was 10:30 pm when my phone rang. The number displayed on the screen was unknown.
I generally don’t get calls from unknown numbers (except Bajaj Finance and bank-loan rascals!), so I was surprised to receive one at such an odd hour.
“Hello Sir, I’m Aishwarya (name changed) speaking. I’m working on the 11th floor. My father is admitted to a hospital in Nalasopara, and I wanted to ask which doctor I should bring him to in our hospital at night,” she said.
On further enquiry, she told me that her father had suddenly developed a severe spinning sensation, with multiple episodes of vomiting, and was unable to maintain his balance.
“Instead of rushing him to our hospital in an ambulance right now, ask the hospital to get an MRI with angiography done. We need to rule out a posterior circulation stroke before assuming it is a benign cause of vertigo. Based on the findings, we can then decide whether he needs admission,” I said.
“Sir, but the doctor here is saying they will get a CT brain done in the morning,” she replied.
“You have every right to choose. Tell them you want the brain imaging done immediately, considering that if this turns out to be a stroke, treatment may need to be given in a time-bound manner,” I replied.
The next morning, early in the day, I received her father’s MRI report.
Thankfully, it did not show any evidence of a stroke.
“You can take him home now. It is most likely vertigo. You can meet our neurologist in the OPD, or if you prefer, you can come to the Emergency Department and we will facilitate it,” I told her.
That evening, she called again—not only to thank me, but also to tell me that her father had been discharged.
The right guidance at the right time meant that she didn’t have to rush him across the city in an ambulance, and the family was spared the additional cost and inconvenience of moving him unnecessarily.
Out of curiosity—and because I still didn’t know who she was—I asked her how she had got my number.
“I asked my floor manager,” she said. “He told me that if I wanted to speak to someone he really trusted for an honest medical opinion, I should speak to Dr. Mohit in the Emergency or Dr. Sai in the ICU.”
There was something about that sentence that I wasn’t prepared for.
Not because someone had thanked me.
Not because I had helped a patient.
But because somewhere in that hospital, among hundreds of employees and so many consultants, there was someone I had probably never even met who had enough faith in me to say that.
And suddenly, all those years of working, all those difficult shifts, all those nights, all those patients and families, all those little things you do without expecting anyone to notice—it suddenly reminded me why those things matter.
I was genuinely overwhelmed.
Later, I was narrating the incident to my colleague, Dr. Sai. Somewhere between telling him what had happened and hearing his reaction, we both had tears in our eyes—mine while narrating it, and his while listening.
Medicine gives us plenty of reasons to feel proud.
The difficult cases we manage.
The lives we save.
The procedures we perform.
The appreciation we occasionally receive.
But perhaps, after all these years, I have realised that some of the moments that matter most are the ones that nobody planned for.
A late-night phone call.
A father who was feeling unwell.
A daughter looking for someone she could trust.
And a floor manager who, when asked for advice, instinctively said, “Talk to Dr. Mohit or Dr. Sai.”
Maybe that is what keeps us going.
Not the recognition.
Not the designation.
Just the quiet knowledge that, somewhere, someone trusts you enough to call when it really matters.
