The fragile line between healer and healed.  

Some voices stay with us for a lifetime. For me, one of them is the voice of a doctor saying, “We couldn’t save him” referring to my father.  It came without fanfare, without softness, without ceremony. Just four words-and the world changed for me.

At that moment, I wanted to hold someone accountable for the unbearable loss I had just suffered. My father was in the doctor’s care, and I had trusted him to guard my father’s life. And yet, death had slipped through the cracks. I remember standing there, wordless, caught in a strange pause between fury and resignation. I didn’t lash out. What would be the point now? The man was gone. To behave like a savage towards a doctor like many patients do in the face of a tragedy wasn’t in my character.

And yet, somewhere deep within, the question lingered: had someone failed? Could the doctor have saved my father? Or had he tried enough and this was simply the limit of human effort?

Years later, I would hear echoes of that question in an entirely different setting-this time, from the doctor’s side. A casual conversation with a dear friend-herself a seasoned physician-turned unexpectedly poignant. “We can’t retire because this is what are ordained to do in our lives,” she said, “and we can’t continue like this either because age is catching up and we are unable to balance work and life. Patients’ expectations these days are too high to meet satisfactorily.”  She was referring not just to the long hours or the relentless pressure of life-and-death decisions, but to something more insidious: the growing distrust, the unrealistic expectations, and the Google-fed entitlement of patients who arrive armed with half-truths and full confidence.

Another doctor friend chimed in at this point, only half in jest: “These days, people come to consult us not for answers, but to argue. And if things go wrong, we’re the first to be crucified.” 

In their voices, I heard a quiet exhaustion. A fatigue that wasn’t just physical, but existential. Medicine, once seen as a noble calling, is now burdened by demands that no human can fulfil. Patients seek quick cures, perfect answers, and unconditional availability. And when outcomes don’t match expectations, it’s not uncommon for doctors to face blame, abuse, and even violence as witnessed many times in our country.

This is not to excuse negligence. Nor to overlook the occasional callousness that does exist. But in our collective haste to demand accountability, have we begun to forget that doctors, too, are human?

That behind every prescription is a person who probably hasn’t slept a full night in weeks. That beneath every white coat is a beating heart, anxious to save, terrified to fail.

My friend spoke of missing family gatherings. Of being unable to remember the last time she read a book for pleasure. Of watching the profession she once idolised become a crucible of stress and fear. “Sometimes,” she said, “I feel like I’m drowning in expectations I can’t meet.”

It made me think-how did a role rooted in healing and service become one of the most unforgiving? When did the caregiver become the scapegoat? 

Perhaps we, as a society, have elevated doctors to a pedestal so high that we have forgotten the toll it takes to stay up there. We forget that not all battles can be won. That despite the best of efforts, some outcomes lie beyond control.

We demand empathy from doctors, and rightly so. But empathy, like every virtue, must flow both ways. Maybe it’s time we paused to ask: what are we giving back to those we expect so much from? In an age where algorithms offer diagnoses and chatbots provide remedies, the human connection in medicine remains irreplaceable. A doctor’s touch, their voice, their presence-these are things no machine can replicate. But even these need nourishment, need rest, need understanding.

Maybe the next time we visit a doctor, we could remember they too have burdens. That their mistakes are not always malice. That their fatigue is not indifference. That their silence might just be sorrow. And perhaps, with that awareness, we might begin to heal not just our own ailments, but the fractured bond between the healer and the healed. Because ultimately, both stand on the same side of a fragile line-one fighting to preserve life, the other desperate to hold on to it. And in that shared fragility lies our common humanity.