Anyone who knows me well understands that orthopedics has never been my favorite field. I seldom engaged with it seriously; for some reason, my interest was always minimal. No disrespect to the discipline, but perhaps it all began the moment I witnessed my best friend’s forearm shatter. Fractures have consistently unsettled me. During one of our assignments, we were tasked with a case presentation. A patient was designated to us, and it coincidentally turned out to be a hectic day in the ward. Seniors, juniors, around 15 of us, were gathered around the same patient.

“Shidu, he’s a Malayali.”

“Oh no, not this again.”

“I’ll handle the history; someone else can take the presentation.”

I approached. He was a fifteen-year-old boy, nonchalantly scrolling on his phone. No noticeable casts or splints. His mother was beside him, serene and composed. He didn’t appear to be in discomfort. After some casual chat about football, school, and Instagram, I conveyed to him, “I understand there are many of us here. But we hope to learn something significant from you; something that can help us improve as doctors, perhaps.”

We took the history. A minor fall while playing football. A slip at home. Even a straining motion (too much exertion) could result in fractures. “Pathological fractures,” crossed my mind. And once healed, swellings could occur. “Malunion?” I wished to avoid thoughts of tumors. I hoped it wasn’t that. Perhaps some genetic condition? But to him, we were simply a group of students teasing him about his style, his glasses. Yet, I continued. “Has anyone in your family experienced similar issues?”

“I had an elder son,” his mother answered softly. “He passed away a few years ago.” Her expression was inscrutable, yet her eyes revealed the burden of years: of endurance, sorrow, and strength. I glanced back at the boy; his grin had vanished. The atmosphere changed. I had exhausted my questions. I turned to my classmates and suggested, “You guys proceed with the examination.”

Then I moved to the junior batch, who were standing a bit further away, and started explaining the history to them. Perhaps I intended for them to absorb something; or perhaps I just needed a moment to digest what I had just learned.

“So,” one of them inquired, “Diagnosis from history?”

“Shidu, observe his eyes.” He had removed his glasses. Blue sclera. Eureka. A Doctor House moment. “Osteogenesis imperfecta,” I said with a subtle smile. “Even I’m making orthopedic diagnoses now,” I mused.

But the situation shifted once more. We began examining his limbs with greater attention. We discovered multiple small bony swellings, likely the result of previous fractures healing improperly. Then we asked him to stand. That’s when we recognized the varus deformities of his lower limbs, legs curving outward, confirming our suspicion. Someone proposed we check his heart for possible valvular defects; so we performed auscultation. I placed my stethoscope on his chest. No murmurs. But as I withdrew it, my eyes connected with his mother’s. Her gaze, silent yet piercing, struck a chord deeper than any sound. A murmur arose within me. What were we truly doing with this young boy? We were eager, observing a rare condition. But in that instant, I questioned: Did we forget he’s a person first?

I believe we all felt that internal murmur collectively. In silence, we began to document our observations. Before departing, I leaned down and thanked the young man. “You know, thanks to you, we gained a lot today. You might not realize it, but this means a great deal to us. This will aid us in becoming better doctors.” He beamed. So did his mother. And that’s when the murmur within me finally ceased.

I’m uncertain if it was us or him who genuinely made the impact that day; but it brought to mind a Hadith:

The Prophet ﷺ said:

“Indeed, Allah loves the easy-going, kind, and approachable person.”
– Musnad Ahmad

*Arshad Ashraf is a physician in India.*