As I sit on my couch looking over the towering buildings in Cleveland's skyline, I'm reminded of the stark contrast to a house made of mud in the village of Kantharia in the province of Gujarat, India. That's where my father, Dineshbhai Hathibhai Patel, was born and raised. I recently visited the farm that bears my Dada's (grandfather's) name and found the small kerosene lamp that allowed my father and his siblings to read at night as there was no electricity in the village.
Photo credit: Dr. Viral Patel
My grandfather's farm is to the left of the road in this photo. I dream of building a hospital here one day.
Long ago my father emigrated to America, where he decided to give back to the country that gave him opportunity. He enlisted in the U.S. Army and trained to be a medic, serving three tours of duty in Iraq and Kuwait during the Gulf War. He believed in the land that was to give his children's children freedom and opportunity for generations to come.
When my father was young, his sister-in-law my "Motaba" was like a second mother to him, and so she was like a grandmother to me. In 2004 my father accompanied my Motaba, who was 55 at the time, to Dada's farm for a cousin's wedding.
Having long suffered from arthritis, my Motaba had been taking ibuprofen daily for some years. Gastric bleeds are a common side effect of ibuprofen and other NSAIDs, and unfortunately my Motaba suffered such a bleed a week before the wedding. If she had been in America, she would have been rushed to a medical center with an endoscopy suite, where the bleed could have been controlled and the source identified and cauterized.
But Kantharia is a remote village. The nearest hospital was many kilometers away through dirt roads. Even if my father had been able to negotiate the rural roads in time, the chance of meaningful intervention would have been slim. Although my father did his best to arrange for blood transfusions while simultaneously performing CPR, my Motaba unfortunately died in his arms.
All that happened before I even entered medical school. But ever since then I've harbored a dream. No one should have to have a loved one die in his arms. Someday I hope to build a modern medical center in Kantharia, on the very land my grandfather farmed to provide for his family. I would know that the sweat and effort he put into the land would leave a lasting legacy in improving the lives of the villagers. Although this dream may not come to fruition until I'm closer to my retirement than to my residency, I know that it's a real goal and it's one of the things that I keep in mind as I'm going through those grueling 30-hour shifts.