The Heart of Medicine: Running Toward, Not Away

The shrill ring-tring started from one corner of the room, reverberating in a circular crescendo as one buzzer after another joined in a deafening symphony. The sound could mean only one thing—a rapid response.

I had barely settled at my workstation after an exhausting hour-long family meeting. It was a sweltering summer afternoon on the wards, and I was drowning in paperwork, notes, and pending admissions—the unholy trinity of a resident’s life. Being on call only amplified the chaos; any problem anywhere in the hospital fell squarely on our shoulders.

I glared at the pager in my pocket with a mix of contempt and resignation. Hunger gnawed at me, my to-do list loomed large, and every fiber of my being was screaming for rest. But as I glanced at the screen, my frustration dissolved, replaced by a chill that coursed through me. The small, dimly lit screen displayed eight letters that every doctor dreads: CODE BLUE.

In an instant, I shut my desktop, grabbed my stethoscope, and bolted out of the room. A few of my colleagues sprinted ahead, others followed behind, as we rushed toward the source of the alert. The procedure suite—almost halfway across the hospital—had become a theater of urgency. Bystanders stepped aside as we dashed through hallways, their curious stares blending into the periphery.

As my feet pounded the floor, time bent. Each frantic step transported me back to the most fateful day of my life. Every code blue run carries with it an echo of that day—a memory that is as vivid now as it was nine years ago.

My final year of medical school was tumultuous, shadowed by the relentless decline of my mother’s health. Diagnosed with decompensated liver cirrhosis, she endured four hospitalizations in six months, including a grueling 30-hour train ride from Kolkata to Vellore. She was tethered to a central line throughout the journey, and I was her only doctor, clutching a handful of life-saving medications and an overwhelming sense of responsibility.

Her final battle was fought in a world-class ICU during a grueling 21-day stay. Despite their best efforts, the medical team told us there was nothing more to be done. I was just 20 years old, the only child of a mother who had been my everything, and the first doctor in the family. Yet, I had to make the decision no child should

ever face: to stop fighting and focus on comfort. My family deferred to me, likely because they knew I wouldn’t have accepted any decision that wasn’t my own.

“Keep her comfortable,” I said, not fully grasping the weight of those words.

I spent my days attending classes, preparing for my final exams, and my nights at her bedside, managing her encephalopathy and agitation. On one such night, she briefly regained clarity. She looked at me, her eyes heavy with fatigue but filled with love. “I’m not trying to be difficult,” she said softly, “I just can’t help it. I love you.”

I held her hand and whispered back, “We’re doing everything we can, Mom.” She squeezed my hand, and in that moment, I understood a profound truth: medicine is not always about the answers we give but the comfort we provide when there are none.

The fateful afternoon, sitting in a pediatric lecture, I got a frantic call from my dad. By the time my brain had registered what he howled over the phone, I had already started running. That was the fastest I ever ran in my life, from a 6th-floor lecture hall at one end of the hospital campus, across multiple corridors, down the stairs, and back up to the 8th floor on another wing, my heart racing faster than my legs could carry me. I remember thinking with every stride, that every second lost was another second she wasn’t receiving oxygen to her brain.

The four minutes it took to reach her felt like an eternity. By the time I arrived, the doctors and nurses were done. She left shortly after. It has been nine years since that day.

Her death shattered me, but it also illuminated the path I was meant to walk. It taught me that medicine is not just about saving lives; it’s about standing steadfast in the face of uncertainty, providing comfort when outcomes are beyond our control, and ensuring every patient’s dignity is upheld.

Now, as a fellow in Pulmonary and Critical Care Medicine, her legacy shapes my practice. I strive to see the person behind the ventilator, to honor the humanity in every interaction, and to bring not just skill but soul to every bedside. Her story reminds me to tread the delicate line between clinical detachment and emotional vulnerability.

Nine years later, I still run. Every time a code blue pager blares, I feel the same jolt of adrenaline, the same sense of urgency. But now, it is tempered by purpose. I run not only because it is my job but because I know what it means to be on the other side of the bedrail, clinging to hope, watching helplessly, praying that someone—anyone—will give it their all.

The heart of medicine, I’ve come to understand, does not beat in machines or flowcharts. It beats in the whispered reassurances, the unyielding compassion, and the quiet resolve to never stop running. Because once you’ve truly grasped what’s at stake, there is no turning back.

Arunava Saha, MD|Pulmonary and Critical Care FellowTulane University School of MedicineEmail: saha.arunava100@gmail.com