“When I was in medical school, senior physicians would frequently usher a group of us students into a patient’s room so we might hear them tell the story of their illness.  It seemed that the more classic the story was for a particular illness the more intense was their ushering.  We would huddle around the patient’s bed all of us transfixed by the doctor interviewing the patient. I remember hanging on the patient’s every last word and, simultaneously, shifting through the textbook data stored in my brain in search of a diagnostic match.  When done, the senior doctor would turn around and challenge us to diagnose what ailed the patient and we would respond with a flurry of answers. I still remember the thrill of solving the puzzle, of making a ‘textbook diagnosis’…”

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“Mr. Hussein’s story in his own language was infused with colour. After the death of his wife, he had moved to America to be with his son. Life in Pakistan was a struggle, so he was relieved to live here in comfort. But recently, while his son and daughter-in-law were at work, he found himself feeling depressed. He was not accustomed to the quiet of the suburbs and missed the familiar hustle and bustle of Karachi. His family was caring, but he felt like a burden. His jet-black eyes clouded over with tears as he admitted he had experienced thoughts of suicide and stopped taking his blood pressure pills…”

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