Bryan Adams sang about the summer of ’69 and called them “the best days of my life.” For me, my Dow days were the best days of my life.
Even though there were 500 of us and a lot of medicine, it seemed then and more so now, we learned on our own. I cherish my Dow days as major fun.
We entered Dow in 1976, when Zulfiqar Ali Bhutto was prime minister, and graduated in 1982 when Zia-ul-Haq was president. So the backdrop to the best days of my life was intense political turmoil. I have not been able to get over the disbelief that Pakistan’s most brilliant politician was actually hanged and no country on this earth stepped forward to prevent this travesty. I remember how the air of Karachi hung heavy that August day in 1978 when the news of his death was revealed.
The first three years of my Dow days saw a good amount of exam delays, and after a time we became entrenched Dowites and Karachites, for delays and postponements were more a routine than the converse.
I remember well the odor of the Dissection Hall; it would hit you like a wall at a particular point as you walked toward it. And how Shahabuddin the anatomy assistant was an entity that everyone knew, and even more interestingly how he kept tabs on the 1000+ anatomy students at one time.
Some professors were scintillating and some soporific. For some reason I remember the “simple muscle twitch” experiment and teacher as though I had laughed about it just yesterday. How professors kept together 500+ students during a lecture was lost on me. Especially when some of the boys decided to be hilariously disruptive by making a single comment at the most profound and most quiet time of the lecture. The camaraderie was amazing: no one turned the offender in.
Every year we were entertained with the “title list.” The titles given to the prominent of our class are used till today rather than the real name of the particular individual. And they fit the individual to perfection!
I remember hating elementary school and high school, maybe because my father joined the Foreign Service and I moved from country to country and was thus a clean and clear victim of PTSD. Despite the 500+ students I loved each and every day of my Dow days. Going to the cafeteria between lectures and enjoying tea and patties I really do miss, possibly the most. The cafeteria guy’s “Aik chai karak laana, aur aik paytuss!” reverberates in my mind even now.
Who was wearing what and which girl was “linked” to which guy provided hours of inquiring and ceaseless gossip.
Dow’s humor is, in my mind, incomparable. One phrase brilliantly described the situation and left you stunned or in stitches. The humor described: it was the fashion those days to have your name written in cursive and get it crafted as a gold locket. My friend and I, smugly adorned with our respective name-lockets, sat on the steps of the Administrative building. Two male students walked by and one said to another: “dekh yaar lasanns (license) plate lagi hui hai!” I have not worn that locket since.
Load shedding, nothing as severe as what it is today, provided a forced break from studying. And when it got cloudy, entire buses, loaded with truant medical students, would leave for the beach!
Dow also robbed me of my idealism. Some students cheated during the exams and were enabled by the invigilator. And when the cheating types became position holders, I remember feeling shaken and disillusioned.
The last three clinical years were even more fun than the basic sciences, marred of course by the stench of the gynecology ward, which also hit your olfactory epithelium way before your retina awoke.
And the hours upon hours of history taking and the stress on the nuances of physical exam. When I percuss the abdomen of patients in my practice today or elicit egophony, frequently to the surprise and amusement of my patients, I miss my Dow days intensely. And bless Dow and Pakistan for making me all that I am today: a physician who can enjoy and savor the practice of medicine, rather than throwing CAT scans and MRI’s at every patient complaint.
Civil Hospital robbed me of more of my idealism: the head nurse, a.k.a. “shishter” had swiped all the medications dedicated to the unit and sold them later on the black market. No wonder the incidence
of hepatitis B was so high and patients presented in fulminant hepatic encephalopathy: even in a medical unit, syringes were used after having laid in a metal sort-of-sterilizer in slightly simmering water.
I don’t believe American graduates are taught or tested on “spot diagnosis”. But we were and how stressful and yet enjoyable that was! And how much it has stood us in good stead. And the wholly eccentric gynecology professors who made me vow that I would never become a gynecologist. The unforgettable exams, especially the vivas, which were held on the whim and fancy of the examiner. If they liked you, you were in good shape, if not, sorry…
“You have a distinction in the theory paper, answer this question and you will get a distinction in ophthalmology.” I leaned forward, all ears, and the cruel question was not one from the prescribed textbook. So the exams were like a roller coaster ride…
And just as I graduated, Dow’s parting gift was a peek into the corruption known as Pakistan’s bureaucracy. All I requested from the clerk in the administrative office was a copy of my mark sheet. His answer was that he had six children and changed two buses to get to work. It was clear that I would not be getting anywhere if I did not comply with his indirect, and yet quite succinct demand for money.
My mother kept exhorting me to enjoy “these days”, referring to my Dow days at the time. Despite the exams, the smells and my shattered idealism, I did as she said: I enjoyed Dow to the hilt. And today in my mind and heart my Dow days sit as a gilded memory—a hallowed hall of wonderment and joy.
Dr. Mahjabeen Islam, class of 1983
