The ASRC [Asylum Seeker Resource Centre] needed a volunteer doctor and I said yes, thinking it would be easy work. In quick succession I saw a little… - Ranjana Srivastava

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The ASRC [Asylum Seeker Resource Centre] needed a volunteer doctor and I said yes, thinking it would be easy work. In quick succession I saw a little boy with a broken arm, a distressed rape victim, a man with uncontrolled hypertension, and a woman with acute asthma, all of whom had been turned away from hospital. The nurse took the little boy to her doctor friend who would plaster his arm at home, and I rummaged through an old carton of supplies to find some antihypertensives and an inhaler. The rape victim fled, confirming that I was not the therapist she needed. I finished my first shift wistful for the controlled environment of my hospital but conflicted that it, and other hospitals, would deny care to sick patients.

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About Ranjana Srivastava

Ranjana Srivastava OAM (born 1974) is an Australian oncologist and author from Melbourne. She is a regular columnist for The Guardian newspaper, where she writes about the intersection between medicine and humanity, and a frequent essayist for the New England Journal of Medicine. She was a finalist for the Walkley Award for Excellence in Journalism in 2018. A Fulbright scholar, Srivastava has also written many non-fiction books related to health and medicine, has appeared frequently on TV and radio, and publicly speaks at events, where she addresses various topics and matters.

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I once wrote a report on the inequities I had witnessed on an elective rotation in my Indian home town. He spent hours refining it and encouraged me to aim high. Months later, I excitedly told him that my essay had been accepted for publication in the Lancet.
"But wait, they want to remove the best bits," he frowned.
A mention in the world’s most prestigious journal was enough for me but this prolific author had other ideas.
"Tell the editor why your whole essay deserves to be published."
I gasped at the prospect of committing premature career suicide, but he encouraged me to avoid the easy way out.
"When you own your work, you signal your integrity."
He was right. The Lancet eventually printed my essay in full and his pride outshone my relief. His lesson would accompany me throughout life, and we stayed in touch beyond medical school.

The dog repays our love by being the only one to faithfully meet and greet us when we come home. Instead of mumbling something unintelligible without looking up from the TV remote, Odie skids and skates to the door, paying no heed to the risk of a fractured leg. His tail wags overtime as he makes cute guttural sounds and promptly rolls over for a belly scratch while holding out hope for a snack. It is impossible to resist anyone who takes such unalloyed pleasure at your presence and whose behaviour is not dictated by what happened at the office that day.

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"What kind of a doctor will you be?"
"An able one, I hope."
"I hope that you become a doctor who will engage with the problems of the world."
For an 18-year-old medical student, this aspiration was as professorial as it was intangible. Why worry about global health when the muscles of the back and leg needed memorising? And how did reproductive rights matter when the exam involved peering down a microscope to identify bacteria?

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