Dear friends,
Here, I am sharing a case of depression and its impact on both mental and physical health. This case is from my OPD, and the treatment duration was approximately six months. The narration has been presented in the patient’s own language to provide a better understanding of his experience.
To maintain confidentiality, the names of the individuals have been changed; however, the case is real. This account is intended to illustrate the steps undertaken during the patient’s treatment..
It’s sunny out, and I’m loving it right now.
I had a sister who was two years younger than me. She was a child with special needs and suffered from many medical issues. Since childhood, taking care of her was my responsibility. Although we have become very advanced in the field of science, there was nothing that could completely cure her condition.
My whole day revolved around her—making sure she was eating, that she was clean, and that she was happy. I developed a very good sense of humor around her. We lost her four years ago. It was expected, but never desired, at least not by me. I know it was best for her, and now she is in heaven.
But without her, I feel incomplete and, most of all, guilty. Why did she suffer so much? I receive many compliments about my looks—my height, hair, sharp features, and the way I speak. At the same time, relatives would point out all the things about Noor that were not considered normal. I often thought: I could have been that child. Why her?
By then, college was over, and I had started preparing for the civil services examination. Looking back, I think my brain found it to be the perfect excuse to avoid social situations. Noor would have immediately understood the plan and would have been happy that I was staying home with her all day. But now I cannot see her anywhere—not even in my dreams.
Meanwhile, my physical condition also started deteriorating, especially my hair loss. My weight dropped significantly. Dark circles appeared under my eyes, my eyes seemed slightly protruded, and I lost my appetite. Sleep became strange—I felt sleepy throughout the day, yet the nights felt endless. I could not enjoy food and had no interest in anything.
One of my cousins suggested that I visit the Homoeopathic OPD at the district hospital. I thought, what could I possibly gain from a government OPD?
It was a regular day.
I was standing in line, waiting for my turn. As I entered the cabin, she asked me to sit on the patient’s chair. It felt unusual because nobody had ever offered me a chair in a government OPD before. I tried to avoid sitting, but she insisted.
Then she asked, “Kya hua? Kaise ho?”
In a feeble voice, I replied, “Hair loss.”
“And?” she asked.
“Everything else is okay.”
She smiled. “Did you check your face in the mirror?”
I fell silent.
“How’s your appetite?”
“Not much.”
She paused and looked at me carefully.
“Ghar mein kaun-kaun hai?”
At that moment, all my walls collapsed.
I started sharing. My parents, grandparents, my uncle’s family—everyone.
“And?” she asked again.
Then I told her about my sister.
She simply listened. She added only a few words here and there to keep me talking. And then I cried.
It was the first time in years that I had been able to cry.
Afterward, she shared a little about her own parents and the difficulties they were facing because of illness. She spoke about her aunt’s family, who had lost a younger brother and later an uncle, and how they had struggled and eventually learned to move forward.
Through all this sharing, I felt that it was normal to be sad. Normal to grieve.
The line of patients outside was growing longer. She prescribed medicines for all my complaints and then asked me to come back on Friday at exactly 9 a.m. so she could talk with me a little more.
Before I left, she gave me a list of tasks:
– Get a haircut.
– Shave regularly.
– Iron my clothes.
– Buy fresh fruits daily.
– Serve them to my family and eat with them.
I promised to do all of it.
I felt good. The way she had shared parts of her own life made me feel understood. For the first time in a long while, I felt confident that I would get better.
Friday Visit
I returned looking better. I had completed all the weekly tasks and had brought a pen and diary as she had instructed.
She reviewed my case. My appetite had improved, my sleep was slightly better, and even my appearance had changed.
Then she asked me to sit in the waiting area for ten minutes and write something.
“What should I write?” I asked.
She gave me a long list of suggestions—a poem, a story, an incident with family or friends, something about Noor, or even just ABCD, numbers, multiplication tables, puzzles, or a drawing.
It felt like a difficult task.
I stood in the large corridor outside her cabin on the first floor. In front of me, the branches of a huge tree swayed in the wind. Birds flew away and then returned to the tree. The sky shifted through different shades while the sun shone brightly.
I drew birds. Some were returning to the tree, and some were flying away. One bird was soaring high in the sky.
She waited and then asked me to come back after half an hour.
When she saw the drawing, she became very happy.
“Are wah! You are a talented boy.”
“Did Noor enjoy your drawings?”
“Yes. And paper boats, paper planes, flowers, and butterflies made from colored paper.”
“Very good.”
I felt as if I were back in school, being praised by my favorite teacher.
Then she asked, “Do you like reading, apart from textbooks?”
“I don’t know.”
“Would you like to try?”
“Okay.”
She didn’t merely suggest The Little Prince; she made me order it from Amazon right there in front of her.
Then she asked me to return the following Friday at exactly 9 a.m., continue all the previous tasks, make some drawings, read one or two chapters of The Little Prince, and continue taking the medicines.
The Next Friday
Things were much better.
I shared details about my week. I hadn’t drawn much, but I brought some old notebooks
containing drawings I had made for Noor.
She turned the pages one by one, asking questions about each drawing, and I shared the stories behind them.
Then we discussed the book.
I had read five pages and enjoyed the writer’s thoughts about grown-ups and creativity and intro part drawings of boa constrictors specially.
This time, she prescribed medicines for two weeks and gave me another assignment: make a career plan on paper, including both short-term and long-term goals.
I agreed.
Two Weeks Later
Things had started falling into rhythm.
I bathed daily, shaved regularly, paid attention to my appearance, ate well, and had begun studying again. I had completed three chapters of The Little Prince.
I brought my career plan.
She asked countless questions about how I would achieve each step.
Finally, I asked, “Can I sit outside and make it again?”
“Yesss,” she replied, while suggesting a few more points and drawing an example graph on the back of my paper.
When I returned with the revised version, her eyes lit up.
“Perfect. Now continue everything you are already doing. Work on the next two months of this plan and start looking for an offline coaching institute.”
She prescribed medicines for another month and gave me a new task list.
One Month Later
My weight was back to normal. My scalp was full of hair again. Sleep was still disturbed, but much better. I had joined coaching classes and finished The Little Prince.
She greeted me with a big smile.
“What kind of music do you like?”
“Rahat Fateh Ali Khan.”
“Are wah! Which songs?”
I told her.
“And movies?”
“Action and comedy.”
“Oh, nice. Sports?”
“Basketball—I used to play in the AMU campus. And sometimes swimming.”
“Wonderful! So, you’re good with younger children?”
“Yes. I used to teach my cousins and some neighborhood children for an hour every evening.”
“What about now?”
“I don’t know. Noor used to sit beside me while I taught. Without her, it feels difficult.”
“Would you like to try again?”
“Not now. Maybe later.”
“Okay. Swimming, basketball, or something new you want to learn?”
“Yes. Guitar.”
“Great! How will you learn?”
“I can borrow one from a friend and start with YouTube lessons.”
“Good plan.”
Then she told me she was going on leave, so this time she prescribed medicines for six weeks.
“After that, come back on a Friday. Continue everything you’ve been doing and keep trying these new things.”
Months Later
The visits became less frequent—first after six weeks, then two months, then three months.
Now I visit her OPD only when I have some acute illness.
My preliminary examination has been cleared, and I am now preparing for the interview.
I continue all the habits she helped me build. I play guitar, occasionally play basketball, teach children for an hour every day, and on her suggestion of the next book -recently started reading Jonathan Livingston Seagull, which I am enjoying immensely.
And now, when I think of Noor, I feel she is flying higher and higher across countless skies.
