Good evening, everyone.
Tonight, we are here to celebrate our graduating Chief Residents. In
particular, I have been tasked with saying a few words on my mentee, Dr.
Khan.
Now, when I first heard that we had another Dr. Khan coming to Wyckoff, I
thought, “Of course. Because apparently one Dr. Khan is
never enough.” At Wyckoff, if you call out “Dr. Khan!” in the corridor,
at least three people answer, two on consults, and one scrubing into the
OR.
Before I really knew Dr. Khan, I knew her older brother, Dr. Khan,
who then went into Medicine and more recently into Gastroenterology. Dr.
Khan’s brother has an incredible work ethic — disciplined, serious,
and impressive. So when I heard our Dr. Khan was accepted as a
categorical General Surgery resident here, I thought, “Very good.
Another Khan. The hospital is surely trying to corner this market.”
Then a colleague said to me, “You know, Dr. Khan is smarter than her
brother.”
And I said, “That sounds right.”
Because Dr. Khan has always had that quiet, dangerous intelligence. She
listens, she observes, she says very little — and then she is suddenly
three steps ahead of everyone else.
When she told me she had secured a fellowship in Hand Surgery, I
said, “Hand Surgery? Why not Minimally Invasive Surgery?”
But then I thought about it. Over the years, we all watched Dr. Khan
become very good with her hands. Careful hands. Precise hands. Hands
that could operate, care for a baby, take exams, and still text her
family in Urdu — all in the same day. She speaks to me with an
American accent and then answers her phone in Desi English.
And speaking of major announcements, Dr. Khan has a very special way of
sharing life-changing events. One day, casually, she tells me, “I am
married.” Just like that. No buildup. No warning. Just, “By the way, Dr.
DePaz, I am married.” Then many months later: “Dr. DePaz, I forgot to
tell you, I am pregnant.”
Forgot? People forget their IDs. People forget to sign out a patient.
People do not usually forget to mention that they are creating a whole
new human being. Of course, my first reaction was, “Yes! We need more
surgeons.”
Then she told me she was anemic and receiving blood transfusions. I
thought to myself: she is carrying a viable graft, and that graft is
being showered with multiple other transfused grafts. I did say: “Make
sure you take extra calcium and vitamins.”
And then, the weekend before ABSITE, the baby was born. That is Dr.
Khan. Most residents were very anxious before this ABSITE. Dr. Khan
said, “Let me just deliver my baby now.”
When she returned to 401, we said, “Welcome back.” But from the other
side, from what I call the penny section, the word spread: “A mother
is with us.“
Not just a resident. Not just a chief. A mother. A surgeon. A force.
Dr. Khan also brings back for me many memories of Pakistan — a country
I have visited mostly through food, stories, and friends, YouTube
motorbike and jingle truck rides.
But let us begin with the important things: paratha, keema, and
chai.
In Pakistan, roadside food stalls are called dhabas. And dhabas
serve the kind of food that makes you believe civilization has reached
its highest peak: karahi, daal, naan, paratha, and chai. Real chai. Not
the poor imitation we pretend to enjoy here in New York City.
Years ago, I spent a month in Edinburgh, Scotland, staying at the Royal
College of Surgeons residence. I shared an apartment with my very first
Pakistani acquaintance, an ophthalmologist and captain in the Pakistani
Army. If I had to guess his name today, I would say: Captain Khan.
Because in Pakistan, apparently, all Captains are Khan, all doctors are
Khan, and even prime ministers are Khan. Cricket players become prime
ministers, and yes, somehow, they are all Khans. My roommate introduced
me to a very important rule of Pakistani hospitality: you do not
refuse food. You may think you are full. You may think you are done.
You may think you have rights. You do not. You must eat. He made keema
for breakfast almost every morning. Many evenings we would walk to the
Pakistani dhabas and eat more keema — keema with paratha, keema with
naan, keema aloo, keema matar. By the end of the month, I was 30% keema
and 70% warm spices.
Many years later, Dr. Khan’s mother visited New York City, and I was
sent a special Pakistani dish she had prepared. Naturally, I could not
refuse. I had learnt my lesson. And let me say this: the food was
outstanding. The food was finger-licking good. Dr. Khan assured me she
had not cooked it.
I said, “Dr. Khan, I know. The food told me so.”
Those flavors brought back the smell of masala chai — black tea, whole
milk, ginger, cardamom, cinnamon — and of course, doodh patti. Not
Starbucks chai. Starbucks chai is what happens when masala chai is
admitted to ICU and never recovers or is left for dead.
Dr. Khan also reminded me of the beauty of Pakistan, beyond the food, up
into the mountains. Do you know where the real Shangri-La is? Not the
hotel chain. Not the fake luxury version. I mean the real Shangri-La. It
is in Skardu Valley, in Gilgit-Baltistan, near Lower Kachura Lake,
with K2 overlooking nearby. Spring there is one of the most beautiful
sights on planet Earth.
Dr. Khan asked, “Dr. DePaz, have you been there?”
I said, “Yes. Virtually.” On motorbikes. On jingle trucks. On YouTube.
Through the Karakoram Highway. From Lahore to the Khunjerab Pass.
Through mountains, valleys, on painted jingle trucks, and motorbikes on
mountain side roads that look like they were chiseled out by Allah and
an orthopod. I have traveled the Karakoram Highway, the KKH, the
N-35 — virtually, of course. I asked Dr. Khan, “Have you been to
Hunza? Have you been to Gilgit-Baltistan? Have you been up in the
mountains?”
She says no.
So let me understand this. I, a West Indian in New York City, have
virtually traveled the Pakistani mountains more than Dr. Khan? Dr. Khan,
you owe yourself a trip to the Baltistan mountains.
And I love the Pakistani truck art — the bright colors, the designs,
the phool patti. By the way, the word patti resonates with me. As a
West Indian, when I hear “patti,” I immediately think of beef patties.
So somewhere between the Pakistani jingle truck art and tasty Jamaican
patties, I feel like there is a cultural bridge being built.
In those mountains, I saw where polo is played in its purest form. I saw
fishermen returning huge trout back into glacial waters. I saw roads
carved into cliffs with trucks decorated like moving wedding ballrooms.
And I ask myself: why are there so many Pakistanis in New York City when
Gilgit-Baltistan exists? Then I recall: because the Khans are here
running Medicine, GI, Surgery, Hand Surgery, and soon the whole medical
complex.
Dr. Khan, you have been an extraordinary resident. You are intelligent,
calm, focused, and quietly relentless. You became a chief resident, a
mother, a surgeon, and now a hand surgery fellow — and you did it all
with determined grace. We roast you tonight because we respect you. We
tease you because we admire you. And we celebrate you because you have
earned every bit of this moment.
Congratulations, Surgeon Khan. Congratulations to your parents and
family. Congratulations to your better-half.
May your hands always be steady, your chai always strong, your
night-calls few, and may there always be enough Dr. Khans in the
hospitals, the little one added to the mix, so that we always remain
confused whenever we call for Dr. Khan.
SurgicalInSite 