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“It’s estimated that AI could free up to 25% of clinician time across different specialties. This increased amount of time could mean less hurried encounters and more humane interactions, including more empathy from happier doctors. This is important because empathy has been shown to improve outcomes by boosting patient adherence to the prescribed treatments, increasing motivation, and reducing anxiety and stress.”
― Ronald M. Razmi, AI Doctor: The Rise of Artificial Intelligence in Healthcare - A Guide for Users, Buyers, Builders, and Investors

“اس وقت تو یوں لگتا ہے اب کچھ بھی نہیں ہے
مہتاب نہ سورج، نہ اندھیرا نہ سویرا

آنکھوں کے دریچوں پہ کسی حسن کی چلمن
اور دل کی پناہوں میں کسی درد کا ڈیرا

ممکن ہے کوئی وہم تھا، ممکن ہے سنا ہو
گلیوں میں کسی چاپ کا اک آخری پھیرا

شاخوں میں خیالوں کے گھنے پیڑ کی شاید
اب آ کے کرے گا نہ کوئی خواب بسیرا

اک بَیر، نہ اک مہر، نہ اک ربط نہ رشتہ
تیرا کوئی اپنا، نہ پرایا کوئی میرا

مانا کہ یہ سنسان گھڑی سخت کڑی ہے
لیکن مرے دل یہ تو فقط اک ہی گھڑی ہے

ہمت کرو جینے کو تو اک عمر پڑی ہے

"فیض احمد فیض"

میو ہسپتال، لاہور
4، مارچ 82ء”
― Faiz Ahmad Faiz

“Even exciting places are boring most of the time. Wars. Movie sets. Emergency rooms.”
― Ann Brashares, My Name Is Memory

“Without direction, the respiratory technician goes to the head of the bed. She takes the tubing, attaches it to the oxygen, and turns it on as high as it will go. She provides a seal with her hand cupped over the plastic mask, over the nose and mouth of the toddler, and methodically provides oxygenated air. Doyle’s tiny chest rises and falls while I listen with my stethoscope. I am reaching for another breathing tube.
“Fib!�� Dr. Pedras feels for a pulse while another places gelled pads on her chest.”
― Ruth McLeod-Kearns, Love, Loss, Trauma

“On the other hand, some of the family’s impatience with the public is justified. When I use Federal Express, I accept as a condition of business that its standardized forms must be filled out in printed letters. An e-mail address off by a single character goes nowhere. Transposing two digits in a phone number gets me somebody speaking heatedly in Portuguese. Electronic media tell you instantly when you’ve made an error; with the post office, you have to wait. Haven’t we all at some point tested its humanity? I send mail to friends in Upper Molar, New York (they live in Upper Nyack), and expect a stranger to laugh and deliver it in forty-eight hours. More often than not, the stranger does. With its mission of universal service, the Postal Service is like an urban emergency room contractually obligated to accept every sore throat, pregnancy, and demented parent that comes its way. You may have to wait for hours in a dimly lit corridor. The staff may be short-tempered and dilatory. But eventually you will get treated. In the Central Post Office’s Nixie unit—where mail arrives that has been illegibly or incorrectly addressed—I see street numbers in the seventy thousands; impossible pairings of zip codes and streets; addresses without a name, without a street, without a city; addresses that consist of the description of a building; addresses written in water-based ink that rain has blurred. Skilled Nixie clerks study the orphans one at a time. Either they find a home for them or they apply that most expressive of postal markings, the vermilion finger of accusation that lays the blame squarely on you, the sender.”
― Jonathan Franzen, How to Be Alone

“Give way to the ambulance may be in there someone's love,

Give way to the ambulance may be in there someone they cared,

Give way to the ambulance may be in there someone's close,

Give way to the ambulance may be in there someone's beloved,

Give way to the ambulance may be in there someone treasured,

Give way to the ambulance may be in there someone they valued,

Give way to the ambulance may be in there someone's world,

Give way to the ambulance may be in there someone they needed!”
― Aiyaz Uddin

“There was no time for self-reflection in the ER, or on any COVID unit. It was like telling a soldier to take a break and think it through before he shot back.”
― Susan Kraus, When We Lost Touch