Ashes in the Ganges

It was the time of evening, when night greeted day in a colloid suspension of darkness and light. I flopped into a seat on the tube, having finished a long day in the hospital. The people around me were preoccupied with their own woes, and I was preoccupied with mine. Work towards a Duke of Edinburgh award; get grades in science A levels; do some work experience; show commitment to medicine; suck up to teachers to get a good reference. Bingo - get a place at medical school. I'm now a fourth year student about to enter my psychiatric placement. I wanted to be a psychiatrist; that was until my brother committed suicide last year. Blood curdling screams tore down my London home when the phone shrilled, “He's dead.”

Bereavement isn't a new or exciting topic, but what has alarmed me in the year that has passed is what a cruel heartless breed doctors are. What happens between the innocent sixth former wanting to save the world and the brutal consultant who sees medical students as conniving dossers? Perhaps you find me bitter, and I have to admit I am. I am because the profession I have pledged to serve blindly has disappointed me through and through.

Growing up with a brother who had psychiatric problems was far from easy. At the back of …