In the quiet hours of the night, when the noise of the day has faded and there is nothing but the sound of my own thoughts, I find myself revisiting the stories of those I have treated over the years. As a neurosurgeon, I live on the edge of uncertainty. Every surgery is a delicate balance between hope and risk, between science and faith. And yet, despite our best efforts, despite the hours spent planning, consulting, and preparing, sometimes things take a course beyond our control.

On this sacred occasion of Paryushan Parv, I reflect on one case that will forever remain etched in my soul. It is the story of a friend, a brilliant artist, a man whose trust I carried into the operating room, and whose outcome I could not control.

He was in his 50s, a vibrant, creative soul who had spent his life expressing the beauty of the world through his art. But life had dealt him a difficult hand—a severe case of cervical canal stenosis compounded by ossified posterior longitudinal ligament (OPLL). His spinal cord was compressed by bone, and the condition was worsening with each passing day. The risk of paralysis loomed, and he came to me, not just as a patient, but as a friend.

We spoke at length before the surgery. I explained the risks—how this was not a simple procedure, how there was a significant chance that he could suffer a neurological deficit even with the most meticulous care. But we both knew that doing nothing was not an option. The surgery, a posterior cervical spinal decompression and lateral mass screw fixation, was his best chance at relief.

I remember the day of the surgery vividly. I took every precaution, anticipated every possible complication, and even brought in my colleagues—orthopedic and neurosurgical experts—to assist. Together, we navigated the complexities of the operation with care and precision. By all accounts, the surgery was technically successful. But as the hours passed in the recovery room, it became clear that things had not gone as planned.

My friend developed quadriparesis, a profound weakness in all four limbs. Immediate post-operative scans revealed spinal cord edema, swelling at the site of the operation. The surgery had caused a temporary setback—a catastrophic one. In those first moments, when I saw his family’s faces and my friend lying motionless in the hospital bed, I felt the weight of the world collapse on my shoulders.

The days that followed were some of the hardest I’ve ever endured. His family, torn between fear and hope, looked to me for answers. I could see their pain, their unspoken questions, and the burden of my own responsibility pressed down upon me. They never blamed me, but as a surgeon—and as his friend—I carried the guilt. I had done everything by the book, but the outcome was still devastating.

Despite these challenges, my friend began to show remarkable resilience. Slowly but surely, he responded to neuro-rehabilitation. His limbs, once paralyzed, began to regain movement. Each small victory—wiggling a finger, moving a toe—felt like a miracle. I watched as he, step by step, fought his way back. He was almost able to walk again, and hope bloomed once more in our hearts.

But life, unpredictable as always, had another plan. Just when he was on the verge of reclaiming his life, he suffered a massive heart attack and passed away. The heart attack had nothing to do with his spinal condition or the surgery, but it broke all of us. He had fought so hard, only to be taken away by something none of us could have foreseen.

Though his death was due to natural causes, I have never stopped questioning whether I could have done more. The guilt, though irrational, lingers. I ask myself if, unknowingly, I had contributed to his suffering, if I could have somehow prevented the series of events that led to his untimely death. It is a question without an answer, and it is one that I will carry with me for the rest of my life.

On this Paryushan Parv, the most sacred time of reflection and forgiveness in Jainism, I seek to unburden my heart. Micchami Dukkadam, I say, with all the sincerity in my soul. May my misdeeds, known and unknown, be forgiven. May the pain I may have caused, even unintentionally, be washed away by the grace of forgiveness.

The Essence of Micchami Dukkadam

In Jainism, Micchami Dukkadam means “May all my misdeeds be forgiven.” It is a phrase that embodies the essence of humility, reflection, and repentance. It is not just about seeking forgiveness from others, but also about recognizing that we, as human beings, are fallible. We make mistakes, we cause harm, sometimes knowingly, and often unknowingly. Micchami Dukkadam is a way of acknowledging that, and asking for the grace of forgiveness, not just from others, but from the universe itself.

Paryushan Parv is a time of deep reflection, fasting, and spiritual introspection. It is a period when Jains seek to cleanse their souls by asking forgiveness for any harm they may have caused—whether in thought, word, or deed. It is a reminder that life is fleeting, that our actions have consequences, and that we must take responsibility for them. It is also a time to forgive others, to let go of anger and resentment, and to embrace the virtues of non-violence and compassion.

As a neurosurgeon, the philosophy of Micchami Dukkadam resonates deeply with me. Every surgery, every decision we make in the operating room, has the potential to change a person’s life. And while we strive for perfection, while we do everything within our power to ensure the best possible outcomes, the reality is that we are not always in control. Despite our best efforts, there are times when things do not go as planned, when outcomes are not what we hoped for.

In those moments, as much as we seek to explain, to reassure, to comfort, we must also seek forgiveness. Not just from the patient and their family, but from ourselves. We must forgive ourselves for the limits of our abilities, for the unpredictability of life, and for the pain that, despite our best intentions, we sometimes cause.

The Fragility of Control

This case, more than any other, has taught me the fragility of control. As a surgeon, I am trained to plan, to anticipate, to execute with precision. But life is not always something that can be controlled. The human body, with all its complexities, sometimes reacts in ways that defy logic or expectation. And while we can do everything “right,” the outcomes can still be devastating.

In medicine, as in life, we must accept that we are not infallible. We must learn to live with the knowledge that, despite our best efforts, there are forces beyond our control. And in that acceptance, we must find the humility to seek forgiveness, and the courage to forgive ourselves.

On this Paryushan Parv, I offer my heartfelt Micchami Dukkadam to all those I have treated, to their families, and to all those whose lives I have touched, whether through success or failure. For any pain I may have caused, knowingly or unknowingly, I ask for your forgiveness. For the trust that was placed in me, and for the times I may not have fully lived up to that trust, I ask for your understanding.

And for my friend, whose loss still weighs heavy on my heart, I ask for forgiveness from the universe, from his family, and from myself. His death, though unrelated to his surgery, will forever be a reminder of the limits of my control and the fragility of life.

May we all find peace in forgiveness, and may we all have the grace to forgive one another. Micchami Dukkadam.

With sincere forgiveness-seeking,

Dr. Nitin Jagdhane
Your Trusted Neurosurgeon

Neurosurgeon reflecting on forgiveness during Paryushan Parv and seeking peace with the phrase Micchami Dukkadam after challenging surgical experiences.
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