Wasay Salman is a second-year MBBS student at Aga Khan University in Karachi. Before he ever wore a white coat, he knew AKU from the other side of medicine – as a patient. In the piece that follows, written in his own words, Wasay reflects on the extraordinary journey that took him from a hospital bed at AKU to its lecture halls, and on what it means to return to the place that saved his life in order to learn how to save others.
I always wanted to be a doctor, albeit with varying reasons as I grew up. I didn’t know much about medicine then, nor many medical universities, but I did hear that Aga Khan University is what you should aim for. So, that stuck.
Doctor, medicine, AKU. That was the goal.
I used to think I had years to work towards it. Instead, in April 2020, Aku came to me.
Just two months into the COVID-19 lockdown, I found myself bed-ridden for two days, struggling with excruciating headaches and nausea. Soon after, I was booked for an emergency surgery to drain a build-up of fluid in my brain.
The events leading up to the surgery were a blur of swift, haphazard events. At one point, my grandmother was holding me tight and stroking my head. At another, I saw my parents visibly distraught. Then, just as suddenly, I woke up to find myself lying in the hospital bed, the surgery already over.
Barely a month passed before I was told I needed a second, far more complex, surgery. This time, however, there was no fog of an emergency rush. My parents had time to book flights to Karachi and explain what lay ahead. I was travelling to Karachi for the first time, navigating strict pandemic protocols, and staying with relatives I had never met.
That was the first time I experienced the Aga Khan University Hospital. My memories of those initial days are sparse, but one vivid moment remains clear: sitting in the Main Cafeteria the day before my surgery. My family and I sat at the table right next to the entrance, eating a paratha and omelette.
I had no idea then just how many of those omelettes would feature in my life in the years to come.
On the day of the surgery, I remember my surgeon, Dr Ather Enam, coming in and cracking a joke to immediately lighten the tense atmosphere. He drew a star on the surgical site with a marker, which kind of tickled at the time. Within minutes of being rolled into the operating room, I drifted into unconsciousness.
The second surgery was my greatest trial. I woke up facing severe right-sided body weakness, persistent headaches and hallucinations. At the time of my discharge, I distinctly remember being wheeled past the School of Nursing and Midwifery (SONAM), even though I insisted on walking on my own.
Back in Lahore, online schooling was in full swing. My 14-year-old brain was consumed with worry - not just about catching up, but about how terrible my handwriting had become. For months, my right hand lacked the control to keep up with my thoughts. And then there was the constant physical reminder: a long surgical scar across the back of my head that I had to learn to accept as part of my identity.
For over a year, life settled into a simple routine. Then, the news came. While the surgical team had managed to remove most of my brain tumour, some residual tissue was still left behind.
On 18 January 2022, I received my CAIE results for Pakistan Studies and Islamiyat. But instead of celebrating with friends, we were packing to travel to AKU for another surgery. This one was my third, but also my last.
Once again, Dr Ather marked a star where my third scar now resides.
Post-surgery, before returning home to Lahore, we had a final consultation with Dr Ather. Looking down at me, he asked, “What do you want to become?”
Having endured three brain surgeries by the age of 15, there was only one answer that made sense.
“A doctor,” I replied.
Dr Ather smiled and said, “Then you must come to AKU and become a neurosurgeon. We will accept you with open arms.”
I held onto Dr Ather’s words, using them as motivation to drive me forward.
My childhood dream never wavered, it had only grown deeper. And on October 14, 2024, the email arrived in my inbox:
MBBS Application Status | Selected.
Three months later, I landed back at AKU, walking through its gates as a first-year medical student.
I returned to learn how to treat, heal, and cure others in the same life-changing way I was treated, healed, and cured.
The irony of it all is hard to fathom at times.
Today, life at AKU has some quiet, transcendent moments.
Sometimes, I eat breakfast at that exact table by the entrance of the Main Cafeteria, remembering the innocent 14-year-old who sat there four years ago.
Sometimes, I walk the pathway past SONAM, visualising the time I was brought outside the hospital in a wheelchair.
And sometimes, on visits to the Children’s Ward, I often visit the same room I was kept in as a patient, offering them smiles and words of encouragement that helped me so much not that long ago.
It is a strange, beautiful thing to realise that the very place that saved your life is now the place where I will learn to save others.
Alhamdulilah.
