I was born into a Persian family in which four professions were encouraged: law, engineering, dentistry and medicine. As a teenager, I volunteered at a children’s hospital in Montreal and loved it. So I did a medical degree at McGill and specialized in family medicine because I wanted a job with a lot of variety.
In 2003, I was part of an obstetrics fellowship at a hospital in Markham. A family doctor was leaving her practice in a clinic attached to the hospital, and I got an offer to take it over. I didn’t hesitate. I was 26 and full of energy, so I chose to work six or seven days a week, seeing patients, assisting surgeons and doing obstetrics work.
Read more: Dispatches from Ontario’s broken health care system
In 2010, I opened my own practice in Richmond Hill. I had also started a family—I had a child in 2008, another in 2010 and twins in 2014. I had roughly 3,000 people on my roster. It was a massive amount: today, family doctors aim for a limit of 1,200 patients. Juggling my patient load while raising kids was a lot, and I regret not creating more boundaries around my work. When patients needed to see me, I tried to book them for the same day or the one after—I didn’t want them to wait. That meant I was seeing 30 to 40 patients in an average day.
I often stayed late at the clinic to deal with paperwork. I also had more than 100 test results, consultation notes, pharmacy faxes and other documents coming through daily, which I had to check immediately in case one of my patients needed critical care. On top of that were referral requests. I couldn’t keep up.
When Covid hit, patients became increasingly demanding—angry at the closures, at the health care system. Nobody seemed to understand the pressure doctors were under. In the midst of that, someone filed a complaint against me to the College of Physicians and Surgeons of Ontario. The patient had a minor health issue but was upset at the length of time it took for them to see a specialist. Once the CPSO began investigating the case, they asked to see my notes and discovered I was months behind on my paperwork. I was eventually mandated to complete courses on note-taking.
The complaint took two years to work through the system. I began doubting my abilities as a physician. I was in counseling, but I would still have anxiety attacks at the office. In late 2021, I decided to quit. I wrote a letter to my patients letting them know I’d be closing my practice. I also spoke with many of them in person or on the phone, and sometimes I couldn’t hold back my tears. Some of my patients were devastated, and I felt like I was abandoning them. But I just couldn’t do it anymore.
I started working at a private hospital in Thornhill that specializes in abdominal wall hernias. That job has been a saviour. It’s a focused environment: I don’t have patients coming in with five different complaints and outsized expectations. I’m there two days a week, and the rest of the time I work for Maple, a virtual care provider that allows me to take on cases whenever I’m available. I still do long hours, but I’m able to control my schedule.
I miss the continuity of care and the connections I used to have. But I can’t imagine going back to a family practice. The working conditions would have to change dramatically—and even if they did, I’m not sure I’d return. In a way, I’m thankful for the patient complaint that led to the audit of my notes. It forced me to reflect on my situation and realize that I was drowning. It’s taken me a long time, but I feel like I’m finally in the recovery phase of what was a very traumatic experience.
NEVER MISS A TORONTO LIFE STORY
Sign up for This City, our free newsletter about everything that matters right now in Toronto politics, sports, business, culture, society and more.