When Professors Become Students

I met one of my regular walkmates after almost a month. His absence had been quite noticeable because he had become rather irregular of late.

I knew he had recently started a YouTube channel, so I assumed that the new venture had consumed much of his time. Around seventy years old, he lives alone and is remarkably active, apart from the now almost compulsory companions of our generation, diabetes and blood pressure.

When I asked where he had disappeared, he first blamed laziness. Then, when I casually enquired whether YouTube had kept him busy, he narrated an incident that had occurred just a couple of days earlier.

One afternoon he realised that he had apparently forgotten his morning blood pressure tablet. Not wanting to miss the dose, he took one immediately. After dinner, as usual, he took his night medicines and retired to bed around eleven.

Within minutes he felt his head spinning gently.

His immediate conclusion was the same as most of us would arrive at, his blood pressure must have shot up.

Like many households today, he had a BP monitor at home. To his surprise, the readings showed something entirely different. His diastolic pressure had fallen below 50.

That was when the penny dropped.

He had not missed his morning tablet at all.

He had simply forgotten that he had already taken it and unknowingly taken an extra dose in the afternoon.

Being a weekend, he was reluctant to rush to a nearby clinic where specialists would probably be unavailable until Monday. Instead, he called a friend who lived close by. The friend, drawing on his own experience, felt that the blood pressure drop was probably due to the extra tablet and suggested that he sip some salt water. Whether it was the salt water, the passage of time, or both, within about an hour his diastolic pressure had climbed to around 60. The friend stayed with him until he felt reassured, and after a couple of hours left when he was confident that he could manage without a visit to the hospital.

As he finished narrating his story, another incident from a couple of years ago flashed through my mind.

My ninety-one-year-old uncle takes close to twenty-five tablets spread across morning, afternoon and night, besides regularly consulting nearly half a dozen specialists. Despite this formidable routine, he had single-handedly cared for my dependent aunt for more than seven years until she passed away.

Even someone as disciplined as him occasionally wondered whether he had taken a particular tablet or not.

His solution was unique.

Every week or fortnight, he would count the tablets remaining in each strip to reassure himself that nothing had been missed.

To me, that sounded like solving a mathematical puzzle after every few days.

Having seen similar confusion with my mother, I ordered one of those weekly pill organisers with neatly marked compartments for morning, afternoon and night.

I proudly informed my uncle, expecting appreciation for my brilliant idea.

Instead, I received something closer to a lecture.

"What is the need for all this?" he asked. "I have managed perfectly well all these years."

There was a brief disagreement before he reluctantly agreed to use it.

Only later did I realise something I had completely overlooked.

For me, filling the organiser for a week looked like a five-minute exercise.

For a ninety-one-year-old, opening twenty-five tablets from their blister packs every week was itself a major project.

Fortunately, my sister volunteered to fill the organiser every week. They now spend fifteen or twenty minutes together doing it, and since then he hasn't missed a single dose.

Back at the lake, my walkmate's story had now become public property.

One youngster suggested buying a pill organiser.

Another recommended marking each dose on a calendar.

A third advised sending himself a WhatsApp message every time he took a tablet.

Everyone had a solution.

As I watched the flood of advice, I couldn't help smiling. Here stood a man who had spent an entire career as a respected professor, patiently teaching generations of students. Retirement, however, has a curious way of reversing roles. That morning, every passer-by had become his professor, and he, with admirable patience, had become the student.

It also struck me that every one of those suggestions had worked for someone. My uncle had finally found his answer in a pill organiser, thanks to my sister's weekly help. Someone else trusted a calendar. Yet another relied on a WhatsApp message to himself. There wasn't a universal solution, only the one that suited the individual.

Perhaps that is life's way of reminding us that learning has no retirement age.

Growing older is not merely about collecting medicines; it is also about collecting ingenious ways to remember taking them! Pill boxes, calendars, WhatsApp messages, or simply a caring friend, become part of our support system. And somewhere along the way, professors become students, experts become learners, and advice begins flowing in the opposite direction. Perhaps that's not a sign of ageing at all. Perhaps it is simply life reminding us that none of us ever graduates from learning.

Stories, not instructions. Experiences, not advice—medical or otherwise. Data, only what the internet quietly gathers anyway. Proceed with equal parts curiosity and common sense.