Language of Love

This incident happened around four years ago.

A special care child, around 4–5 years old, came in with his parents for a dental consultation. He had mitochondrial encephalopathy, which had led to regression of his physical and mental milestones. Though he was older, he appeared more like a 3-year-old and was carried in his father’s arms.

He had previously undergone multiple extractions under general anesthesia. This time, they returned because his front tooth was mobile and causing him distress, along with grinding.

Every time I saw this child, he was crying and grinding—his parents explained that this was his way of expressing fear.

As a human, I felt that moment deeply. But I gathered myself to do my job, trying to make the experience as gentle and trauma-free as possible.

I always spoke to him like I would to any other child—in simple, broken language. We didn’t share the same spoken language, but I still tried to comfort him, even though I believed, deep down, that he couldn’t truly connect with me.

After removing the tooth, I asked the parents to wait in the reception area so I could reassess him before discharge.

A little while later, I returned and said, “Where is my boy Ahmed? How is he doing now?”

What I saw next made me pause—almost freeze—in a moment of quiet awe, happiness, and something that felt like hope.

He looked at me… and smiled.

In that instant, I felt something I will always cherish as a pediatric dentist. It reminded me that no matter what, children sense what we cannot say out loud. I understood then that humanity, mercy, and care have no language. They live deep within us—a universal language we all share.

Back in 2000, when I was dropped off at a dorm in a new country to pursue dentistry, I remember feeling a mix of excitement and anticipation. At 18, I had always imagined a future in social work, diplomacy, or even medicine.

Then came the realization that my hand-eye coordination was not what I thought it was. By second year, I had convinced myself that I was heading toward failure—that I would become a poor practitioner.

That year became one of self-discovery, spiritual reconnection, and also deep discouragement—being in a field that did not seem to bring out my strengths.

But Ahmed tells a different story… years later.

Have you ever felt like giving up, only to realise later that giving up was never the answer?

Ps:- The name mentioned is fictional to protect real identity.