Assalamualaikum and hi.
I’ve been meaning to talk about this for a while now—life as a sonographer. Honestly, some days it feels like a rollercoaster of emotions, and other days, it’s just another job. But, for the most part, it’s a lot more complicated than just pushing buttons on a machine. I mean, sure, it looks simple on the surface, but when you’re looking at the internal organs of a person, a real person, things get... messy.
A typical day for me starts at 8.30 a.m. and usually ends at 5 p.m. It’s packed—especially in the mornings. I’ll be scanning health screening patients one after the other. It can get tiring, yes, but there’s something about it that I find exciting. Each patient is a new puzzle. No two scans are the same, and that’s what makes it interesting. I’ll be scanning a liver that looked fine a year ago, only to see it suddenly covered in fat today. A tiny kidney stone that seemed like nothing a month ago has completely disappeared. Sometimes, I’ll look at a scan and feel that little rush of excitement when I spot something. A pathology. I’ve found something. But then... the guilt kicks in.
Before all this starts, though, there’s a routine I have to follow. I walk into the ultrasound room, and the first thing I do is prepare everything. Change the bed sheet, pillow sheet, and put an underpad for cover. It’s kind of second nature by now. I refill the gel bottles, stack up the patient gowns in the cupboard, and make sure everything is in place before turning on the ultrasound machine. It’s like setting the stage for a performance that’s about to begin. Except, the patients? They’re not just the audience—they’re the ones who might have a life-changing moment in the next 30 minutes.
But as much as I love what I do, there’s a part of me that still struggles with the weight of this job. It reminds me of something I’ll never be able to shake off—my Abah. I can’t help but think about him every time I scan someone who’s elderly, every time I look at a patient’s scan and see something unexpected. I’ll never forget how he used to say “later” whenever I offered to get him a full check-up, to bring him in for the proper scans. He was in Muar and I was in Damansara and the timing never worked out. With all the busyness of my engagement and life, the plans just never came together. Abah was always relying on his government hospital check-ups, and I never got to scan him, not the way I wanted to. Not with the more advanced equipment we have at my hospital. I wasn’t even doing heart scans as part of my job, but if only he’d agreed to come, maybe—just maybe—things would have been different.
But then again, I know it’s not my place to second-guess fate. Abah left this world with a smile on his face, and I’ve made peace with that. Still, the thought of what could have been lingers. I miss him more than words can express.
And that’s what makes it so hard sometimes, you know? When I see a patient with something that could be serious, a pathology, I can’t help but feel that twinge of guilt. I know I’m just the one who captures the image, not the one who diagnoses or cures. I can’t say anything to the patient. I just send the scans off to the radiologist and keep moving. But every time I look at someone’s face, especially the elderly ones, it hits me a little harder. It’s like I’m walking in Abah’s shoes, or I’m standing in front of him all over again, wishing I could’ve done more. Wishing I could have made him go for that scan.
But sometimes, in those moments, I remind myself that this is what I do—I help. I’m part of the system that gives people answers, even if I’m not the one who provides the full diagnosis. When I scan babies or see a patient whose chemo is working and their tumors are shrinking, I get that deep breath of relief. Those moments are what make the weight of the job worth it. They remind me that there is hope, healing, and even joy to be found in the midst of all the uncertainty.
And let’s be real—sometimes I just need to see a ‘normal’ scan. Or scan a baby who’s crying their eyes out on the table, even though they’re still somehow adorable. It’s a weird mix of exhaustion and relief when you get those moments. It makes the difficult ones easier to handle.
But on the days when the weight of it all doesn’t let up, when I’m staring at a scan that’s not so simple and I’m wondering what’s next for the patient... I can’t help but feel like I’m stuck in a movie that I didn’t sign up for. I’m just the technical person behind the scenes, but the story is so much bigger than I am. And yeah, I can’t change their outcome. I can’t hold their hand through it all. But damn, it hits differently when you know something they don’t. It’s like you’re the one who knows the twist, but you’re not allowed to tell them.
Still, even with all the heaviness, there’s a small comfort in knowing that I’m part of the process. Maybe I’m not the one who gets to make the diagnosis, but I’m helping. I’m part of a team that works to give people answers, and sometimes, that’s enough. Other days, though, when the emotional weight doesn’t lift, it’s hard to shake it off. But hey, that’s the job. It’s messy, it’s emotional, and it’s real.
And honestly? I’m okay with it. I think.
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