Creighton University

On Saturday, December 16, 2006, Kallol Saha graduated from Creighton University School of Medicine.  “We are proud of Dr. Saha and his dedication in overcoming the obstacles he has faced in completing his medical degree,” said Dr. Cam Enarsen, Creighton University's Vice President, Health Sciences and Dean, School of Medicine, pictured here (left) with Dr. Kallol Saha and Dr. Cam Nguyen (right), a Creighton radiation oncologist and Kallol’s mentor. 

This triumphant task was chronicled in the Omaha World-Herald on November 26, 2006 and follows:

His Own Cancer Tests Doc-to-be

by Nichole Aksamit
World-Herald Staff Writer

Kallol Saha awoke on Sept. 11, 2001, comprehending neither the hole in his skull nor the chaos on TV.

Creighton University School of Medicine student Kallol Saha, above at Community Memorial Hospital in Missouri Valley, Iowa, has firsthand knowledge of what seriously ill patients experience.
 
"Is there a rod or something in my head?" he asked from his Omaha hospital bed. "It feels like a rod."

In Saha's post-surgical delirium, the freshly emptied space at the base of his brain felt like a metal shaft. And the solid future he'd been building seemed as obliterated as New York City's World Trade Center.

Saha was a second-year medical student. He wasn't supposed to be in a hospital gown. He was supposed to be wearing - or at least working toward wearing - that pristine white coat.

* * *

Born in Hawaii to naturalized Indian immigrants and raised in San Antonio, Kallol ("kuh-LOHL," which rhymes with "cajole") Saha ("SHA-ha") had been interested in medicine since childhood.

That's when his Uncle Nihar, an Indian-trained physician, came to live with Saha's family in Texas. As his uncle applied for his American medical license and residencies, 9-year-old Kallol stuffed envelopes, hung on Nihar's every word and began plotting his own path to medical school.

After graduating from a health magnet high school in San Antonio, Saha was accepted by Creighton University in Omaha, which promised him entry to its medical school if he met academic criteria as an undergraduate. He did, graduating summa cum laude in 2000 and securing a spot in the School of Medicine's class of 2004.

Gross anatomy. Molecular and cellular biology. Neurology. Immunology. Saha sailed through his first year.

His family was so proud.

He was going to be a doctor.

* * *

In September 2001, a few weeks into his second year, Saha's medical momentum screeched to a halt.

After a month of unexplained morning vomiting, recent fatigue and trouble studying, and a sudden severe headache, Saha asked his study partner to take him to Creighton University Medical Center's emergency room.

Brain scans revealed a tumor the size of a golf ball nestled in his medulla at the base of the brain and the top of the brain stem, just in front of the cerebellum. The tumor blocked the flow of cerebrospinal fluid from Saha's head. Without relief soon, the doctors said, the swelling could cause permanent damage or even death.

A biopsy determined Saha had medulloblastoma, a type of brain cancer affecting about one in 50,000 people, most typically children.

Saha was 23. He was devastated.

After relatives flew to Omaha and deliberated with Saha about surgeons and surgical approaches, Saha underwent brain surgery at the Nebraska Medical Center on Sept. 10.

Dr. Arun-Angelo Patil drilled into the back of Saha's head, removing a chunk of skull, muscle and nerve in order to reach and remove the tumor tucked between his ears, behind his esophagus.

The good news: The surgeon believed he had removed the bulk of the tumor. And Saha had survived the surgery - a feat in itself, because of the tumor's proximity to brain areas that control breathing.

The bad news: Saha's brain swelling persisted for several days after the surgery. Even though he was conscious, he struggled to remain alert. "C'mon, Kallol," his father urged. "Keep your eyes open."

Saha's mental reflexes were slow. He had severe balance problems. And it was impossible to know whether his physical and mental impairments would be temporary or permanent.

He probably would need follow-up treatment for the cancer: chemotherapy, radiation or both. And he definitely would have to miss the rest of his second year of medical school.

The doctor-to-be would have to spend some time as a patient.

* * *

For the first time in his life, Saha hated being in the hospital.

As his brain swelling subsided, physical and occupational therapists pushed him to complete simple tasks that had become infuriatingly difficult: adding 3 plus 10, balancing a checkbook, getting out of bed.

But his parents, his sister and his uncle were there. His "boys" - far-flung friends from his childhood in Texas - rented an RV and came to visit. College friends and fellow medical school students brought food, advice and encouragement for Saha and his family.

Worried that it would take their son a lifetime to regain his ability to walk, Saha's parents asked if they could walk him more frequently than the physical therapists did. Soon they and Saha's friends were helping him out of bed and propping him up as he made halting and unsteady laps around the hospital ward.

Every day he was able, Saha begged to return to his apartment in Council Bluffs. He got his wish 10 days after surgery, though he didn't get to stay.

Specialists at the M.D. Anderson Cancer Center in Houston advised Saha to get chemotherapy and radiation treatments together, and soon - just to be sure no cancer cells spread to his spine or remained in his brain.

Saha would have the treatments in Oklahoma City, where his parents had recently moved. He would need their help during six weeks of weekly chemotherapy and daily radiation treatments. He would need their support during rare moments of uncertainty.

One day, after Saha's radiation regimen had been planned but before the treatments began, he stood face to face with his father and asked: "Dad, am I going to be OK?"

Kartik Saha stifled tears for his only son and said: "Absolutely, Baba. You will be fine."

But Kallol Saha would get worse before he got better.

After the treatments began, all but one patch of Saha's previously thick, black hair fell out.

By Thanksgiving, his esophagus, damaged by radiation, was so sore, he could barely swallow. He sipped formula or choked down foods his mother mashed or pureed.

His already thin face became thinner. The tips of his fingers and toes went numb.

And he was so very, very tired. Walking even short distances at home sapped his energy. At one point, he needed a blood transfusion.

At least his balance and coordination were slowly returning. He was walking, albeit with a wider stance to make himself feel secure. And his follow-up MRIs looked good: no sign of the cancer's return.

As a bonus, his radiation oncologist made him feel like he was still a student. "Now, what structure am I looking at here?" the doctor would ask as they both peered at Saha's latest MRI.

* * *

Saha returned to Omaha in January 2002, but he couldn't rejoin his second-year medical school classmates. Not only was he still recovering from treatment, he'd also missed the whole first semester. Classes were sequential. He couldn't start in the middle.

Though he was happy to be back in his apartment and among friends, he worried that his first-year knowledge would fade during the long months before fall. So he reviewed his first-year books and notes and began reading ahead about subjects he knew would be covered in the second year.

Outside of these informal studies, he worked on physical coordination, trying to regain his speed and agility on the basketball and tennis courts.

That fall, Saha returned to medical school, this time a member of the class of 2005. His original medical school peers by that time were third-years. He would have to find new study partners.

The year started well, but Saha soon realized he lacked his previous mental quickness. He did poorly on timed tests. He failed two of three classes and was called before school officials.

They agreed: It was too soon. He needed more time. Saha took another break and repeated his previous review-and-preview approach. He got clearance to sit in on some medical classes, just to keep his mind engaged.

"His body wasn't healed," recalled his father, "but his mind was in medical school."

In the fall of 2003, Saha returned once again, now a part of the class of 2006.

At last, it seemed, his body and mind had improved enough. On the tennis court and at school, he was back in the game.

* * *

Five years since his startling diagnosis, Saha's cancer shows no sign of recurrence on periodic MRIs.

Though he still doesn't feel as mentally agile as he once was, psychometric tests at the Mayo Clinic in Minnesota cleared him to resume and complete his studies.

He wears a hearing aid in his left ear to help counteract partial hearing loss in both ears, a late-blooming side effect of his radiation treatment.

He passed his first and second board exams and last month began a monthlong internship at the Mayo Clinic in Florida. He's set to graduate from medical school in December - two and a half years behind his first-year classmates.

Saha will apply for residencies in the spring. Fittingly, he's hoping for a match in radiation oncology.

His father - perhaps Kallol Saha's greatest cheerleader - told him not to worry about the application fees, not to limit himself: "Apply to them all."

Saha, now 28, said he feels blessed to be alive, thankful for the support he has received in his recovery and medical school attempts, and even grateful to have gotten brain cancer - the disease that showed him what it means to be a patient.

He hopes the pain and love he felt, the determination he found and the patients and professionals he met along the way will make him a more empathetic and encouraging doctor.

"I know what they are going through," he said. "I know it's not easy. And I can tell my patients 'Don't give up just because you have cancer.'"

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