I remember how I celebrated Christmas with the poverty-stricken children of Ethiopia. That night in December, I received shocking news that got the most of us, UNHCR voluntary workers, bolted up on our feet. We were far, far away from them. Across a continent and seas, where the least expected calamity avalanching upon the third-world countries that were established there.

India, Sri Lanka, Bangladesh, Thailand, Indonesia and Malaysia. An 8.6 reading off the Richter scale was enough to trigger an alarm to the residents of those countries –Armageddon is near. So near, that you could smell the stink of fear from the wretched humans.

I remember how I had packed up my belongings, upon knowing how the world had gone berserk and thought disbelievingly at what happened. Hundreds and thousands of people lost their lives. The survivors had to cope with the fact that all they had lived for were virtually gone. In fact, it was the most talked about agenda, on every cable news network. Faces of little children crying over the loss of their parents; pregnant wives looking upon the mutilated corpse of their husbands, or even bloated dead babies.

We were summoned to help. But things weren't at all how I expected it to be.

I was posted to Banda Aceh, Indonesia, where the Tsunami's impact had been one of the worst. When my feet touched what was once the port of Banda Aceh, it felt so surreal. It wasn't half what I thought it would be. Don't get me wrong; I had seen thousands of other gory images, of bloodied rotten corpses. Emaciated infants, victims of deliberate starvation. Limb muscles shrunken; features showing dehydration and wasting. Their sunken eyes stared into mine; demanding help. Flies hovered around their faces. The images were so vividly printed in mind as the rotten became a feast for the ravens.

It was in my duty to serve them rightfully, from the bottom of my heart. But as I gazed upon the empty fields, which hurt my eyes with its' lavish presentation of human corpses and putrefaction, I choked. Distended abdomens and decomposed flesh of men. Not just hundreds but thousands of them; laid upon the ground after some kind of battlefield against Poseidon.

Any other civilian would have fainted in horror. The atmosphere was wide and free, yet it was filled with the decaying breeze of mortal flesh. Profuse froth around their lips; tinged with blood. One of my colleagues, Brian Hobbes, almost fell to his knees as he saw the chaotic wrecked leftovers of what used to be trees and buildings – and living men.

"Hello, gentlemen! I am Dr. Gilligan," a round faced, silver haired man greeted us as we rode a jeep leading to refugees' tents. "We have no time to waste. So many things to do, yet so little time!" he went on, in a strong Texan accent. The three of us wore masks around our faces; our voices became muffled. Brian nudged me and pointed to the vast tents that were set up in the middle of the washed land. "Tom, this is worse than Ethiopia or Bosnia…or Iraq even!" I just nodded, my voice caught up in my throat. The jeep that carried us passed a couple of young kids about 10, crying. They tugged their sleeping parents, trying to wake them up. It made me realize something.

"Disease will spread out if there's no prevention," I managed to say. "Food supply is a problem too."

"You don't have to worry about that, Dr. Mac…" Dr. Gilligan replied with uncertainty.

"Dr. Macfadzean," I said seriously. No one had ever gotten my name right. How could a delirious Texan ever?

"With a lower case F," Brian added jokingly, trying to break the tension. I did not have any idea why I should repel Gilligan so. His aura reached me as another typical American chauvinist who still held to the "White Man's Burden" policy. I did not, however, have to wait long before my doubts of the Texan were answered.

My question about forms of relief from any other world agencies apart from UN had Gilligan start praising the USA for being one of the first nations to arrive with food, shelter, and medical supplies. Brian and I exchanged glances, as Gilligan would not stop. It took a while before he finally showed us the survivors' tents. As soon as I put my gloves and stethoscope on, Gilligan left. It might have shown on my face that his presence was no longer needed. Brian and I spent the rest of the day running around, trying to save lives.

I wasn't proud of it. I am not God. I lost count of lives lost in my hands that day.

The next day, a girl was brought to me at the earliest hours of dawn. I could hear the 'azan'— the calling for morning prayers at Subuh from the only mosque remaining in the midst of emptiness – standing tall and strong – a miracle, perhaps? And like a miracle too, the girl, who could have easily died of hypothermia in her frailty, survived. I would never forget the way she fluttered her eyelids – as a sign of appreciation, for she could not move her limbs or tongue. All that came out from her mouth were muffled groans and numbness. She stared at something, though. Was it my breast pocket? My nametag? When she realized that I saw her undivided attention to my name, her eyes diverted. Then, she was carried away to a different tent for intensive care.

No painkillers, not even enough anesthetics. I went through the same cries of pain, only of different voices. And I never intended to know their names. People might think that I was a cold and aloof sort of person, for not even wanting to get to know my patients a little bit better. One thing that I've learnt about treating refugees and victims of natural disasters – they would appreciate and thank you, even if it was in the subtlest way. No one did when I was a doctor in London. No one.

It struck me then, that the girl, who was probably only about 12, would care so much about the doctor who had treated her. When you've seen that sort of courage – because she felt everything – the pain, straight from God, how could you want to do anything but hold her in your arms?

New Year's Eve came with the Muslims celebrating by praying relentlessly to Allah to forgive their sins and provide strength to endure the upcoming days. The non-Muslims volunteers, including Brian and I held tight to our crucifixes; although I was beginning to lose hope in my God.

I made rounds that afternoon. Then I saw her, leaning to one side of the wall, reading a book. I vaguely remembered that she had short, black matte hair then. I could have easily mistaken her for a little boy if not for her being in a female's tent. I walked towards her and peeked at the title of her book – "The Concise Guide to Pediatricians". It was Brian's book.

She might have sensed my presence, or felt my shadow covering hers, for she suddenly sat upright. "Dr. Macfadzean!" she exclaimed, without even looking at me. For one second, I felt I was flying. This was the first time that an Indonesian Tsunami victim had ever spoken my name out loud. Second, it was a young girl who couldn't be older than 14, who'd said it. Confidently, but bound within an inexplicable shyness. Third, the same girl actually held a medical textbook that was foreign to her language. I might have stood there dumbly like a mannequin, if not for Brian calling out my name. "Tom! Come here!"

I was surprised to hear from Brian that the nameless girl spelt my name the other day, on a piece of paper. "She asked me how to pronounce your name, Tom. I think she's smitten with you!" Brian joked again, before I gave him a deadly stare.

"And she asked to borrow a book from you?" I asked again.

"Yes. I was shocked too, actually. Tom, I don't think she's a local. She spoke English well."

The conversation with Brian was enough for me to approach the girl again. Her round eyes were red, her cachetic face so sullen that made my heart melt. My stomach lurched to find her so traumatized. It should be hard to live when she was supposed to die, like the rest of her family. "Hello, little angel," I whispered gently. "How are you feeling today?"

She shook her head violently, clutching her pillow tight. She was trying hard not to cry. It must have been embedded in her pride; that she should not cry in front of strangers. "You are very lucky to be alive," I muttered, not expecting an answer.

"I lost everything. How am I to live anymore?" she asked fiercely.

From the conversation, I found out that she wasn't exactly an Indonesian. She was a Malaysian, who came with her whole family to visit her village in Banda Aceh during the year-end holidays. That was all she remembered, before the waves claimed her family. The Malaysian Embassy might have overlooked her, for she had lost all her official documents – and she never spoke up.

"I had wanted to be a doctor," she had said. Foolish, I'd say, but sweet. "By the way," she told me, "I'm 19 years old. I was supposed to go to the Royal College of Surgeons this summer. Looks like my hopes are dashed now," she sighed, as she curled up on the bed like a ball. My ears pricked. RCSI was where I graduated.

I was about to leave when she muttered tearfully, "Dr. Tom Macfadzean, right?" Without turning back, I replied, "Yes."

"Thanks for saving my life. I've been wondering why you never asked my name, though."

"Uh…"

"It's Lisa, if you want to know," she sniffed.

I didn't intend to know; yet her name resonated in my head since then.

After our confrontation, she began to open up more to me, as her whereabouts was informed to the Malaysian Embassy. Her emotions became more stable throughout the week. I realized that sooner or later she would have to go.

"Tom has a 19-year-old Malaysian girlfriend," as Brian had put it. The other UN workers had been gossiping about Lisa and I. It might have reached Gilligan's ears, for he was quite mad at me. It wasn't Lisa's or my fault that we shared the same interests; albeit she was 10 years younger than me. It was in God's fate that He had intended us to be a pair of unlikely friends.

However, in these last few days, our conversations had been correlated towards the spiritual side. I heard her recite Quranic verses in the mornings and at dusk. I saw her pray. My curiosity towards Islam expanded. I asked her a couple of things, some of which she told me that she wasn't the right person to give an answer. But from the glint of her eyes, I knew she was amused.

I had stopped drinking altogether.

The day had come for the Malaysian officials to return Lisa to her homeland; and hopefully, she could pursue her ambition to become a doctor – like me. It sounded silly and childish at first, but it made me feel good about myself. Neither of us shed tears; we were both cool about it. Brian never took his eyes off me as her helicopter flew away. He was probably expecting a reaction from me.

I might have wanted to scream, so that the whole Banda Aceh would hear me. But I was tongue-tied. Words were stuck in my throat, and no one ever mentioned her name in my presence again. All of our "meaningful conversations" had come down to this. I returned back to camp, continued my routine job, secretly wishing that she hadn't been sent to me that morning. I wish I never knew her name at all.

Two years had passed since I left Banda Aceh. I decided to take a break and return to my homeland – Scotland. A less-than-ordinary idea crept up to mind.

I visited Royal College of Surgeons, Ireland, the other day. I could have leapt off my feet when I saw her name and picture enlisted as one of the Medical students there. I knew the college well. I knew her well. Her hopes weren't dashed completely after all.

I saw her, met her, and we were reunited as long-lost buddies. My heart shouted great joy to know that she was so much a healthier girl than when I last let her go. Her eyes sparkled with enthusiasm, her face still a little bit sunken; but she was a living soul again. We blushed, and giggled like naïve schoolgirls when we went out to town together.

But now, I really do swear that I would never want to know my patients' names again. Ever. Because when I did, and I cared, and I loved…

I would be the one left licking my wounds alone.

Lisa was gone forever.

Ironic, isn't it? She survived a horrendous tide that murdered hundreds of thousands of men mercilessly, yet she couldn't dodge a single bullet that wasn't even meant for her. In front of my eyes, an Irish delinquent shot her to death, in a mad rampage. I couldn't even save her. I curse myself for being a doctor.

She had wanted to be one, just like me. It was foolish, but it was sweet. Looks like her hopes are totally dashed now.

"In her dormitory room were letters written for a certain Tom Macfadzean, yet there was no address written on the envelopes," her friends had said. I was only glad to know that she had missed me as much as I missed her, all those times that we had been apart.

I wished I never knew her name, so that I wouldn't have to miss her this painfully much again. But to think of it over, I do want to miss her. How could I be so selfish?

The point is…she was my friend. She had a name. So now I have to remember her. But if everybody I lose has a name…

My journey ends here.

Some of the touching lines (especially towards the end) are from the movie Beyond Borders - one of the touching speeches ever made (to me, at least).