M.D. Nur Arslan

My 82-year-old father, a retired ship captain with early-stage dementia, fell in his garden and fractured his hip. The confusion from his condition made the ER visit chaotic. Dr. Arslan didn't just treat the fracture; he approached my father with a calm, maritime metaphor about 'steadying the ship in rough waters,' which instantly oriented him. He coordinated with geriatrics and neurology without us asking, explaining the anesthesia risks specific to dementia patients in a way that felt collaborative, not condescending. Post-surgery, he checked on Dad personally at 11 PM, showing a photo of a calm sea on his phone to reassure him. It was trauma care wrapped in profound human understanding.

Our 7-year-old daughter, Elif, swallowed a small lithium battery from a toy. The panic was absolute. At Acibadem, Dr. Arslan met us at the ambulance bay. His entire demeanor shifted into a focused, almost gentle game. He called the battery a 'mischevious moon' that needed to come out and let Elif hold the stethoscope 'to listen for it.' The speed of the endoscopy was breathtaking, but his pre-procedure distraction technique—asking her about her favorite cartoon character's adventures—prevented full-blown terror. He later explained the tissue corrosion risks to us with clear diagrams, turning our fear into informed vigilance. He saved her from a silent, internal emergency with the precision of a surgeon and the heart of a parent.

I presented with what I thought was severe indigestion—tightness, nausea. As a 45-year-old otherwise healthy marathon runner, I was dismissive. Dr. Arslan, during a routine follow-up for a previous minor ligament tear, listened with an intensity that felt disproportionate. He insisted on an immediate ECG and troponin test, overriding my protests. He diagnosed a rare coronary artery vasospasm, a 'silent heart event' unrelated to blockage. His explanation was forensic: he mapped my symptoms against marathon recovery physiology, showing how I'd misread the signals. This wasn't emergency medicine as reaction; it was preventive detection of a hidden catastrophe. He treated a trauma that hadn't fully happened yet.

Following a complex multi-vehicle collision, I arrived with a flail chest and a lacerated spleen. My memory is hazy, but I recall Dr. Arslan's voice—a steady, commanding presence cutting through the pain and noise. He spoke directly to me, stating each action clearly ('We're stabilizing your chest wall now, pressure is coming'), which paradoxically lessened the panic. The coordination was seamless; he was like a conductor, directing the trauma team, radiology, and surgery without a wasted second. Weeks later, during a follow-up, he recalled specific details of the crash scene from the EMS report, linking them to my injuries to explain my recovery path. This wasn't just follow-up; it was continuity of care that acknowledged the totality of the traumatic event, both physical and psychological.