I was a medic who dealt with the casualties at Grenfell Tower. What I saw will stay with me forever

It’s been a year since the Grenfell tragedy and our “Grenfell medics” WhatsApp group still rumbles with messages; of updates from the news or doctors checking up on each other. Those messages are getting more sporadic, but nobody has left – we are bound together by a surreal and unimaginable experience.

Recently there was a spate of messages suffused with anger and shame; some of the team were upset to learn that they had “treated” fraudsters pretending to be victims: “How did we not see the signs?”

Messages of support immediately flood in – “What signs?” – and we all remind each other that we weren’t there to judge or question people in the aftermath of such a calamity; we were there to help, we were there to care. It was that sense of duty, instilled in all of us from the first day of medicine, sworn to abide by on our graduation, which brought us to Grenfell Tower on that fateful night.

I wasn’t even meant to be there. I was on annual leave, resting at home to conserve energy during the 19-hour Ramadan fasts. But like others, as soon as I saw the news of the fire unfolding, something stirred within.

I immediately called the medic contact number to offer my help but the lady reassured me there was enough support, and urged me to stay at home. I have volunteered in Iraq, Lesvos, Calais and Bangladesh, and watching the tragedy unfold in London, my home, I couldn’t sit idly. The next day I packed my medical equipment and attended as a general volunteer, resolving to offer my limbs in service when my stethoscope couldn’t be.

West London was over an hour’s drive away and unfamiliar territory. Roads were cordoned off and we were unsure of the way; it was the unmistakable smell of smoke that oriented us in the end, the remnants of a tragedy that had choked the nation. The sobering Grenfell Tower loomed over us like a tombstone, the atmosphere filled with a sense of foreboding.

After helping to pack and organise items, I happened upon the Red Cross team and asked if they needed any assistance; I was soon ushered into the medical station where a few other GPs had arrived. That night I don’t remember being hungry, or thirsty, or even opening my fast; I just remember the haunting sight of a sports hall filled with rows of empty bedding. Deep inside, I remember suppressing a gnawing realisation that those beds would never be filled.

We did what we could that night: comforted the victims, helped with pain relief, manned the station and tried to organise things for the next few days. We didn’t speak much to each other. The tragedy had drowned out any conversation.

Everything from those first few days was surreal, dream-like; it felt like we had been transported to an apocalyptic film set in West London. All those places I’d worked at abroad were visible in front of my eyes here in London: the buzz of volunteers; the different support groups; the organised chaos; the sense of sombre tragedy that underpinned all activity.

The patients we saw in those days are forever etched in my memory. I can still hear that young man coughing and spluttering, gasping for breath, his lungs poisoned from smoke inhalation. I still recall that patient who I spoke to for almost an hour, who I consoled, agreed a plan for follow-up with and who, on beginning to say goodbye, burst into tears, started shaking widely and collapsed in a fit of panic and fear.

I still remember the young lady who we found wandering in visible shock, dazed, utterly confused and unable to process what had happened.

I still remember the patients where medicines weren’t enough; where words weren’t enough; where tears escaped as we silently embraced.

Weeks on from the tragedy, patients were still attending. They were often displaced victims who had been sofa-surfing but could no longer cope with the screams from the tower that haunted them and would not let them sleep. The tragedy of Grenfell bled into my consultations, its memories punctuated my conversations, its scent interrupted summer barbecues. I found myself replaying those moments on the train to work, or in bed at night; my thoughts with the victims I’d met and the unaccounted souls that I would never meet.

Schwartz Rounds and Balint groups – psychological meetings for doctors who have witnessed traumatic things – helped. I cherished these safe spaces to unburden my emotions to sympathetic ears. But somehow my thoughts always returned to those who had survived the tragedy – how were they coping with such terrifying memories?

On my last shift at the Westway, I remember noticing that the smell of smoke had finally dissipated; it was the remarkable display of humanity and compassion that lingered on. Despite everything I saw, it was this indomitable spirit of selflessness that I remember most fervently. With pride, I recall the amazing response of London to such a tragedy; the response of those who had nothing to give but willingness and compassion; the response of people of all ages, all colours, all religions working hand in hand for a greater cause; the response of some whose stomachs were empty but whose hearts were full.

One year after tragedy struck, it is these memories that persevere above all others, and which I cherish most; memories that mercifully have been untainted by investigations or inquiries or the passage of time. One year on, what do I really remember? How London demonstrated its remarkable human capacity to care for others in need – and that humanity can triumph over tragedy.

Dr Mohammedabbas Khaki is a GP working in north London. He has volunteered in the UK, Iraq, Lesvos, the Calais Refugee Camp, and most recently in the Rohingya refuge crisis in Bangladesh. He tweets @doctormakk