DrB

05/18/2026

لقد أتم ختم القرآن الكريم كهدية وبركة لوالدي رحمه الله.

أسأل الله أن يكون القرآن أنيسًا له وهو بانتظار الدفن يوم الخميس إن شاء الله في فاس، المغرب.

تمت إعادة فتح الـ240 خانة من جديد.

أرجو منكم مساعدتي في أن يبقى مُرافقًا بدفء تلاوة القرآن والدعاء حتى يُوارى في قبره بإذن الله العلي

https://v0-quranforbaba-memorial-website.vercel.app/

05/14/2026

Today, I'm sharing a deeply personal episode of the AI Ready Doctor podcast, recorded *shortly before* my dad's passing.

In this conversation, I sat down with Justin, his incredible caregiver, to explore the true essence of caregiving.

This episode goes beyond medical tasks, delving into the profound human connection, dignity, and subtle observations that define exceptional care.
Justin taught me that caregiving is about presence, noticing the small changes, and making someone's day , a philosophy beautifully aligned with the "Fish Philosophy" principles of having fun, being present, and choosing your attitude .
We also discuss how AI can augment, not replace, this vital human role. Imagine AI handling the routine, allowing caregivers to focus on what truly matters: the person .

My dad's wisdom, "Never question where you are. You are right where you need to be," resonates deeply throughout this episode .

Tune in to hear a poignant story of compassion, resilience, and the evolving role of technology in supporting our loved ones.



https://youtu.be/mTIJjFtkmj4?si=z14NKvcypgz6RcI3

The AI-Ready Doctor AiReadyDoctor.com

🍏 https://podcasts.apple.com/us/podcast/the-heart-of-caregiving-humanity-in-the-age-of-ai/id1814462141?i=1000767820671

Spotify: https://open.spotify.com/episode/3WQTYoUcuB9U56MGd4UC78?si=728a93da93cd47d7

“Disclaimer: Informational only. Not medical advice. Consult your doctor for guidance.”Welcome to The AI-Ready Doctor podcast, where we normally unpack cutti...

05/14/2026

السلام عليكم ورحمة الله وبركاته

https://v0-quranforbaba-memorial-website.vercel.app/

As many of you know, our beloved father, Haj Mohammed Karimi Bencheqroun رحمه الله, is awaiting his return to Morocco for burial.

In the meantime, we created “QuranForBaba,” a collective Qur’an recitation where family, friends, students, and loved ones can each choose a ¼ Hizb to read in his memory between May 14 and May 28.

The website allows everyone to select and mark their portion so we can complete a continuous collective khatma together, wherever we are in the world.

May Allah accept from all of you and grant him الرحمة والمغفرة and the highest level of Jannah.

Link:

https://v0-quranforbaba-memorial-website.vercel.app/

جزاكم الله خيرًا 🤍

ــــــــــــــــــــــــــــــ

As-salamu alaykum,

كما يعلم الكثير منكم، فإن والدنا الحبيب الحاج محمد كريمي بنشقرون رحمه الله ينتظر نقله إلى المغرب لدفنه.

وفي هذه الفترة، أنشأنا “القرآن لبابا الحبيب”، وهي ختمة جماعية للقرآن الكريم، حيث يمكن لكل شخص اختيار ربع حزب / ربع جزء وقراءته بنية الأجر والثواب لروحه الطاهرة، وذلك من 14 مايو إلى 28 مايو.

الموقع يسمح لكل مشارك باختيار الجزء الخاص به وتأكيد إتمامه، حتى نُكمل ختمة جماعية متواصلة من مختلف أنحاء العالم.

نسأل الله أن يتقبل من الجميع، وأن يرحمه رحمة واسعة، ويغفر له، ويسكنه فسيح جناته.

الرابط:

https://v0-quranforbaba-memorial-website.vercel.app/

جزاكم الله خيرًا

Searchable Link for the Holy Kor’an
https://quran.com/

05/12/2026

What’s your favorite story or memory of our father?
Quelle est votre petite histoire drôle or sérieuse que vous vous rappelez de mon père ?
ما هي ذكرياتكم الحارة أو المازحة مع أبينا رحمة الله عليه؟

05/12/2026

05/09/2026

And just like that…my father took his last breath today.
He is in a better place.
It brings me great sadness to share this.

He was pain-free.
Breathing comfortably.
Surrounded by love.

There is a strange kind of peace in knowing someone suffered so much, yet left this world gently.

I keep replaying the stories people told me about him these past few weeks.

The nurses.
The caregivers.
The housekeeping staff.
The transporters.

Every single person had a story.

“He joked with everyone.”

“He was the sweetest patient.”

“He always thanked us.”

One of the staff members who cleaned his room told me:
“We made a deal. I told him I’d be his family here.”

That sentence reassured me. He was never alone.
Because that was my father.
He made people feel like they belonged with him and him with them.

Not through money.
Not through status.
Just through kindness.

As a physician, I have watched many families lose people they love.

Today I understood something differently.

A life is not measured by titles or achievements at the end.

It is measured by the size of the hole left behind in ordinary people’s lives.

And my father left a massive one.

That is a life well lived. I turned him over to Allah and asked him to cherish him till we’re met again. Until then, Rest In Peace Baba.

05/07/2026

Do you want to hear something funny?

I was sitting beside my father in the hospital with my laptop open, taking calls while he drifted in and out of consciousness.

Then suddenly he opened his eyes and said:
“I’ll take that smoothie you brought for me now.”

I blinked twice.

Because there was no smoothie.

I said:
“Sure, Dad. It’s on its way. Give me about 10 to 15 minutes.”

Then I jumped on my phone and panic-ordered his favorite smoothie.

Banana.
Dates.
A few extra ingredients he likes.

Twelve minutes later, I was downstairs picking it up and bringing it to him.

And honestly, that tiny moment felt bigger than half the conversations I’ve had this year.

Because just days ago, I thought he was dying.
He would wake up frightened, pointing to his throat, and mouth that he couldn’t breathe.

The fluid has been moving like cancer changing rooms in a house.

First his right chest.
Then his left.
Now his belly.

I dropped everything and rushed to the hospital while my colleagues covered my workload.

People imagine the end as alarms and chaos.
Sometimes it looks like sleepiness.

Yesterday he mouthed:
“Where is my voice?”
I told him maybe once the fluid came off and he could breathe deeply again, it might return.

At one point I sat beside him and explained things clearly.
“The carbon dioxide is supposed to leave your body, but it stays because your lungs can't get rid of it: it makes you sleepy. It’s not a painful way to go.
But there’s also a procedure we can do. A small drain in the belly. About 15 minutes. It may help you breathe deeply enough to be with us again. Do you want it?”

He said yes.

So in we went.

And today?

Drain in.
Sipping a banana-date smoothie.
Talking again.

I don’t know what “recovered” means anymore.

I just know today is a good day.

In the middle of all this, I attended a webinar by someone I deeply respect. We only know each other online. I’ve read his work for years, but it was the first time hearing him live.

During the Q&A, I introduced myself.

Before answering my question, he paused and wished my father well.

And for some reason, that impacted me more than I expected.

You spend so much time online thinking you are posting into a void.

Then suddenly you realize people you’ve never met are carrying your pain quietly with them. Praying for you. Rooting for you. Sending kindness across cities and screens.

I do believe human beings send energy into each other’s lives.

Some send hope.

Not denial.
Not fantasy.

Just enough hope to remind you humanity still has goodness left in it.

People keep asking me how I’m doing.

The only honest answer I have is:
“Numb, but aligned with my core values.”

There is something deeply human about remaining curious until the very end.

I remember a narration about a man asking the Prophet ﷺ what he should do if the Day of Judgment came while he was planting a seedling.

The answer was:
“Continue planting it.”

Today, apparently, that seedling was a banana-date smoothie.

05/05/2026

The new burnout is not doing the work. It is managing the work that the AI is doing. Healthcare is next.

AI promised to remove the boring work.

05/05/2026

I am mediterranean.
So i usually ask about "How is your appetite" and "How did you sleep" often because i think they are two of the most underrated signs of how someone is doing.
So when i walked into my father's room and found him holding his phone listening to what i recognized as my voice in one of my podcast videos, I did not know what to say as i was expecting to find him tired, sleeping, fatigued.... Not watching his phone with attention,...and an episode of my podcast at that.
So i asked "How is your appetite?".
He looked tiredly at me and asked for a "muffin".
I did a double take.
He hadn't eaten in days. "Baba...say it again?"
"muh-ffuhn".
In a soft but clear voice.
He hadn't had a voice in days because of the belly full of fluid pressing on his breathing, now finally relieved.
I have never gone after a muffin so fast for someone in my life.
and a lemon cake
and a hot chocolate to boot
(I know i know i overdo)
I did not care that some fell into his lungs (down the wrong pipe)
or that his diabetes was not happy.
I did not care that doctors and nurses disagreed with me in sending him to the hospital for a palliative procedure to remove fluid from his belly.
He's breathing better.
He feels like eating something.
If this is not quality, i don't know what is.

Today is a good day.
Don't worry. I am realistic.
but today is a good day.

05/02/2026

A mundane Saturday.

Until it was no longer Saturday.

The caregiver called to say they were having trouble waking him up.

The last few days had already been harder. More shortness of breath. More fatigue. Less time awake between the moments that still felt like him.

The nurse told me they had placed him on oxygen because his saturation was dropping. They asked whether they should give nitroglycerin for chest pain.

There it was again.

Reflexive medicine.

Not careless medicine. Not indifferent medicine. Just automatic medicine.

I didn’t blame them. They were doing her job.

But his chest pain was not cardiac. It was pleuritic pain from cancer spreading across the lining of his lungs. Nitroglycerin would lower his blood pressure.

Anti-inflammatories would lower his pain.

I thanked her and asked for those instead.

A few minutes later the charge nurse called.

“How may I help you?”

It is a sentence designed to sound respectful.

Instead it landed like a script.

Not wrong. Just empty.

Not “How are you doing?”

Not “I’m sorry you’re going through this.”

Just process.

I almost joked, “I’d like my money back.”

But sarcasm has no place at a bedside like this.

So I stayed inside the conversation.

Later I thought about all the families I have spoken to over the years.

All the small moments that accumulate when someone is already tired from grief.

How easily a family member begins to feel they are the only advocate left standing.

I explained everything again.

Then I asked them to send him to the hospital.

His abdomen had become so distended with fluid that it was pressing into his breathing.

That was no longer something to watch from a distance.

They called the ambulance.

I handed off my responsibilities and got on my way. People ask me:

“How are you feeling?”

These days I answer honestly.

“Not well. Just Numb”

Then I focus on the next step.

And move. There is sanity in action.

Folks also often say:

“I don’t know what to say.”

I understand that sentence differently now.

If I am inside this moment and cannot find words for it, how could anyone outside it do better?

On the drive to the hospital I opened the audiobook.

The one I made from the stories he had been telling my Ai program.

Stories about Kentucky,

About Sundays.

About neighbors, education and faith.

I needed to hear him again as a father.

Not as a patient.

Not as a chart.

Not as a diagnosis.

Just as himself.

Systems turn people into summaries.

Admissions.

Length of stay.

Insurance approvals.

Utilization review questions.

“Why is he not hospice yet?”

But something different is happening here.

Hospice is already present.

It just doesn’t carry the label.

Care is happening.

Comfort is happening.

Decisions are happening.

And the concierge physician delivering that care is me.

Paperwork comes second to presence.

As it should.