My chest tightens, then relaxes, as the tears roll down her face. She gradually bares her soul, revealing the events that led her to my exam room. She may have been born to a mother whose own experience with trauma stunted her ability to be a supportive parent. She may have suffered abuse at the hands of people who were supposed to be trustworthy. Or she may have experienced the loss early on of the primary person in her life who understood her.
Ironically, I was one of the EMTs on call that night at college. It had been a frustrating day, and now I had work due but couldn’t focus on it. My on-again, off-again boyfriend had decided that he would rather date Sylvia, who was thinner and prettier than me. Sad and angry, I decided to go get a snack from the vending machine downstairs.
Editor’s Note: This piece was a finalist in the Pulse writing contest, “On Being Different.”
Most days, people don’t see my disability. I don’t generally wear a brace or use a wheelchair or even crutches.
“I would never know that you’re in constant pain,” a kind professor once said. “When I see you, you’re always smiling.”
“You don’t look sick,” friends always tell me.
I’m twenty-three. I want to be like my peers, but for me, every day is a balancing act—literally.
The Visible-Invisible Divide Read More »
I remember the first time I saw the long, scraggly line on top of my forearm. “It looks great,” I lied. The dermatology resident sat across from me, having just uncovered the wound left by his first surgery. As we both stared at it, I was remembering the roomful of people who’d surrounded my gurney, scrutinizing every move he made as he excised my skin cancer. I had felt sorry for him at the time. It was too big an audience for his first excision. So I was determined to be kind now.
It’s Not What You Think Read More »
Her idea of a date is splitting
a six-pack with her husband
Friday nights while milking the cows,
still weary from her day job.
Swollen udders demand attention
twice daily regardless
of her daughter’s ball games,
her mother’s terminal cancer.
An eight-year-old granddaughter helps her Chinese grandfather deflect a doctor’s nosy questions.
Truth in Translation — N.Y. (Nora) Sun Read More »
Now, whenever I trace my finger over my forehead scar, I time travel three thousand miles away—not to Dr. G’s small-town office or even to that dirt road where I split a part of my forehead open.
What the Eye Cannot See Read More »
I hadn’t seen you since I told you of your breast cancer. Because you didn’t want to live with the threat of a recurrence, you decided to go for the big surgery, a double mastectomy. We talked a bit about that experience, how you coped during the surgery and recovery, how supportive your husband was, how you felt ready to move on.
Stories Beneath the Scars Read More »
“How long have you had these symptoms?”
Dr. Quantrell’s tone was kind and inquisitive, but with the CT scan on the computer between us displaying a two-centimeter kidney stone, I couldn’t help hearing: How long have you been ignoring this problem?
Much has been written about the experience of doctor as patient. Like many of my colleagues before me, I’d fallen into the trap of trying to diagnose myself before calling my family physician.
“How Long Have You Had These Symptoms, Doctor?” Read More »
A medical student sees something in the OR–and wishes he could speak up.
Stigmata — Kevin Koo Read More »
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