Chameleon
At age five, on her first day of kindergarden, the author was asked, “Are you Black or white?”
June 2024
Myrtle Beach
Babies are not made of plastic.
In both their distribution of mass and their texture, the feel is utterly different. Babies are warm and soft and plump and pink. Their heads are bowling balls.
New mothers are uncomfortably aware of this fact, as I’ve observed many times in my role as a pediatrician.
Life and Death in My Hands
My hands that are so accustomed to resting on the wrinkled skin of my aging patients, often in the last moments of their lives, have once again become restless in these times. I reach for a hand, only to remember with a start that we live in a sterile world now. There was a respite, a few bright months here and there where my patients’ confused minds clouded by Alzheimer’s could see my whole face. They met me for the first time over and over again, always recognizing the humanity of my smile.
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Stand Your Ground
I was too damn polite. Blame my Midwestern upbringing that hardwired me with nice girl, don’t be pushy settings.
I was too deferential, cautious about antagonizing the mental health professionals I needed as allies. I worried that I’d come across as presumptuous, as difficult if I suggested that I—without benefit of their training, clinical experience, or certifications—saw something they were missing.
A Different Shade of Black
Ask any medical student what makes them unique among their peers, and you’ll almost certainly be treated to a two-minute answer that’s been rehearsed in countless mock interviews and essays as part of their preparations for residency applications.
It’s ingrained in the collective medical-student brain that to be recognized, we must stand out–constantly looking for opportunities to demonstrate our unparalleled competence.
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Stalemate
Once I looked forward to his visits, but years later I dreaded them. My change of heart began after he was laid off from his janitorial position. He worked diligently, applying desperately for jobs, but the economy was slow, and no one was hiring. The stress of not being able to make ends meet was crushing. His blood pressure rose, and he grew angry and depressed.
Never Read Your AVN*
An early morning Zoom class, “Dealing with the Inner Critic,” to return my brain to a poetic rather than medical mode. I have several projects simmering, some raw, others partly cooked, but none completely finished, ready for consumption.
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The Battle of Britain
It was winter, and I’d been seeing Raymond in his home for occupational therapy for more than a month. The home health agency physician’s orders had been to evaluate and treat him for home safety, and I was working closely with the nurse and social worker from the same agency.
Unfortunately, the social worker and the nurse were at odds over the need for Raymond to move into a nursing home.
The facts were stacked against him.
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A Weird Fit for Medicine
Front-page headlines can leave a queer physician feeling alone…
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Small but Mighty
Editor’s Note: This piece was awarded an honorable mention in the Pulse writing contest, “On Being Different.”
I was born with what was described as a “mild” case of achondroplasia, a genetic condition that affects bone growth and causes short stature.
The average height of an adult female with achondroplasia is 4 feet 1 inch; I am 4 feet 5 inches tall. I do not have some of the “characteristic” facial features such as a prominent forehead or flattened nasal bridge. The average person remains unaware of my condition until I stand up.
This condition does not run in my family.
