Curled on a gurney beneath the fluorescent glare of the hospital room lights, a girl no more than eight clutched a stuffed giraffe. Her small frame, the slight downward tilt of her eyes, and her delicate jaw and thin upper lip were the visible signs of fetal alcohol syndrome.
This was Elle, whom I encountered as a medical student during an emergency-medicine rotation.
A Different Kind of Emergency Read More »
Her doctors don’t believe that this teenager’s intense pelvic pain is real.
My Invisible Illness Read More »
I began my nursing career in 1975 at a hospital in New York City. I was a young woman from a small city in upstate New York, eager to grow professionally and also to broaden my worldview. Although I later relocated to advance my education, the experience of living and working in New York City changed my life in countless, positive ways. It was a great honor to volunteer after September 11th, as a way to give back to this wonderful city.
Fifty Years Later: A Revolution in Nursing Read More »
A long day makes me want to get home, and I’ll have
to explain, again, why I’m late to pick up the kids. The merge
onto the Expressway slows. At least the drivers stay patient,
taking turns. We keep stuttering forward until I see the cause
of our delay–two cars against the median, front and sides
crumpled metal. Next to them sits a white, windowless van.
I was born and raised in the city of Hebron in the West Bank, the part of historic Palestine that is governed by the Palestinian Authority. I recently graduated from Hebron University School of Medicine, established in 2019. Here is a brief description of what it’s been like to study medicine here over the past six years.
To many, the existence of a medical school in Hebron comes as a surprise. Yet, under the shadow of military occupation and adversity, our education continues—demanding, unyielding and intimately tied to the realities that shape our lives.
Dialyzing in a War Zone Read More »
I recently accepted an opportunity to work in a new clinical setting. I now spend one day a week at a harm reduction site that serves people who are currently using or have used drugs within the past 12 months.
To my surprise, I’d passed by the nondescript brick building housing the site countless times. Clients come in to a room known as the “exchange”—a large space where they can make a cup of coffee or a bowl of oatmeal, grab some snacks, trade used needles or pipes for clean ones, or pick up a hygiene kit or a new T-shirt. Social workers make the rounds to assist folks with these tasks; as the clinician, I meander and chat with the clients, introducing myself as a doctor and offering to help them with any medical questions.
It’s dark outside. I get out of the car and rush into the emergency department. I’m a fourth-year medical student, and this is my last shift here.
I walk in, place my coffee on the table—dangerously close to the keyboard—and open up the electronic medical record. I’m surprised to see that there isn’t much going on. Just one new patient—a woman with some back pain.
Great, another lumbar pain–probably muscle strain, I think. I’ll give her some acetaminophen and a lidocaine patch. That ought to do the trick. It usually does.
What’s it like to be nonbinary and pay a visit to the doctor?
Treasuring Our Differences Read More »
“Wait here,” Dr. X said. “Someone will come and set up your next appointment and give you a copy of your lab results.” So I sat down on one of the plastic chairs, took my Kindle out of my purse, and waited and waited in the exam room. The staff must be busy, I thought.
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