fostering the humanistic practice of medicine publishing personal accounts of illness and healing encouraging health care advocacy

Gift Pulse
Energize
Subscribe
Facebook Instagram Linkedin Bluesky

Paul Gross

Avatar photo

March More Voices: Motor-Vehicle Accidents

1 Comment / Motor Vehicle Accidents /

Dear readers,

I grew up in New York and have lived and worked in and around the city my entire life. Some news outlets and politicians like to paint big cities with a broad, scary brush, so that many people think that New York subways are a dangerous way to travel, akin to taking your life in your hands.

Statistics prove that there are far more dangerous ways to travel, and that’s been my lived experience, which is this:

I can name five relatives, all under twenty-five, who were killed in motor-vehicle accidents.

March More Voices: Motor-Vehicle Accidents Read More »

February More Voices: Longing

1 Comment / Longing /

Dear readers,

I think it was a Unitarian minister who introduced me to the idea that anger is generally a response to a wound. That truth is viscerally apparent to me every time I straighten up and bonk my head on a corner kitchen cabinet. Ouch! My fury at the cabinet is something to behold.

It’s often easier to express rage than it is to express its underlying vulnerability–like hurt or yearning.

February More Voices: Longing Read More »

January More Voices: Nursing

3 Comments / Nursing /

Dear readers,

When I was thirty years old and in my first year of medical school, I came down with symptoms–extreme thirst and frequent urination–that turned out to be type 1 diabetes, formerly known as juvenile onset. My body wasn’t producing any insulin, and I was hospitalized.

During my five-day stay, I had to make some adjustments and learn a few things. The biggest adjustment was this: I had to accept that without insulin injections, I would die and that unless I controlled my blood sugar well, I could suffer all kinds of serious complications from diabetes–and then die.

The people who eased my way into this new life were nurses.

January More Voices: Nursing Read More »

December More Voices: House Calls and Home Care

Leave a Comment / House Calls and Home Care /

Dear readers,

I can recall my pediatrician, Dr. Stone, making a house call when I was about five and sick with a fever. I was lying in my parent’s bed–a special treat. Dr. Stone, a kindly, balding man, entered the room wearing a coat and carrying a black bag. In the office, seated at his desk, he did not seem to be a big man, but in this apartment bedroom he became a looming presence.

He took off his coat and examined me as I lay there. I don’t know what he found–I’m guessing not much other than a high temperature–or what he prescribed. In any event, I got better, so from that perspective, the house call was a great success. His visit also reinforced our life-affirming belief that Dr. Stone really cared about us.

December More Voices: House Calls and Home Care Read More »

November More Voices: Chronic Pain

2 Comments / Chronic Pain /

Dear readers,

If I had to start my medical career from scratch, I’d devote more time to studying chronic pain. Specifically, I’d want to arm myself with more and better tools for alleviating it.

Over the years, I had many patients with chronic pain, and my success at treating them was spotty. Pain relievers were helpful–sometimes. Physical therapy and acupuncture were helpful–sometimes. A pain-management referral was helpful–sometimes. A conversation about past emotional traumas was helpful–sometimes.

But there were patients whom nothing seemed to help.

November More Voices: Chronic Pain Read More »

October More Voices: Disability

1 Comment / Disability /

Dear readers,

When I think of a disability, the image that pops into my head is that of Christopher Reeve, the sturdy, handsome, good-humored actor who played Superman in the movies and then suffered a horseback-riding accident that left him paralyzed from the neck down.

His story is a reminder of how fragile and uncertain health is, and how it can collapse under us at any moment–no matter how gifted or strong, handsome or fortunate we may be.

During my medical career I took care of many people who were disabled, although most of these disabilities didn’t involve wheelchairs or crutches.

October More Voices: Disability Read More »

September More Voices: The Exam Room

Leave a Comment / The Exam Room /

Dear readers,

When I think of an exam room, I picture the spaces I worked in during my thirty-three years as a family doctor. I picture walking into a cramped room whose stark surfaces and bare walls offered little warmth or hint of comfort. I imagine the major piece of furniture, an exam table, covered with a white paper that audibly crinkles at the slightest touch.

I picture the guest of honor, my patient–who surely does not feel like a guest of honor in these surroundings. They’ve been waiting for ten, twenty or thirty minutes–and sometimes longer–for my knock and my entrance.

September More Voices: The Exam Room Read More »

August More Voices: Awaiting a Diagnosis

Leave a Comment / Awaiting a Diagnosis /

Dear readers,

It was autumn, and I had just started medical school at the advanced age of thirty. I’d always been in good health, so when my symptoms first appeared, I was sure they couldn’t be anything serious.

The first hint of a problem came in the middle of a seminar, when I had to leave the room to urinate. It struck me as a little odd. The next time the seminar met, I used the bathroom beforehand, just to be on the safe side, but it didn’t help. Halfway through I had to excuse myself again.

Hunh.

August More Voices: Awaiting a Diagnosis Read More »

July More Voices: Loss

1 Comment / Loss /

“I’m a fool,” Jack Kerouac writes in Visions of Cody, “the new day rises on the world and on my foolish life: I’m a fool, I loved the blue dawns over racetracks and made a bet Ioway was sweet like its name, my heart went out to lonely sounds in the misty springtime night of wild sweet America in her powers, the wetness on the wire fence bugled me to belief, I stood on sandpiles with an open soul, I not only accept loss forever, I am made of loss…”

Dear readers,

Loss is a fact of life. In fact, one might argue that this life itself is a prelude to loss.

The first big loss I experienced was the death of my surrogate grandmother, Mrs. Slattery.

July More Voices: Loss Read More »

June More Voices: Hospitalized

Leave a Comment / Hospitalized /

Dear readers,

I was just a few months into my first year of medical school when I got sick–feeling crummy, drinking glass after glass of water or orange juice, and peeing a lot. I ignored these symptoms for as long as I could, but finally had to admit that something was wrong and made my way to our student health service, where, on a Friday afternoon, I was given the diagnosis of diabetes and sent home, unmedicated.

The following Monday I was seen by an internist who quickly realized that, despite my age–thirty–I had juvenile-onset (type 1) diabetes. My pancreas was no longer producing the insulin my body needed. That meant that I would need to inject insulin. Forever.

June More Voices: Hospitalized Read More »

May More Voices: Immigrants

Leave a Comment / Immigrants /

Dear readers,

I am the son of immigrants. My mother lived through the Nazi occupation of Belgium and came to the US after World War II.

My father left Cuba in the 1930s. He was active in a pro-democracy group, and when Batista’s secret police came looking for him, he decided that if he wanted to live, he needed to leave.

They both had accents, each one different. Because of what they’d experienced up close, they were both committed to democracy and fiercely proud of their adopted country.

As a family physician in the Bronx, when I looked at many of my patients, I saw my abuela or abuelo–my dad’s parents, who immigrated to the US too late in their lives to learn English or ever feel quite at home here.

May More Voices: Immigrants Read More »

April More Voices: Diversity

3 Comments / Diversity /

Dear readers,

I grew up in a segregated neighborhood–not in Alabama or Mississippi, but in New York City. Stuyvesant Town, a coveted Manhattan location where I spent my youth, was built for veterans–white veterans–after World War II. It did not offer apartments to Black families until the mid-1960s.

When I was a boy, the area below Fourteenth Street, now the desirable East Village, was home to recent immigrants from Puerto Rico. Friends of my parents shook their heads when discussing that community and “those people,” who I grew leery of.

April More Voices: Diversity Read More »

Start typing and press enter to search

Scroll to Top

Subscribe to Pulse.

It's free.

Facebook Instagram Linkedin Bluesky