New Voices

Editor’s Note: This piece was awarded an honorable mention in the Pulse writing contest, “On Being Different.”

The whir of a drill. Loud smacks from a hammer. Tools scrape and scratch the floor as they’re shuffled across it.

To you, these may seem like the sounds of nondescript carpentry work; maybe a remodel happening in a neighboring apartment. But as I sit at my desk in my medical school’s laboratory, listening to that carpentry symphony two lab benches away, I hear the sounds of inclusion.

Editor’s Note: This piece was a finalist in the Pulse writing contest, “On Being Different.”

I was a third-year medical student, anxiously waiting for our morning conference to begin and quickly reviewing the questions that might be asked.

I had stepped into the conference room full of residents a few minutes prior, timidly asking if this was the correct location. An attending physician I’d met only once confirmed that I was in the right place and directed me to the front row of seats. As I sat down, I realized that I was the only medical student present. Fighting the urge to bolt from the room, I pulled out my mini notebook.

Editor’s Note: This piece was a finalist in the Pulse writing contest, “On Being Different.”

“Our next one is a new patient who’s here to establish care,” said my family-medicine preceptor, perusing the patient’s chart.

Great, I thought. Seems like this visit will be pretty simple.

My preceptor entered the exam room, and I nonchalantly followed. Then I locked eyes with the patient—a short, middle-aged woman with bronzed skin and a teal-colored headwrap: a hijab.

I came to the US ten years ago, barely sixteen years old, with no family or friends here. I saw myself as a lone traveler—an immigrant woman on a journey to the American Dream. I now realize that, along the way, I was also reaching out to others who could help me adapt, acculturate and navigate this new terrain.

I was born and raised in Nigeria, one of a family of eight.

Maybe I can adopt her?

This thought awakened me from my sleep. Earlier in the day, I had treated a little girl, Carla, who was brave enough to tell me about the horrible abuse and neglect she’d suffered, and whose skin and bones were ravaged with injuries that silently told the same traumatic story. Recalling these details, which I had carefully documented, I understood that I’d fulfilled my professional role, but wondered if I could do more.

Dear Pulse readers,

I remember when my late mentor Deb Taylor (now a guardian angel) introduced me to Pulse during my family medicine residency. She led a reflective exercise on “Something that surprised you.” I wrote about a fetal demise case where, for the first time, I saw an attending physician showing vulnerability.

Soon after that, Deb called me into her office, showed me the Pulse website and explained that Pulse was an online magazine where people shared their personal stories about health care. She encouraged me to develop my reflective piece and submit it for possible publication.

I was hesitant at first.