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Latest Voices
Saved by the Bell . . . of My Stethoscope
One fine spring day, I strolled out of the hospital, heading from the ER to the clinic building—wearing my white coat, with my stethoscope draped around my neck, surrounded by residents and students, chatting happily about the weather and sports. It was a wonderfully ordinary moment. Suddenly, I found myself knocked to the ground and my stethoscope broken—the bell separated from the aquamarine tubing—unable to fathom what had just occurred. A golf ball trickled by me, rolling toward the curb.
When Milestones Fall Short
His chart read like a list of losses: no speech, no eye contact, hand flapping, no interest in others. By age five, milestones expected years earlier had not been achieved.
His dad told me a different story: “He’s shy. He’ll catch up. Some kids just take longer.” He smiled as he spoke, but his eyes gave him away. His denial wasn’t ignorance—it was love that refused to let go of hope and that braced against fear.
Meanwhile, the baby brother babbled and waved. He cried when I checked his ears, burying himself against his father’s chest. Across the room, the
A Tall Tale
No physician would diagnose me with a disability. That label comes from within myself; it has been with me since I was age twelve and reached my adult height of 5’8”. I felt like a physical outsider—a Brobdingnag in a world of Lilliputians. Walking through the halls of junior high and then high school, I adopted the turtle trudge—head buried in my shoulders to try to take inches off my height. All I succeeded in doing was ruining my posture and causing my neck to constantly ache.
October More Voices: 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.
Fifty Years Later: A Revolution in Nursing
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.
A True Exam Room
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
Stranded
“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.
The White Socks
No, that title is not a misspelling of Chicago’s baseball team, the White Sox, but the germ of an idea that started with literal white socks. When I was a teenager, kids could be critical. Heaven forbid if you wore white socks with blue slacks, like blue jeans. Oh, the horror!
Thankfully, time marched on, and recently I was sitting in an exam room with my husband, wearing blue slacks and white socks. A health-care professional walked in, and she was wearing blue scrubs and white socks. That exam room visit led to a hospital stay for my husband. As
Naked and Seething
I should have paid attention to Red Flag Number One, which was having to provide my insurance information four times. Twice is normal—once when making the appointment and again when you show up for it. Four times is excessive; that was my first clue.
I also blew past Red Flag Number Two, which was the most dark, dismal, uncomfortable waiting room I’d visited in years. Patients were crammed into uncomfortable chairs with little to no space between them. Everyone in the room looked stressed and unhappy.
