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Latest Voices
An Inadvertent Medical Voluntourist
When I was a young, idealistic premedical student, I inadvertently became a medical voluntourist—an often dismissive term for someone who combines vacationing with rendering short-term volunteer aid.
Picture a bright-eyed American student headed for a foreign country in the hope of contributing to saving lives. My group traveled through a jungle to get to a location that the director of this study-abroad opportunity had described as a remote village, with a patient who needed a house call. Pure excitement, angst, and joy bubbled from us throughout the trek—but nothing prepared us for what we would inadvertently do.
From Longing to Belonging
I wonder if there is anyone alive who does not suffer from a case of acute longing every now and then. I used to think that once I reached a certain age, or a certain level of maturity, or a certain financial condition, I would be rid of such feelings. I realize now that there is no such milestone. Longing does not ever retire.
I started writing poetry seriously during COVID, but my relationship with writing began much earlier. I remember writing my first poem when I was ten years old, about the sun being the biggest ball of fire:
La Oruga (The Caterpillar)
Hay que volar, hay que encontrar, su propio futuro. (You’ve got to fly, you’ve got to find your own future.) —Lin Manuel Miranda
* * * * *
Gracias, mi hija. (Thank you, my daughter.)
I struggle to stand up from my kneeling position next to my patient’s bed, touched by her choice of endearment. I’m a second-year medical student, and her kind words have a potent antianxiety effect. Realizing I’d asked her everything that I needed to, I now ask a question I’d been wanting to: Where’s your crossword puzzle? (¿Dónde está tu crucigrama?)
Read More »The Extra Mile
The test referral reads: “Hand weakness. Carpal tunnel syndrome?”
With the patient, I proceed through the history, the examination, the testing.
It soon becomes clear their condition is much worse than carpal tunnel syndrome. Instead, it is a motor neuron disease, a group of rare, progressive, neurodegenerative disorders.
The diagnosis will be unexpected. Devastating.
When Self-Righteousness Was for the Best
Some years ago, during my annual physical, my doctor suggested I change to a less expensive blood pressure medicine. I was hesitant. He suggested a 30-day trial; if I didn’t like the new drug, he said, I could switch back to my old one. I agreed.
After the 30-day trial, I wanted to return to my old prescription. I believed that I’d had better cognitive functioning on the previous medication. So I called my doctor’s office and asked for a renewal of the old prescription. I was informed that my doctor had left the practice. I was surprised by the
The Long and the Short of It
I long for the days when I didn’t need to worry about food recalls. I barely recall the time when I wasn’t concerned about them, but I now look for recalls right after my morning coffee. (Maybe I should look before.)
I long for the days when the phone rang and I’d think, “Who’s calling to say hello?” rather than, “Who’s calling to tell me who’s in the hospital?”
I long for the days when people would call and ask, “How are you?” in a light-hearted way, rather than with the tinge of gravity they use now, since my husband’s
A Life of Longings
As a little girl, I had a family of dolls. One doll was an outlier, due to my older brother’s pranks. He had cut her long blonde hair (assuring me it would grow back). He’d also used dark-colored permanent markers to highlight her eyes, cheeks, and lips. She looked absurd—almost freakish. That’s when I became familiar with the word yearning: I yearned for her to be accepted by the other dolls for who she was, not how she looked.
February More Voices: 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.
Soundtrack of a Resuscitation
Knock-knock. The thumps sounded like someone from beyond this world knocking on his chest.
I thought of Bob Dylan’s Knockin’ on Heaven’s Door.
As I pumped the heels of my hands into my patient’s gaunt chest, I hummed Stayin’ Alive to keep the rhythm of my strokes consistent.
Before I was a nursing student, I didn’t know CPR was so violent. So the first time I cracked someone’s chest in the ICU when I was a new graduate nurse, I almost stopped for a moment, surprised by the way my arms had plunged into the man’s body.
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More Visuals
Blossom After the Storm
Transitions
Searching Uselessly for Food
Supply Closet Series
The First Time I Learned About “DNR”
Etherized Pietà
To Find Comfort
Remembering My Patients
The Healing Power of Focus Stacking
