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New Voices
A Different Kind of Different
Editor’s Note: This piece was a finalist in the Pulse writing contest, “On Being Different.”
Every parent likes to think their child is one in a million. What if you’re the parent of an individual who is more like one in 326 million?
Society in general has started to be more cognizant of disabilities—some disabilities more than others. For instance, Down syndrome awareness and acceptance has excelled in the past several years, and schools have made efforts to teach inclusion and acceptance of students with special needs.
Unasked, Unanswered
“Hi! I’m Reni, the medical student here today,” I say to the cargo pant-clad teenager sitting hunched on the exam table. “My pronouns are she/her. What are your name and pronouns?”
My smooth delivery is only somewhat ruined by my almost falling off the stool as I try to sit down hands-free. I look up once I’m less precariously perched, awaiting a reply.
“Oh, I’m Sam,” they shrug. “And any are fine.”
Going It Alone
Editor’s Note: This piece was a finalist in the Pulse writing contest, “On Being Different.”
Loneliness can creep up on you like a phantom, slipping its cold hand into yours and offering companionship that is both depressing and alluring—particularly when, looking around, you see nobody else whose face mirrors your own.
It was my first day of residency at a top pediatric program in Boston—a predominantly white program catering to a predominantly white patient population in a predominantly white city.
Scanning the room, I realized that, for the next three years, I would be the only Black person among some thirty-five residents.
“Hey, Uce”
I’ll never forget my shadowing experience in the emergency department during my first year of medical school.
Scanning that morning’s list of patients, I saw a last name that made me do a double-take. A distinctly Samoan name: Mr. Fuaga.
My father’s side of the family came to the States from Samoa before I was born, and I grew up curious about Polynesian culture. My father always taught me to seek out fellow Pacific Islanders in whatever path I pursued, no matter how few of us there might be.
Kindness in the Face of Loss
Editor’s Note: This piece was awarded an honorable mention in the Pulse writing contest, “On Being Different.”
I’ve just received a call from a hospital: An urgent appointment at its fetal-medicine unit has been arranged for me for tomorrow.
I try to get all the critical information.
“Which hospital did you say?” I ask. The medical secretary repeats the name, sounding a little surprised. I haven’t heard of this hospital; but then, I haven’t really heard of any, except for our local one.
Treasuring Our Differences
Editor’s Note: This piece was awarded an honorable mention in the Pulse writing contest, “On Being Different.”
I dread visits to the gynecologist. Even though I’m a healthcare professional myself—studying to become a physician assistant after years as a clinical-research coordinator—I struggle with the prospect of the impending visit on a deeply personal level.
The crinkly gown, the pressure of the cold speculum and the pinch of the tiny brush that scrapes the cervix. A pap smear was bad enough when I identified as a woman—but as a nonbinary person with gender dysphoria, these visits act as a reminder that I was born into a body I don’t identify with, and I find visits to my gynecologist unbearable.
One Person at a Time
Editor’s Note: This piece was awarded an honorable mention in the Pulse writing contest, “On Being Different.”
By medical-student standards, I’m old.
While it’s increasingly common for applicants to take one, two or even three gap years between college and medical school (usually to do research or engage in an activity to be featured in their application), taking ten years off, as I did, is unusual. I fondly refer to this hiatus as my “gap decade.”
Small but Mighty
Editor’s Note: This piece was awarded an honorable mention in the Pulse writing contest, “On Being Different.”
I was born with what was described as a “mild” case of achondroplasia, a genetic condition that affects bone growth and causes short stature.
The average height of an adult female with achondroplasia is 4 feet 1 inch; I am 4 feet 5 inches tall. I do not have some of the “characteristic” facial features such as a prominent forehead or flattened nasal bridge. The average person remains unaware of my condition until I stand up.
This condition does not run in my family.
When Is the Right Time?
Stephanie passed away this morning.
In an email from her husband, Frank, I learned that I’d lost my dear friend of two decades.
Stephanie was only forty-two. An administrator at a local bank, she was also a devoted wife and the loving mother of three daughters.