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New Voices
Too Everything to Fit In
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.
My Superpower
When I was six years old, my parents and I learned that I have type 1 diabetes.
As I grew up, revealing my diagnosis felt awkward and burdensome. Whenever I was in a public place and checked my blood sugar by pricking my finger, I often had to explain my illness to others, which led to unwelcome questions. To avoid this, I developed a habit of mentioning my disease swiftly, as if pulling off a Band-Aid.
My American Dream
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.
The Toll of Caring
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.
Imposter Syndrome
According to a 2020 study, up to 82 percent of people experience imposter syndrome at some point in their lives. For some, the experience is fleeting; for others, it may hover in the background for a long time without ever being identified. That was the case with me.
Not many girls living in Pakistan get the opportunity to chase their ambitions as I have done. I was fortunate that my parents were more progressive than many: They always emphasized the importance of a woman’s financial independence and made sure I embraced every learning opportunity. When I decided to pursue medicine, though, they were hesitant, knowing that it would be a long, bumpy road.
A Few Words from Pulse’s New New Voices Editor
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.
Another GSW
Flashback to a year ago: I’m a third-year medical student, three weeks into my very first clinical rotation—acute-care surgery at our county hospital.
It’s nearing dinner time, less than halfway through my twenty-eight-hour call shift, when my pager buzzes, alerting me to an incoming trauma. Looking down, I read three letters: “GSW.”
My Pen Is Mightier
After 9/11, I waited for The Moment.
I was only six when the Twin Towers fell, but even then I understood that being Muslim in America was going to be difficult. I imagined that a teacher would burst into my elementary-school class, point at me and scream, “Get out of this country, you terrorist!” I feared that my friends would look at me, wide-eyed, and never speak to me again.
Double Take
Sauntering into the dark hospital room, I was dazzled by my patient’s radiant smile. It spanned her face and crinkled her eyes; her crooked teeth peeked through her lips, making her seem approachable and kind.
“Hi, Ms. Radha, I’m a third-year medical student,” I said. “Is this an okay time to chat? I’m here on behalf of the psychiatry department.”