A few days after I’d rotated off the adolescent ward at the university hospital where I was a second-year pediatric resident, I stopped in at Billy’s room to see how he was doing. He was pale, with a few fresh bruises below the sleeves of his hospital gown, but his big brown eyes brightened when he saw me.
“Where’ve you been?” he asked.
“She had to go to work on another ward,” his mom said, rubbing his forearm gently. “I told you that, remember?”
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.
Treasuring Our Differences Read More »
The diagnosis is here
I knew it was coming
But did not think it would arrive this soon
“You’re very young to have it” the doctor said
My bones brittle, already
At age 50
I feel fragile
Doctor Becomes Patient Read More »
It’s time for our last psychiatric patient of the day in rural Florida. It’s 4:00 p.m., and by now the cows have been fed and the crops have been harvested.
Suddenly, there was a heavy tapping at the door and a swift shuffling of feet. A loud voice erupted, “Doc, I gotta talk to you!”
The Bipolar Butterfly Read More »
Editor’s Note: This piece was a finalist in the Pulse writing contest, “On Being Different.”
When I was diagnosed with breast cancer, my doctor, Dr. Thompson, who looks like the comedian Norm MacDonald and tells smart-ass jokes and likes to draw stick-figure breasts on a whiteboard to show surgical options, asked, “Do you have a family history of breast cancer?”
He had already drawn a series of disembodied breasts before he asked this. The breasts were squared off, with Lego nipples—nothing Victoria’s Secret-ish, nothing human.
A Family History of X Read More »
I learned it takes a sense of humor to survive a hospital stay. Lined up on gurneys, flat on our backs, the three of us wait to be put through our paces on some testing machine or other. Riffing off each other, I say aloud that I feel as if I’m in a used car lot. A second person says they want our parts. The third says, “Parts, I ain’t got no parts.”
Checking Out, Going Home Read More »
Editor’s Note: This piece was a finalist in the Pulse writing contest, “On Being Different.”
Throughout my pediatrics clerkship as a third-year medical student, I resisted the urge to say “sha.”
“Sha,” as in “Sha baby,” “Oh sha,” or “Come here, sha.” “Sha,” a term of endearment, an instinctive utterance at the sight of something cute—for example, all of my patients in the newborn nursery. “Sha,” a word from Acadiana, a word that only people from Acadiana use.
A Little Bit of Lagniappe Read More »
Forty-four years ago, my husband changed jobs and I followed him—moving from a major university on the East Coast to the Coronary Care Unit (CCU) at a small community hospital in the Midwest.
Patients admitted with chest pain spent at least three days with us to see if their cardiac enzymes rose, indicating a heart muscle injury. Oxygen, morphine, antiarrhythmic medications, and defibrillators were our best friends. The nurse-to-patient ratio was about 1:3, and as we monitored our patients’ every heartbeat, we had time to also listen to their concerns and talk with their families.
Years ago, I had a bedridden patient—Mr. T—with extremely advanced Parkinson’s disease.
He was Caucasian, and the nurses warned me that he harbored extreme nationalist tendencies. Most of the caregivers in his nursing home were female and either immigrants from Africa or Black Americans. He was utterly cruel in his treatment of them. When they’d help transfer him from his bed to a wheelchair, for example, he tried to kick or punch them and issued a stream of profanities. His use of the B-word and the N-word was commonplace.
An Anti-Racism Pill? Read More »
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