A Daughter of Vietnamese Refugees
Editor’s Note: This piece was a finalist in the Pulse writing contest, “On Being Different.”
I am a daughter of Vietnamese refugees.
I wear my identity so proudly that I often reflexively lead with this when, as a medical student, I’m introduced to colleagues, professors and supervisors. It is my response when asked, “How will you contribute to diversity?”
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Finding Words
I moved through my work with steady precision. One hundred and eighty-three scripts accomplished, one technician and I, alone on a Saturday. This, plus the order needed to be put away. And the phone kept ringing. And there was a steady stream of questions and counseling on how to use medications correctly.
The Sturgeon
Kind eyes, and a fragile body like a reed
Barely just a presence on the room, as if almost fading
Already into the twilight
Under gentle, careful hands
His body unveils its story with its familiar tells.
The slender wrists, childlike, beneath pitted skin.
Deeply scooped recess above collarbones.
A subtle, solid wedge of liver,
Looming ominously below ribcage.
A Day in the Life of a Psychiatrically Hospitalized Clinician
I am a licensed clinical social worker. And, occasionally, a mental patient. Today, in this inpatient psychiatric unit, I am more a patient than a social worker.
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The Times They Are A-Changin’
In the tiny town where I grew up, we had two pharmacies. Both pharmacists knew you, your family, and what your general medical needs were. If your car wasn’t available—common in those one-car-per-family days—they would run your medicine out to your house at their first opportunity. In an emergency, they would open the pharmacy at night.
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A Life-Sustaining Oasis
The interns and even the pharmacists come and go, but all of them quickly learn to recognize me, since I spend a lot of time at the pharmacy. That is because my prescriptions are never ready to be refilled at the same time. However, I don’t mind what others may see as an inconvenience. It does not bother me to stand in a long line, waiting for my turn.
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May More Voices: At the Pharmacy
Dear Readers,
When I was a first-year medical student, I was diagnosed with type 1 diabetes–and soon found myself a frequent visitor at a mom-and-pop Bronx pharmacy just a block from the medical school.
Kind and efficient Mr. Tepper, the pharmacist, dispensed my insulin, my syringes and my glucose test strips. As I made the rude transition from excellent health to chronic illness, it softened the blow that the man handing me my lifesaving supplies knew my name, was aware of my sad tale and made sure that I didn’t run out of anything.
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Hot Water Cures (Almost) Everything
Editor’s Note: This piece was a finalist in the Pulse writing contest, “On Being Different.”
If, like my parents, you had immigrated across the world to America with only $200 to your name, feeling hesitant to speak whenever you needed something for fear of people doubting your intellect, you might develop a certain degree of wary self-reliance.
My parents have had to fight for everything they’ve achieved here, including voices that would be heeded despite their accents, and equal treatment despite looking different.
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The Golden Hour
It is autumn in Melbourne. The nights are cool, but the late afternoon holds the glowing sun in the cup of its hand before it sinks behind the rippled sea. This is my favorite time of day—the hour or so before the sun sets, when I walk home under a golden canopy of giant plane trees and watch the sky prepare for night.
Scars and Screams
When I think of scars, my mind drifts back to my rotation in the Burn Unit as an intern in Mumbai, India. We were conducting trials on the use of a plant-based calendula gel on burn dressings. As an intern, I would attend to each patient throughout my entire twelve-hour shift. My patients were young women, some even younger than myself at the time, usually between the ages of eighteen and twenty-five, all victims of burns.