“Pick up the phone, Mom,” I said, dashing into the kitchen after answering our landline in the living room.
“Who is it?” she asked.
“Dunno. I can’t understand what they’re saying,” I said.
When she picked up the receiver, the caller—her father—got right to the point: “She can’t hear.”
A physician can relate to a self-harming teenager–and has the scars to prove it.
Borderlines — Joo-Inn Chew Read More »
Editor’s Note: This piece was a finalist in the Pulse writing contest, “On Being Different.”
Having stage IV cancer at twenty-one made me different from my peers.
I was already different: By the eighth grade, due to my mother’s quest for greener pastures, I’d attended twelve schools, many of them outside of the US. I was a Yankee when my family lived in Australia, but also when we lived in Florida. I was a gringa when we lived in Mexico, then in Peru. In places where English was spoken, I stood out because of my accent. In places where Spanish was spoken, although I became quite fluent, I was clearly a foreigner.
Many Shades of Different Read More »
Growing up in a small town as a high achieving oldest daughter, my understanding of scars was purely physical. Skinned knees, a few stitches, and a small crescent moon on my right forearm were my sole casualties.
Allowing Medicine to Break My Own Heart Read More »
When Mike had been sedated for a few days, I talked with his wife Sue, who shared that Mike would not have wanted to linger like this. Before being sedated, he told her that he hoped to pass within a day or two. It was troubling to Sue that he was lingering like this.
In July 2003, a few days after I had started service as inpatient attending pediatric cardiologist at Lutheran General Children’s Hospital, the neonatologists, nurses and I met with Jenni and Tony to discuss their daughter Grace’s health status.
Grace, now two and a half weeks old, had seemed normal at birth. After a few hours, her skin color had turned blue: Her oxygen level was dangerously low. She’d been whisked off to the neonatal intensive-care unit (NICU), where tests showed that her heart function was poor due to high blood pressure in her lungs. Her heart and lungs began to fail, so we’d placed her on a heart-lung machine (ECMO) for sixteen days. Now taken off the machine, she was breathing with the help of a ventilator.
Lessons From My Teachers Read More »
A student’s hijab, skin color and gender have set her apart ever since a sixth-grade classmate asked, “Where were you on 9/11?”
Too Everything to Fit In — Zainab Jimoh Read More »
My chest tightens, then relaxes, as the tears roll down her face. She gradually bares her soul, revealing the events that led her to my exam room. She may have been born to a mother whose own experience with trauma stunted her ability to be a supportive parent. She may have suffered abuse at the hands of people who were supposed to be trustworthy. Or she may have experienced the loss early on of the primary person in her life who understood her.
Ironically, I was one of the EMTs on call that night at college. It had been a frustrating day, and now I had work due but couldn’t focus on it. My on-again, off-again boyfriend had decided that he would rather date Sylvia, who was thinner and prettier than me. Sad and angry, I decided to go get a snack from the vending machine downstairs.
Editor’s Note: This piece was a finalist in the Pulse writing contest, “On Being Different.”
Most days, people don’t see my disability. I don’t generally wear a brace or use a wheelchair or even crutches.
“I would never know that you’re in constant pain,” a kind professor once said. “When I see you, you’re always smiling.”
“You don’t look sick,” friends always tell me.
I’m twenty-three. I want to be like my peers, but for me, every day is a balancing act—literally.
The Visible-Invisible Divide Read More »
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