The year 2020 was epic for me—not because of COVID-19, but because my health was being challenged big-time. I’d had a mastectomy in 2017, and a CT scan had revealed a tiny spot on my right lung; my surgeon ordered annual scans to track it—and two and a half years later it had doubled in size. Coincidentally, my gynecologist had been following what she’d diagnosed as fibroids; we talked about a hysterectomy, but it wasn’t urgent.

I tend to be a “cup is half-empty” person. The current situation in the world has deepened my darkness. At night, I hear the traffic from the main street outside my window. I imagine the sound of bombs heightening the noise, and I pull the quilt over my head. My heart aches for all the children, no matter their background, who are suffering—personal injury, loss of relatives, the trauma of separation and the unknown. With each passing day and each new “breaking news” announcement, my despair intensifies.

Dear Pulse readers,

It was December. I was three months into my first year of medical school, and I wasn’t feeling right. I’d been incredibly thirsty for the past few weeks and been peeing an awful lot.

When I finally decided to get myself checked out at the student health service, the news wasn’t good: I was told I had diabetes. Not just diabetes, but type 1 diabetes, the kind they used to call juvenile onset. My body had stopped making insulin, and I would need to start injecting it.