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Clean. Dry. Intact.
The bus is crowded today, and January sleet splashes against the windows. The damp of each of us thickens the air. I breathe in a miasma of germs and others’ breath. My scarf wets my face as the snow melts. An eternity goes by before we reach the downtown stop. From here, I’ll take one more bus to get to the hospital where I work as a physician assistant on a team that treats infections involving blood vessels and the heart. I’m huddled an appropriate distance from the other commuters, my back to the wind.
Tourette Syndrome
Editor’s Note: This piece was a finalist in the Pulse writing contest, “On Being Different.” “Hello. My name is Joan, and I have Tourette syndrome.” This is my fantasy greeting when meeting people. It would give them notice that there’s something different about me—that I have a chronic neurological condition. It would alert them that I might make repetitive, annoying sounds, like clearing my throat or sniffing; or suddenly make a strange body movement, like flinging out my arm or jerking my head or shuddering. Not to mention the unexpected outbursts of irrational anger.
The Art of Listening
Reflecting on the start of my medical studies and career, I realize that it took me more than ten years to refine my ability to practice the art of listening. Partly that may have been because English is not my mother tongue; but it was also because listening is an arduous task. As Kate Murphy writes in her book You’re Not Listening: What You’re Missing & Why It Matters: “Understanding is the goal of listening, and it takes effort.” My first hard lesson in this area occurred when I was a medical student, doing research at a needle-exchange program. A patient named Haris had been screened for HIV, and his test result was positive. He was the first patient to whom I had to give such bad news.
Bread and Butter
Shattering the relative peace of an early Sunday morning, a chorus of assorted ringtones echoes through the emergency department where I work as an attending physician. The noise is a heads-up from an incoming ambulance, directed to the ED staff members’ portable phones. I sigh and set down the cup of cafeteria coffee I’d been enjoying: The pace of the day is about to pick up. I unclip my phone from the waistband of my scrub pants. Sitting next to me, Ben, the senior resident, grabs his phone from the pocket of his fleece vest.
Bea and Me
Editor’s Note: This piece was a finalist in the Pulse writing contest, “On Being Different.” On the night Bea’s chest pain began—when the heaviness like a fist took her breath away, the beads of sweat gathering on her forehead—it frightened her, as it did not stop. She was alone, and as she reached for the phone, she paused. Who should she call? The pain increased. She reluctantly dialed 911. She mumbled the answers to the operator and remembered to open her door before collapsing on the couch.
The Wonder of Knees
June 2020 I’ve put it off for as long as possible because replacing a knee is major surgery, and things can go sideways fast. Infection is #1 on my doctor’s list of concerns. Blood clots are #2, and I’ve heard stories of people who had clots travel to their lungs and died before they could get to an emergency room. Pain is at the top of my list. My knee is now bone on bone, and I can’t limp all the way around a grocery store without packing it in.
How You Made Me Feel
The toughest work emails always seem to come on days when I am post-call, feeling tired and pensive. This particular email came from Patient and Guest Relations at the urban hospital where I practice as a neonatologist. “I received feedback from a patient who claims that she had a negative interaction with you…during her C-section surgery. She is requesting a visit from you….” My heart sank.
Surviving Blackness in Medicine
Editor’s Note: This piece was a finalist in the Pulse writing contest, “On Being Different.” Omar M. Young and Camille A. Clare are two Black academic OB/GYNs from different walks of life. Together, they offer their respective observations on what it means to be Black in medicine. “Through speaking from our lived experiences, we hope to help those who have historically been minoritized in medicine know that they are seen, that they are heard and that their experiences are valid.” I survived — Omar M. Young The sun was gloriously blinding, and the air as calm as could be on a warm June morning, more than a decade ago.
Thanksgiving 2023
It has been years, decades really, since I have watched television. I have the box, watch movies, but haven’t had cable ever. My two children were in first and second grade when I divorced their dad, and the house we moved into had no reception. “Oh, well,” I told them, “no TV.” They were too little to grumble, but years later my daughter thanked me, saying, “We did so many other things.” Now I find myself newly single and in transition for the winter, living in a rented house with—you guessed it—a TV with a full complement of channels and full reception.