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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.
From One Little Lady to Another
Donna dropped her blood-thinner tablets on the floor prior to surgery.
“It’s a sign I shouldn’t be taking them,” she said.
Now, sometime later, it makes me smile to think of it; she’s recovered well from the surgery and has resumed her medications. I’d told her to stop taking them just prior to the surgery—a complex hernia repair—and to resume them the day after, but she’s the type of person who does what she wants, what she thinks is best.
Overcoming a Stammer
Editor’s Note: This piece was a finalist in the Pulse writing contest, “On Being Different.”
Teary-eyed and a bit shaken, I hovered outside the room of our next patient, Ms. Robinson. She needed a lumbar puncture, and I was there as a medical student on rotation to observe the inpatient neurology team carry out the procedure.
Moments earlier, out here in the hallway, I’d sputtered through a case presentation to the open displeasure of my attending physician. I hadn’t been sure how my lifelong stammer would influence my experience on the wards; now I found out.
A Conversation With My Dead Wife
Sunday, October 31, 2021. Micalyn’s eightieth birthday.
A week ago, I texted my friend Sandy:
I had a reasonable day, but I felt lonely.
It’s so damn frustrating to have lost my best friend, Micalyn. Whenever I think of something I will want to tell her the next time I see her, reality comes crashing down on me.