fostering the humanistic practice of medicine publishing personal accounts of illness and healing encouraging health care advocacy

fostering the humanistic practice of medicine publishing personal accounts of illness and healing encouraging health care advocacy

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Playing the Odds

“The odds of anything going sideways are less than one in a hundred,” the cardiologist said.

I was only half listening—too busy signing the papers indemnifying the Medical Colossus against any undue outcomes from my pending cardiac catheterization and probable stent placement.

“Less than one in a hundred,” he repeated.

No problem, I thought.

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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.

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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.

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The Real Me

Editor’s Note: This piece was a finalist in the Pulse writing contest, “On Being Different.”

“What are you?”

It’s impossible to count the number of times I’ve been asked this question, directly or indirectly.

When my family moved to Milwaukee from the South, I was twelve.

One day soon after, I was digging in my locker at Audubon Middle School when a girl named Tammy walked up to me.

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Breathless

Editor’s Note: This piece was a finalist in the Pulse writing contest, “On Being Different.”

I was a disaster in fourth grade—too chubby for my Girl Scout uniform, which gapped where it should not have gapped. I dragged my right foot, so I wore orthopedic shoes. My horn-rimmed glasses made me look like a sixtysomething church lady. My jet-black hair with five cowlicks had been partially tamed with a beauty-shop permanent. I was the last chosen for red rover and other recess favorites.

Ten-year-olds know when they are different from their peers. I didn’t want to be different and felt self-conscious. Then came the coup de grâce.

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Kindness in the Face of Loss

Editor’s Note: This piece was awarded an honorable mention in the Pulse writing contest, “On Being Different.”

I’ve just received a call from a hospital: An urgent appointment at its fetal-medicine unit has been arranged for me for tomorrow.

I try to get all the critical information.

“Which hospital did you say?” I ask. The medical secretary repeats the name, sounding a little surprised. I haven’t heard of this hospital; but then, I haven’t really heard of any, except for our local one.

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Finding the Upside

Editor’s Note: This piece was a finalist in the Pulse writing contest, “On Being Different.”

Being different is often viewed as bad. At a young age, I learned that it meant you didn’t belong. I vividly remember watching the Sesame Street puppets dance and sing about an object that “didn’t belong” because it was “not like the others.”

Throughout my school years, I tried hard to fit in. Being overweight, and as uncoordinated as they come, I constantly felt out of place in my body and among my peers. I remember trying so hard to make people laugh, to win them over.

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Treasuring Our Differences

Editor’s Note: This piece was awarded an honorable mention in the Pulse writing contest, “On Being Different.”

I dread visits to the gynecologist. Even though I’m a healthcare professional myself—studying to become a physician assistant after years as a clinical-research coordinator—I struggle with the prospect of the impending visit on a deeply personal level.

The crinkly gown, the pressure of the cold speculum and the pinch of the tiny brush that scrapes the cervix. A pap smear was bad enough when I identified as a woman—but as a nonbinary person with gender dysphoria, these visits act as a reminder that I was born into a body I don’t identify with, and I find visits to my gynecologist unbearable.

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A Family History of X

Editor’s Note: This piece was a finalist in the Pulse writing contest, “On Being Different.”

When I was diagnosed with breast cancer, my doctor, Dr. Thompson, who looks like the comedian Norm MacDonald and tells smart-ass jokes and likes to draw stick-figure breasts on a whiteboard to show surgical options, asked, “Do you have a family history of breast cancer?”

He had already drawn a series of disembodied breasts before he asked this. The breasts were squared off, with Lego nipples—nothing Victoria’s Secret-ish, nothing human.

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Superpower

I sometimes tell my children that they have superpowers—usually when they’ve done something amazing, unique or powerful.

I’d like to think that I, too, have a superpower: I can move physical pain from a 9 to a 0, just with my thoughts.

I’ve been practicing this power—honing it—for more than twenty years now.

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Next of Kin

Editor’s Note: This piece was a finalist in the Pulse writing contest, “On Being Different.”

The Early Nineties

A number of things happened the moment I realized I was gay. From the moment I came out to myself and to those around me, I felt the scales fall from my eyes. The sky was brighter, the air crisper. I felt free, excited by the world and all it had to offer.

How could it have taken forty-four years to work this out? I kept asking myself.

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Small but Mighty

Editor’s Note: This piece was awarded an honorable mention in the Pulse writing contest, “On Being Different.”

I was born with what was described as a “mild” case of achondroplasia, a genetic condition that affects bone growth and causes short stature.

The average height of an adult female with achondroplasia is 4 feet 1 inch; I am 4 feet 5 inches tall. I do not have some of the “characteristic” facial features such as a prominent forehead or flattened nasal bridge. The average person remains unaware of my condition until I stand up.

This condition does not run in my family.

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