At the start of clinical rotations, we are urged by preceptors to immerse ourselves in the experience, advocate for our patients and strive to understand them better than the rest of the team. I could not, however, shake an underlying thought: Why would any patient divulge their most intimate details to someone so inexperienced? After all, I was just a medical student.
My understanding of the reality of pursuing a career as a physician was shattered when I started my third year of medical school. When I entered the double doors of the hospital, I was no longer the main character of my day. Instead, my attending’s patients became the highest priority and feedback transitioned to how I could improve to better serve them.
It started at the age of five. Fair and Lovely — India’s favorite skin-lightening and beautifying cream. I owe this regimen my first memorable medical concern; a rash that angered the skin on my face to scar over redden, burn and peel. I hid indoors for two days, embarrassed for others to see me in public. When the reaction subsided, I remained embarrassed of what stayed — the same ugly dirty brown skin.
this weekend / I went to the sunflower patch / swinging arms with my mom and sister / starry eyed at the fields of bright gold yellow / nestled in the blue of the mountains around us.
The once-sterile hospital room had become a sacred space, where the raw emotions of love and loss hung in the air. The young daughter, vibrant in her essence but tethered to life support, teetered on the precipice between existence and the inevitable.
My eyes have adjusted. Faint streaks of light from the edges of my window illuminate the darkness of my room. I toss onto my side and my gaze drifts to the shadows on the wall. I make shapes out of them, like making shapes out of passing clouds.
His hands were shaking as they gently peeled open a tattered envelope. I leaned forward, attempting to understand what he was trying to show us, then gasped.
I came across a photo on social media of some classmates that appeared almost identical to another one I had seen months ago — beaming medical students crowded together against a brick wall of a campus apartment. Déjà vu. But there was one difference. Nearly all the students in this picture were white, whereas all the students in the older picture were non-white.
Soon after I began my clinical rotations in medical school, I started to see it. It was subtle. At first, I didn’t even notice it. It usually happens during hand-over, when the night team fills in the day team on overnight events, including any new admissions.
Before starting medical school, buried in a list of to-do tasks, I was asked to submit my Meyers-Briggs personality inventory. I was no stranger to this string of four letters, as I had performed the assessment many times in my life. I didn’t need to take the test again to know what I would get: INFJ.
It was 5 p.m. on a Thursday and I had just finished my first preceptorship session with my fourth-year medical student preceptor. That afternoon was one of many firsts, as it was also the first time I conducted a patient interview. My first-ever patient was a middle-aged woman in the emergency room talking to me through Zoom. I remember introducing myself nervously, stuttering on the few syllables that make up my name, and then asking what brought her to the hospital.
As soon as I let the door close quietly behind me, I turned to face the glaring, rude fluorescent lights of the operating room foyer. I felt my pupils constrict against their offensive shine as I ripped down my mask to suck in as much oxygen as my deflated lungs possibly could.
