Contributing Writer
Michael G. DeGroote School of Medicine
Kristen Anderson is a medical student at McMaster University in Hamilton, Ontario class of 2026. In 2022, she graduated from Stanford University with a B.S. in computer science. She enjoys reading and going on walks in the woods in her free time. After graduating medical school, Kristen would like to pursue a career in Psychiatry.
“You’re thinking about it all wrong,” my fiancé said. His voice poured from the phone like a warm cup of tea, steeped in the miles that stretched between us. “You still think you can be a savior, when really you’re a vessel. If you’re alone and giving someone CPR and they die, you can’t ask yourself if they would’ve lived by someone’s more experienced hands, because it was always going to be you. You were …
The clinic room was quiet, the air laced with the familiar scent of hand sanitizer. Cold air crept out from the overhead vent and slipped through my scrubs, sharpening my focus but numbing my hands at the same time. I was a third-year medical student on my family medicine rotation. Sitting across from me was my first patient of the day, a woman in her forties, here for her routine annual checkup. I settled onto …
As the summer countdown began, there was both a sense of thrill — excitement to learn from and be around someone I admired — and a weight of expectation, both from myself and from those I’d be working with. These emotions are familiar to most embarking on the journey of medicine, where the promise of growth comes hand in hand with the pressure to rise to the occasion. I honestly hoped it would be filled …
From great violence burst that first guttural wail of life. Gurgling with fluid, peach fuzz slipped into gloved hands. Your head was still moulded by the birth canal as we fit your wee yarn cap. Your mama is a warrior; you’ll see her battle scar one day and will hardly believe that it was through this fine passage you slid into life, spluttering with indignation to have been woken so abruptly from your nap. How …
The rhythmic clash of the kartal, a copper instrument, marked the beginning of our Sunday dance extravaganza. “Chak De India” pulsed through the air, a Bollywood anthem that ignited our spirits. Didi, a kartal maestro, kept the beat steady, a rhythm that mirrored the pounding of my heart as I twirled and leaped, lost in the joy of dance. In a small town where everyone knew each other’s stories, dance was my mother’s gift to …
“They should have a vaccine for cancer.” Tears were running down his face and onto his lap as I passed him another tissue. He couldn’t continue chemotherapy until the wound on his leg healed. It was my fourth day on my pediatric plastic surgery rotation as a third-year medical student and I was learning how to do a wound vacuum-assisted closure. He begged us to leave him alone. “I want my knee back,” he started …
“That doesn’t happen often,” I quietly but excitedly say to myself while discussing our consult from the PICU. My attending hesitates, pondering the precarious balance between encouraging my medical curiosity and protecting me from the horrors of child abuse and mistreatment that still haunt her to this day. That day, I was a first-hand witness to the necessary but horrible clinical task of a brain death exam. This task is a rite of passage for …
Septic shock. Liver failure. Kidney cancer.
This was my patient. I sat with her, held her hand, coaxed her to share pieces of her life story from underneath the covers.
“Patient is a 34-year-old male with a nine-month history of rheumatoid arthritis-associated interstitial lung disease who is currently being treated with mycophenolate and rituximab. He remains on high-flow nasal cannula with oxygen saturations of 84-87% overnight. Transplant team signed off as the patient did not qualify for transplant. He reports feeling well this morning and that he learned a great new magic trick with a disappearing card.”
As patients moved in and out of the modest office for their appointments, their duffel bags and luggage in tow containing all their personal belongings, the day unfolded in typical fashion. Yet, within the confines of this psychiatry office catering exclusively to the local unhoused population, “normal” took on a unique meaning.
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.
Contributing Writer
Florida International University Herbert Wertheim College of Medicine
Heena is a fourth year medical student at Florida International University Herbert Wertheim College of Medicine in Miami, Florida, class of 2025. In 2020, she graduated from Florida International University with a Bachelor of Science in biological sciences. She enjoys reading, drawing, and trying out new restaurants in her free time. After graduating medical school, Heena would like to pursue a career in Internal Medicine.
