Contributing Writer
Florida International University Herbert Wertheim College of Medicine
Malak Ibrahim 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 the University of South Florida with a Bachelor of Science in biomedical sciences and a minor in psychology. She has a passion for physical fitness and enjoys reading novels, traveling, and spending time with family in her free time. After medical school, Malak would like to pursue a career in Physical Medicine and Rehabilitation.
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.
“Could you water my plants?” I asked my roommate when I was out of town. They say it takes a village to raise a child, make it through medical school, to do anything worth knowing. When I started medical school, I had a village: parents, friends, family, a partner and my plants.
As the hands of the large clock on the wall turn to 8 a.m, a wandering medical student strolls through the intricate hallways of the pediatric intensive care unit (PICU) at Nicklaus Children’s Hospital. Her eyesight shifted to various places in the unit as she struggled to find the so-called “fishbowl,” an office space where residents station themselves to work.
A light knock at your hospital room door and my introduction: “I am a first year MD-PhD student. Thank you.”
During my family medicine clerkship in medical school, I worked with a free mobile primary care clinic dedicated to serving uninsured patients. Parked outside a church in a large city, the clinic was a large blue bus standing in stark contrast to the gray asphalt parking lot around it.
On the fifteenth day that Marietta had not eaten, the psychiatry team knew they could no longer take care of her. With each day, her body grew weaker, her blood pressure softened, and her heart beat faster to keep her alive. By the time the medicine team was consulted, her heart was laboring at 130 beats per minute.
We lug our oversized backpacks into the van and climb in, slamming the doors with such haste that the chaos mere feet away is smothered instantly. What had just been a moment of mayhem dissolves into one of pure silence. Ben doesn’t start the car. I don’t need to ask him why. This group has never been short on chatter, but for once the outreach team is resigned to stillness.
Opening the heavy glass door, the immediate rush of cold air hit my face and cooled me off after walking in the hot beaming sun. I said hello to the office manager and made my way to the back office I’ve become all too familiar with these past two weeks.
Every day after clinic, I eagerly anticipate the serene stroll along Brickell Key, a therapeutic journey that has become a source of solace. I look forward to the sound of palm trees swaying and waves crashing. I am excited about being greeted by wagging tails of enthusiastic dogs, eagerly seeking attention with their beady eyes.
The transition from the classroom to the hospital was an incredible experience. After spending endless days behind a bright screen, I felt an overwhelming sense of excitement to finally apply my medical knowledge and delve into the world of patient care.
No matter how much I learn, some things cannot be taught. There was no prepared script and no checklist to follow when my father tersely told me, “Your uncle in India passed.” Five solemn words and a pregnant silence. His eyes, rung with the blue of cataracts, did not shed a tear. Instead, they were fixed on an empty corner of our worn sectional couch.
Contributing Writer
Florida International University Herbert Wertheim College of Medicine
Agrata is a medical student at Florida International University Herbert Wertheim College of Medicine in Miami, Florida, Class of 2025. In 2021, she graduated from the University of South Florida with a Bachelor of Science in biomedical sciences and a minor in psychology. She enjoys reading books, painting, and trying out new coffee shops in her free time. After graduating medical school, Agrata would like to pursue a career in psychiatry.
