Contributing Writer
University of Texas Medical Branch John Sealy School of Medicine
Olivia is a fourth year medical student at University of Texas Medical Branch John Sealy School of Medicine in Galveston, Texas, class of 2024. In 2017, she graduated from Rice University with a Bachelor of Arts in biochemistry, cell biology, and French studies. She spent her gap years working in vascular neurology at Houston Methodist. In her free time, she enjoys playing banjo in bluegrass jams, reading, and spending time outdoors. After graduating medical school, Olivia would like to pursue a career in otolaryngology.
During my pediatric rotation, a little girl was brought to the ED the day her family was set to leave for vacation. Her physical exam and imaging confirmed a ruptured appendix that would require surgery and almost a week of IV antibiotics, meaning our patient would miss her family’s forthcoming vacation.
It was the first day of my inpatient internal medicine rotation and I felt as excited as ever to be in the hospital, participating in rounds. “How’s your day going?” I asked automatically in a cheery tone as I entered my first patient’s room.
I work with four other medical students at the family medicine clinic. I am the only female medical student — our attending is also male.
Many people told me that my third year of medical school would be both the most rewarding and the most difficult. That I would choose my future specialty and discover my specific path in medicine — a task which, as I began the year, seemed both exciting and daunting. Little did I know that during my third year of medical school, I would learn just as much about myself as I would about patient care and the practice of medicine.
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.
When my family saw me painstakingly hand-placing individual sprinkles on the apices of buttercream rosettes at age 15, I justified this obsessive behavior by telling them, “I’m just practicing precision for the day when I get to inject into people’s faces.”
Mr. G was a patient I met while on the surgical oncology service. He was in his early 50s, a loving husband and the father of two children. He was the middle sibling with two brothers. He also battled metastatic cancer.
During the last week of my clinical rotation in family medicine, my attending advised me and the accompanying medical student that going forward, the health providers of the clinic must limit their scope of care for patients who present for annual examinations.
This period of healing set Lori on a long road that was paved with pain. She lived in chronic pain from the fistula. While her physicians delicately weighed her safety with pain relief, she learned to balance both patience and uncertainty.
Logan’s healing was in his death. Mine was in a game of Monopoly.
As a high school volunteer in my local hospital’s oncology unit, I remember the sinking feeling in my stomach every time I saw the bright “Contact Precautions” sign on the door. I would begrudgingly don a flimsy plastic gown, fix a tight surgical mask around my ears, snap on a pair of gloves and proceed into the patient’s room.
It is morning outside, the sun barely kissing the horizon. The curtains have been drawn in an attempt to force any lick of light from the room. But one slim shard cuts through the drapes, illuminating John’s face.
Contributing Writer
City University of New York School of Medicine
Samantha (she/her) is a fourth-year medical student at the City University of New York (CUNY) School of Medicine in Harlem, NY class of 2023. She graduated from the City College of New York (CCNY) in 2018 with a Bachelor of Science in biomedical science and a minor in psychology. In her free time, she enjoys dancing, testing her stomach capacity at sushi buffets, and perusing thrift stores with her younger sister. After graduating medical school, Samantha would like to pursue a career in Family Medicine.
