The health impacts associated with structural violence prevent vulnerable populations from gaining access to basic needs. This is due to injustices embedded within institutions and social structures that exist in today’s society.
Developing skills of cultural competence requires an open heart and mind — and often an uncomfortable examination of personal biases. It takes time, but along the way physicians gain greater humility and compassion, which translates to expanded access and higher-quality care for patients.
We shuffled out of the room, but before closing the door, I could hear her bangles ringing as her hands fell with defeat into her lap. Behind the closed office door, Dr. Altman gave us his three-word assessment: “She’s just crazy.”
I refreshed the page over and over again, thinking that a different number would magically appear instead, but it never did. I then picked up the phone to call my mom. I choked out the words, “I failed out of medical school.”
The night before my white coat ceremony in mid-September, I took a drive around Worcester to clear my head. The windows were down, and I could feel the breeze on my face as my car picked up speed along Route 9.
I tripped into the practice clinic room at 12:05 p.m., cradling my cold coffee and explaining to my preceptor that, despite being a first-year medical student, I did not own a stethoscope yet.
“So, how would we test for PBC?” my professor asks from the front of the room.
If gross anatomy has taught me any topics, they are the sheer beauty and capability of the human body.
Recently I have let myself consider how wonderful of a physician Mary Oliver would have been, and how wonderful a medical school classmate.
After our first year of coursework, our LC mentors asked us to write a confidential letter to our “2016 self,” or ourselves at the time just before we began medical school. Right away, I recalled that at that time, I was a nervous wreck.
It was not until our second semester of medical school that we started gross anatomy. Finally, I became that quintessential medical student walking home too tired to change out of my formaldehyde-tinged scrubs.
Second year? Could that be? It felt wrong. It threw off my whole identity. “I’m just a first-year,” had been my motto for the past twelve months.