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Tales Behind the Terms: Rickets

Medical Etymology: Tales Behind the Terms is a series of articles discussing the stories, origins and meanings of the words we use every day in medicine. The goal is to explore the history of complex jargon used with patients and learners. In doing so, I hope that we, as physicians in training, will be able to deliver better health care that can be understood and remembered by all.

Rickets is a childhood condition that is characterized by dysfunctional mineralization, or poor bone development, in the epiphyseal plates – more commonly known as growth plates. The true origin of the term “rickets” is unclear, but several theories exist. One postulates that it comes from the Old English wrickken, meaning “to twist,” describing the bent deformation of bones. Another comes from an early Dorset word, rucket, meaning “to breathe with difficulty,” referring to the respiratory distress demonstrated by patients with rickets. A third possibility is the Greek rhakhis, meaning “spine,”which is the root for the modern Latin name of the disease, rachitis

While the exact origin of rickets remains uncertain, each of the possible meanings provides insight into how early observers interpreted the disease. From these origins, we get familiar terms like rickety, used to describe something liable to collapse due to an unstable structure. One term sometimes mistakenly linked to rickets is rickettsia, the name of a parasitic organism. However, it is unrelated and instead derives its origin from its discoverer, Howard Taylor Ricketts. This type of naming is known as an eponym, from epi- (“upon”) and -onoma, (“name”).

Before describing the symptoms of rickets, it is worthwhile to understand the pathophysiology and how one might explain it to patients. Rickets is a childhood presentation of osteomalacia, where osteo- refers to “bone” and malacia means “softening.” While osteomalacia typically refers to softening of the bone matrix (the substance providing most of the bone’s structure), rickets specifically affects the epiphyseal, or growth, plates, which exist only in developing children. 

The prefix  epi- means “upon,” and -physis means “growth,” so the epiphyseal plate is where new bone growth occurs. The most common cause of rickets is acquired nutritional deficiency. Vitamin D, calcium, and phosphorus are critical in bone development. The word vitamin comes from vita- (“life”) and -amine (“a nitrogen-containing compound”). Originally spelled vitamine, the final ”e” was dropped once it was discovered that not all vitamins were amines. The letters assigned to vitamins reflect their order of discovery: Vitamin A in 1913, for example. Vitamin K is an exception, with “K” derived from Koagulation, due to its role in proper blood clotting. Vitamin D was discovered in 1922, specifically in the study of rickets. 

Low levels of vitamin D cause low calcium, and when the body senses this, it mobilizes calcium stores from the bone, weakening their structure. Calcium comes from kalk, meaning “lime,” a material found in limestone or chalk. Phosphorus comes from phos- (“light”) and -phoros (“bringing”), as the element glows in the dark. These vivid origins, “life substance D,” “chalk,” and “light-bringing mineral”– can help patients and families remember the condition more easily. Knowing that these deficiencies cause “softening of bones” at the site where “bone grows upon” reinforce the signs and symptoms.

Rickets is most frequently noted between 6 months to 2 years of life. There are numerous indicators of the disease, most of which are directly related to improper bone development. Patients will develop craniotabes, a soft skull, from cranio- (“skull”) and -tabes (“wasting”). Additionally, there will be frontal bossing, a protuberance of the skull at the forehead. This can be remembered as frontal refers to the forehead above the eyebrows, and “boss”, which in this context, refers to a protruding feature, from the Middle French, “embocer”. Finally, there will be wide fontanelles in the skull. The fontanelle is the “soft spot” on a baby’s head, and it comes from a term meaning “fountain”, the dent in earth where a spring might arise. In the chest, rachitic rosary occurs, a widening of the joints in the rib cage. These appear as prominent bony knobs, resembling the beads of a Catholic Christian rosary, a type of garland originally made from roses. Weight-bearing limbs may present with deformities, such as genu varus, or bow legs, from genu- (“knee”) and varus (“bent outwards”). The spinal column may also twist, echoing the possible  Old English root wrickken.

Once the origins and signs of this bone-softening disease are understood, treatment becomes more intuitive. Nutritional rickets is treated by restoring vitamin D levels and ensuring adequate calcium and phosphorus. There are two types of Vitamin D that can be administered, Vitamin D2 (ergocalciferol) and Vitamin D3 (cholecalciferol). D2 is found in plants and mushrooms; D3 derives from animal sources and is synthesized by the skin when exposed to sun. They differ by a single carbon, yet D3 is the form which is more often prescribed to patients. Cholecalciferol comes from chole-, (“bile”), referencing its original connection to cholesterol metabolism;, -calc-, from the “lime” we described earlier in calcium and -ferol, similar to –phoros, meaning “to bear.” Therefore, vitamin D3 is a bile-related, calcium-carrying substance, linking it to its function in calcium metabolism. Ergocalciferol has a similar meaning, though here the term ergo-, refers to ergot, a fungus from which vitamin D2 was first isolated. While patients may not benefit from learning the fungal origins and calcium-bearing properties of the Vitamin D subtypes, it may aid students and providers in remembering the difference between the two, and critically, which one is typically used for treatment. It should help to remember that the mighty animal- and sun- derived Vitamin D3 is the more potent and efficacious option, rather than that which comes from the humble ergot fungus.

Rickets can have multiple causes and this article does not explore all of them. Nonetheless, this article gives an overview of  the most common terminology associated with rickets and the fascinating origins behind those terms. Ideally, learning the medical etymology through vivid images and stories allows the learner to better retain the critical information pertaining to rickets. Consequently, patients and their families, regardless of their baseline health literacy, will benefit from a clear, interesting and meaningful explanation of the diseases, its clinical manifestations and its treatment options.

Out of Sight and Out of Mind: Carceral Health in the Medical Education Curriculum

Approximately 5% of Americans will be incarcerated at some point in their lives, a number that varies greatly along racial lines. Why don’t we talk about this far-reaching public health issue, and driver of racial disparities in health outcomes, in our medical education?

During the course of my medical education, I listened to countless lectures and took part in many discussions regarding the social determinants of health in the context of marginalized and underserved populations. Unfortunately, incarcerated individuals and other justice-affected persons are often conspicuously underrepresented in the medical school curriculum, research, and discourse. This community is disappointingly large in the United States and despite a downtrend in recent years, the prison population is aging, which means increased comorbidities and complexity (and cost) of care.

Many medical students are seemingly unaware that the topic of correctional health even exists, and I imagine even fewer choose to pursue it as a career. One does not have to choose to work in a carceral facility to be involved in carceral health. In fact, it is likely that every medical student will, over the course of their physician career, treat someone who has been affected by the justice system. Not every justice-affected person will walk into a clinic escorted by correctional officers. Many may not have been incarcerated themselves, but had a parent, spouse, sibling or someone close to them that was. That in and of itself may have implications for their health, perspectives and other factors that color the patient-provider relationship.

Approximately two million Americans are in prison or jail at any given time. Because 95% of incarcerated individuals will eventually be released, correctional health is inherently a matter of public health. Racial disparities within the correctional system have also been described as a driver of racial disparities in health outcomes. Aside from the ethical, public health and health equity considerations, there are legal ones too. In 1976, the Supreme Court ruled in Estelle v Gamble that the deprivation of reasonably adequate medical care was a violation of incarcerated individuals’ rights under the Eighth Amendment. Following this ruling, incarcerated individuals became one of two groups that were constitutionally guaranteed healthcare (the other being Native Americans). Unfortunately, what constitutes “reasonably adequate” is still debated, resulting in wildly varying quality of care among different correctional systems and an overall set of generally worse health outcomes for those who are or have been incarcerated.

Because it is an issue that affects so many people, and has serious implications for individual and public health, it’s time to broaden the discussion surrounding the social determinants of health to include groups less commonly discussed, including the incarcerated and justice-affected persons. In my experience, there has been no shortage of opportunities to have this discussion, and yet, the conversation inevitably returns to the repeatedly discussed topics in lieu of introducing new, unknown topics. Justice affected persons are certainly not the only group that need to be included; for instance, the unhoused and undocumented, among others, take part in the healthcare system with challenges unique to their circumstances and experiences. It’s time for a more inclusive and holistic medical education curriculum that addresses the varied groups of marginalized populations that exist within our communities. Lectures, group discussions, and working directly with these populations where feasible will help foster a more informed and well-rounded group of future physicians.

The Wall at Mile 20

It, in fact, hit me like a wall.

As I pushed past mile 20 in my first marathon, I felt the notorious ‘wall’. My glycogen stores were depleted, and my legs felt like they were no longer part of my body, but rather two 40 pound dumbbells I was lifting and dropping on the hard pavement with each step forward. Most distance runners would break down a marathon as a two-part race: cruising for the first 20 miles and fighting for the last 6.2 – both a mental and physical barrier to finishing the race. I shut off the music. Everything went quiet and my vision blurred. I became hyperaware of the tears quickly streaming down my face. A wave of emotions released from somewhere deep within me as I realized that I have broken from the cycle, and I am given a choice.

For the first 20 miles, I felt strong, steady and full of purpose. I have been training for this race physically. But as my legs gave out, I felt my mind give out, too. I was underprepared for the mental battle in negotiating with the voice in my head that said ‘You can stop anytime. You don’t have to keep going. 20 miles is quite a lot and an accomplishment, as is, and the furthest you have ever run. Nobody is making you do this.’

I am staring at the wall at mile 20 right now. Not just in the marathon, but in my academic training. As a recent PhD graduate in the MD/PhD program, I am now on the verge of returning to medical school in less than 2 months. After years of forward motion, one foot in front of the other, I had never felt the option to keep going, but rather the urge: complete the preclinical medical school blocks, one after another, pass the Step 1 Board Exam, start the PhD training, and continue to clerkships. It was a race with seemingly no stops, thoroughly enjoyable beyond my imagination but nonetheless an automatic sequence of events.

In this moment, I came to realize what had been weighing me down since completing my PhD a few weeks ago. It has been the constant internal battle of “I don’t have to do this. I don’t have to keep going.” To be perfectly candid, I felt scared more than ever as I realized that I could not agree more. I do not have to do this. I do not have to return to medical school. I have two years of my 20’s remaining, full of drive, curiosity, youth and ability, as opposed to the unknown state I will be in when I finish training closer to perhaps my 40’s. I could stop right now with the doctorate I earned, the skills I am equipped with and even reconsider pursuing a whole new career path.

The MD path has a natural momentum that carries one forward. You start medical school, the milestones are marked and you move alongside your peers if all goes according to plan. It’s steady and purposeful, but it is also a ride on a fast-moving bullet train. There is rarely a pause to ask, ‘is this still what I want?’ or ‘do I want to continue with the next step?’. We are informed of our expectations, told which lectures to attend, which rotations to complete, when to take the exams and what days are our breaks. On the other hand, in the MD/PhD journey, I get the chance to step away from the flow – carving out years in the PhD world, where the path is quite ambiguous and unique to every graduate student. For the first time since beginning my graduate education, I was asked questions in the PhD world like “what do you want to study?”, “what classes do you find interesting to enroll in?”, “what experiments do you want to run?”, and “when do you want to do them?”.  I had the luxury to delve into discovering new science, as well as discovering new parts of myself and my curiosities, with more academic and personal independence than ever before. I was pushed in ways that made me uncomfortable and learn both in my scientific thinking and self-growth outside of science and medicine. Tackling the unknowns of my research gave me the courage to tackle the unknowns in my personal life – allowing me to complete my first sprint triathlon, make new lifelong friends outside of STEM while reinvesting into the ones I lost touch with, try trail running, tennis and skiing for the first time, and go on spontaneous road trips to places I dreamed of. I began exploring the wonders of my human self by pushing my boundaries and reading about the wonders of the universe outside of science and medicine. Ultimately, I started falling in love with the idea of the unknown and unexplored. Then one day, much more suddenly than I had anticipated, the time had come for me to hop back on the bullet train in the race of medicine.

But this is where the marathon became more than a ‘one foot in front of the other’ race for me. It was the moment I realized the autopilot mode had shut-off. It would be so easy to stop at mile 20. “What would happen if I stopped or paused? Can I keep going? Do I want to keep going?” Staying true to my academic training, I turned to literature for guidance and discovered, in fact, that attrition is nationally 9 times higher in the MD-PhD program than MD-only, with over 1 in 4 MD-PhD students not completing the dual-degree program.

I mapped out an Excel sheet of alternate life plans with application deadlines, prerequisites and calculated costs, a tangible way to entertain the idea of stepping off the track. After ruminating over each path countlessly, I found myself pulled back to where it all began. I decided, at this point, to revisit my personal statement with which I applied to medical school. I was reminded of my initial drive and excitement to become a physician-scientist, and today, I am choosing to continue. I stopped running because it’s the next logical step and started running because I made the choice, finishing off my first ever 26.2. I write this to reassure myself and others who may be staring at your own wall – it is okay to feel unsure, tired and question whether you want to finish the race. We love to ask the question and share the story of why we got on the bullet train in the first place and what it feels like to reach the destination. With this reflection piece, I hope to shed light on the doubts that live in the middle, where the growth in purpose happens.

As I return to medical school, it will not be because I am expected to finish. It will not be because I am afraid to quit or because of what others may think of me. It will be because I am choosing to finish what I started, not because I am ‘almost there’ but rather because I am in love with where I am going and the process of becoming.

I write this for anyone else who may be at mile 20 of their journey – to let you know that you are not alone. I hope you know that hitting the wall does not mean you are not cut out for this or that you are weak. I admire you for taking the time to reflect on the growth that will come out of whatever choice you may make. As I choose to keep going, I am grateful for this opportunity, more than ever before. I pause and acknowledge I am not the same person who started this race, and I hope to open myself to continue to welcome growth and change. I am taking the next intentional step forward, and I hope to see you at the finish line.

 

Image Credit: “me myself and I on the road” (CC BY-NC-ND 2.0) by adropp

How a 3-Minute Scene from The Bear Reframed My Perspective on Medical School

I was having one of those days in medical school where the weight of everything felt crushing—the pressure to be perfect, the constant comparisons to my peers, and the nagging doubt of whether I truly belonged here. It felt like I was running a race on a treadmill—no matter how fast I went, I was never getting any closer to the finish line. The harder I pushed, the more distant my goal seemed, leaving me with that persistent, nagging thought: Am I really cut out for this? It wasn’t just my abilities I began to question—it was as though my sense of purpose was fading, becoming harder to grasp with each passing day, as if I was losing sight of why I started this journey in the first place.

In need of a break, I turned to The Bear on Hulu, hoping to escape, even if just for a while. Although, like any medical student, I felt initial guilt in indulging in this free time. What I didn’t expect was that within a simple three-minute scene, I would find something that would resonate so deeply it would shift my entire perspective. Watching the conversation between Luca, a master pastry chef, and Marcus, an eager but uncertain baker, I suddenly found clarity in the very thing I had been struggling with for weeks.

In the scene, Luca—a masterful pastry chef—talks to Marcus, a young, hopeful baker, about the true essence of growth. It’s not found in moments of instant success or inborn talent, Luca explains, but in the willingness to embrace failure, to learn from mistakes, and to return with renewed effort. His words landed like a revelation, cutting through the noise of self-doubt that had been clouding my mind. It wasn’t about being perfect from the start; it was about showing up, failing, and trying again. I couldn’t help but laugh when Marcus asked, “How did you get good at this?”—the very same question I had nervously posed to my senior resident just days before. It was at that moment I realized that the path to mastery isn’t about avoiding mistakes but about learning to navigate through them.

In that moment, I realized I had been lost—chasing a version of success that didn’t leave room for imperfection. I had been holding myself to impossibly high standards, forgetting that this journey isn’t a sprint to mastery; it’s a slow, deliberate climb. It’s not about perfection—it’s about progress. And progress, I now understood, demands failure. But it’s not just about making mistakes—it’s about learning to fail well, to reflect, to adapt, and to keep pushing forward. Luca’s words reframed failure for me; it was no longer something to fear or hide from, but something essential to the process of becoming, not just a doctor, but a better version of myself.

I had been consumed by comparisons—constantly weighing my worth against the abilities of my peers, residents, and attendings and of course the worst of all… Uworld. But Luca’s wisdom offered a different perspective: I had been missing the point. My peers were not benchmarks to measure myself against, but resources. Each of them carried their own strengths, experiences, and insights. Instead of allowing their achievements to magnify my insecurities, I needed to see them as guides on this journey. We all have something to offer to one another, and true growth happens when we lift each other up. I can’t count the number of times I have adopted new perspectives or approaches to my clinical reasoning just by simply observing my classmates perform at their best. The key was stepping outside of my own self-doubt long enough to realize that by leaning on those around me, I could grow far beyond what I imagined.

The same went for the residents and doctors I had been comparing myself to. They weren’t there to intimidate me; they were there to guide me. These seasoned professionals weren’t unattainable figures—they were teachers, mentors, and, most importantly, humans who had walked this path before me. Their goal wasn’t to highlight my shortcomings, but to offer me the wisdom they had gained through their own struggles. Instead of thinking, I don’t know if I’ll ever reach that level, I needed to remind myself that every day I show up, I’m getting closer. Every interaction, every case, every stumble is another step forward. I needed to shift my focus from judging my success by the finish line and start rewarding myself for each effort along the way. Growth is subtle, but it’s always there if we choose to notice it. 

That scene also reminded me that medical school is, in many ways, about finding what works for me. Luca’s advice to Marcus about discovering his own path, his own techniques, struck a chord with me. It was a reminder that there is no single “right way” to succeed. Just as Marcus had to experiment, fail, and adjust in the kitchen, I needed to do the same in my studies and in the hospital. This time isn’t just about absorbing information—it’s about discovering how I learn best, how I connect with patients, and how I navigate the challenges of medicine. It’s okay if my process looks different from someone else’s, as long as I’m learning, adapting, and growing with each step. Additionally, it reminded me of the artistry of medicine. Once we learn our foundations and skills, we should be encouraged to add our personal touch and creativity to our approaches, creating a colorful canvas of humanism. 

One of the biggest takeaways from that conversation was the importance of staying curious. Luca’s passion for his craft and his willingness to keep learning, even after achieving so much, was a reminder that curiosity is key to self-growth and improvement. In medicine, curiosity drives us to ask questions, to dig deeper, and to never settle for surface-level understanding. It’s what pushes us to become better doctors, not just by mastering the material, but by continually seeking to expand our knowledge and understanding.

Luca’s openness to new ideas and different perspectives was something I needed to adopt. In medicine, we often come in with our own biases, with rigid plans for our careers, and with preconceived notions about how things should be. But the reality is, we’re given a rare opportunity to interact with people from all walks of life, to learn from individuals who have different experiences and perspectives. By being open to these diverse viewpoints, we can grow not just as doctors, but as human beings. The more open we are, the more we can truly take advantage of the incredible learning opportunities that medical school offers.

Looking back, I see that my obsession with high standards of achievement was holding me back from reaching my true potential. Medical school isn’t about being perfect; it’s about learning, growing, and improving every day in your own unique way. Luca’s advice to Marcus in that scene from The Bear helped me understand that the journey to becoming a doctor is much like the journey to becoming a great chef—it’s messy, it’s full of mistakes, but it’s also rich with opportunities for growth. By embracing the process, leaning on others for support, and staying curious and open-minded, I’m giving myself the chance to reach my full potential, not just as a student, but as a future physician.

Healing’s First Breath

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 a stool, just below her eye level, and asked the question I had asked countless patients before: “What brings you in today?”

She appeared composed as she began, noting that she had no pressing health concerns. Her voice was steady and measured, yet soft. Nothing was immediately concerning, yet her reserved demeanor hinted that there might be something more beneath the surface. I continued the interview, hoping her story would become clear with time. Slowly, I pieced together fragments of her story: she was a single mother, working long hours to support her children. Having left her home in South America months earlier, she now struggled to adjust to a new life in an unfamiliar country. As I listened, I was reminded of how I felt as an eight-year-old who had just moved from Mexico to the United States. I too had felt far from home and I now could see this personal memory reflected in her words. We continued, exchanging small details about her life and our shared experiences of moving to a new country. Our conversation eventually shifted back to her health and I resumed gathering her history. After a few minutes, I asked her about her exercise habits. She replied, “Because of recent family events, I haven’t been able to exercise as much.”

It was not so much the words themselves as the way she said them—a subtle shift in tone that made me pause. I met her gaze and gently responded, “If it’s not too difficult, could you tell me a little about that?”

She paused before taking a deep breath in, and as she exhaled, her words unfolded a story of deep loss. Just weeks earlier, her younger sister had passed away from cancer in her hometown. The diagnosis had come suddenly, without warning. Her sister was only in her 30s, and there was no family history of cancer. The patient spoke of her anguish and of the barriers that had kept her from being at her sister’s side: financial strain, travel restrictions and political upheaval back home.

Her composure began to falter, her voice thickening with the weight of grief. I listened in silence, handing her a tissue as the first tears fell. Her grief had found its way to the surface and was now pouring out. I had provided only gentle prompting and a listening ear, and her story nearly exploded out of her. By being interested in her story rather than her symptoms, I had provided her with a space where she could discuss the grief she had been carrying. I became acutely aware of how isolated she must have felt carrying this pain thousands of miles from home, facing each day with uncertainty and the overwhelming burden of losing her sister.

I found myself reflecting on how we had found ourselves in this conversation, and I briefly glanced at the last thing I wrote in my notebook: “Exercise.”

What was supposed to be a routine visit had transformed the room around us. A simple question about exercise habits had organically grown into a deeply memorable encounter. I no longer sensed the sharp scent of sanitizer or the chill in my fingers. In that moment, everything else fell away—all that remained was the patient and the undeniable weight of her sorrow filling the air between us. She shared the pressure of managing her grief alone and navigating single motherhood under the shadow of her loss. Her sorrow was immeasurable. Hoping to acknowledge and validate the depth of her struggle, I said gently, “Of course you’re feeling overwhelmed. This has been an incredibly difficult time, especially handling it on your own so far from home.”

The relief on her face was visible, as if a burden had been lifted. She opened up even more, describing the emotional weight of managing her grief without a support network nearby. She spoke of her isolation, the way it sank its fangs into her life and made her grief even more difficult to bear. She spoke of the sadness that filled her days and the loneliness that seeped into her nights. We shared a long silence as she looked at the floor, processing, and I found myself profoundly humbled and inspired by her resilience. Her strength was undeniable.

This encounter reminded me that healing often begins in small, unexpected moments. I had entered the room prepared for a routine exam, but by remaining open to her words—and, just as importantly, to her silences—I had been drawn into something profound. In an instant, routine was transformed into a moment of profound trust, creating an opening for her to consider counseling and antidepressant therapy, tangible steps toward healing. I felt gratitude for the connection that had quietly grown between us; the therapeutic nature of our conversation now felt as tangible as the emotional vulnerability she had shared. The air around us, which was thick with sorrow moments before, now held something lighter: hope.

I was moved not only by the patient’s story but also by my own growth in knowing how to elicit it. Just a few years ago, I might have overlooked her comment, reducing “not exercising” to a checkbox in a hurried note. Back then, I was so preoccupied with perfecting my formulaic history-taking technique, anxious about sharing a room with someone who had been a stranger just moments before—someone I had to quickly win over to explore the most personal aspects of their life.  But with this patient, something was different. There was a tangible shift, a testament to my growth as a medical student learning to follow subtle cues, unafraid of where they might lead.

This experience stays with me as a reminder to approach each patient with curiosity, to linger in pauses, and to meet them where they are—wherever that may be. Ultimately, becoming a physician means building the kind of trust that invites patients to unburden themselves, transforming health care into an opportunity for care and connection to converge. Listening is not just about hearing symptoms; it is about creating a space where unspoken struggles find room to emerge. Sometimes, it is in these quiet spaces where healing can take its first breath.

 

[Featured] Image courtesy of Emilio Blair

The road less travelled

“Two roads diverged in a wood and I-
I took the one less traveled by,
And that has made all the difference.”
‘The Road not Taken’ by Robert Frost.

‘The Road not Taken’ is a poem by Robert Frost, where he talks about the impact of making different choices. The poem has stuck with me as I believe it resonates with my choice to specialize in family medicine – unknown to more than half of the medical graduates in my country, Pakistan.

In Pakistan, becoming a doctor is a dream that many parents have for their children. It is considered noble, and it ensures a relatively stable income in the economic stagnation that we face. But when it comes to making a choice of specialization, many fields that are well established in the rest of the world are unheard of, underdeveloped and underrated in Pakistan.

‘Family medicine’ – I heard the words for the first time from my sister, who had a friend who decided to pursue the specialty at Aga Khan University Hospital (AKUH) in Karachi, the pioneer institution and one of the few places that offered fellowship training in the discipline. Her class fellows were astonished. “But she was a very bright student, why did she go into family medicine?”

This astonishment stemmed from young aspiring graduates, who found sub-specialty and super-specialty to be lucrative options for a postgraduate degree. Anyone settling for a mundane field like primary care would mean that the person either lacked talent or motivation. While they mourned the waste of a good brain, the 15-year-old that I was back then thought this field might be for me as perhaps they choose not-so-bright people!

Years later, as a fresh graduate from medical college, the only additional information about family medicine for me by then was that my sister’s friend had moved to Australia after her residency.

Internship at AKUH followed, and I didn’t get a slot in family medicine as they were taken up by high achievers in the selection tests. My first desire to become a ‘generalist’ came in a specialty clinic while seeing a patient with multiple comorbid conditions. As soon as the patient would utter a new presenting complaint, I would do my referral form, making duty like any efficient intern. By the end of that consultation, I had referral letters made to endocrinology, cardiology, pulmonology and orthopedics.

Post-internship, the real dilemma came. The time to decide my area of specialization had arrived. As JK Rowling said, “There is an expiry date to blaming your parents for the decisions they take for your life.” For the first time, this had to be a decision that I made for myself, and there would be no one to blame if it did not go well.

I finally made the choice after two years. In those two years, I questioned what I wanted to do for the rest of my life. The answer came after doing short stints at community-based family medicine clinics in early 2018. The chance to see the grandmother for her osteoarthritis, the daughter, a new mom, for her postnatal check and the grandson for his well-baby check was immensely gratifying. And in 2019, there I was in the residency program at the same AKUH.

A journey began that was nothing short of a roller coaster ride. Though I thought that it was a well thought out decision, doubts were created by those around me every day. From my aging, innocent parents who found it hard to explain ‘family medicine,’ to relatives, to colleagues who would comment on the field having no scope. From seniors of internship year who would sigh with disbelief, “Family medicine, c’mon,” to well-wishers who would tell me that it is still not too late to change the specialty. Amid these doubts I somehow made it to the second year of our residency. The comments continued…“It’s a very small club. There is no growth. You won’t be saving a life like we do, is that satisfying?”

At the threshold of completing my four years here, I have realized that choosing the road less traveled has really made all the difference. Had it not been a small club, shy residents like me would have been lost in the crowd. I’m grateful for all the mentors who recognized my strengths.

We are a better version of ourselves than how we came in the first year – that is growth to me.

And yes, it’s satisfying since we save lives by taking time out to talk to our patients about prevention of disease. It may not sound heroic, but the impact of these small talks can mean a better tomorrow for the population, a whole generation.

To quote JK Rowling again,

It is our choices, Harry, that show what we truly are, far more than our abilities”

The choice I made four years ago was the best I have made this far!

 

Image Credit: (Two roads diverged in a wood” (CC BY-NC-ND 2.0) by Nguyen-Dang Tung)

Saving Lives

Beating the chest, emergency surgery, stopping the bleed,
The obvious ways to save a life, that which we all agree.
Picture a doctor saving lives–what first comes to mind?
The ER doc, the trauma surgeon, surely the first to find.

But we often fail to see beyond in more subtle ways,
How other doctors save lives through different displays.
The patient with chronic back pain, feeling death the only solution,
Relieved from misery by a single spinal fusion.

Another with mental illness that can’t help but think the same,
So let’s not forget psychiatrists who deserve plenty of fame.
And a teen with acne feeling ashamed of himself,
Yes, that dermatologist did more than just help.

These are lives saved that we often miss,
For all doctors save lives–let’s remember this.
Treating all patients with equality and respect
Holds a much deeper meaning and a profound effect.

But it’s not just doctors who hold the tools to do so,
For every person saves lives, though it might not always show.
Acts of kindness, floods of love and care,
You never know if someone needed you to just be there.

As doctors and as humans, let this all sink,
For saving lives is more than what we might think.

 


Poetry Thursdays is an initiative that highlights poems by medical students. If you are interested in contributing or would like to learn more, please contact our editors.


The Bridge We Build

In halls of sterile light and steel,

Where pulses echo, hearts to heal,

A quiet truth begins to rise—

Care can’t be measured by device.

 

For every chart, each test result,

There lies a gap, a hidden fault,

Where voices lost, unheard, remain—

A silent burden wrapped in pain.

 

From city streets to rural lanes,

Health divides in unseen chains,

A mother waits, her voice denied,

As walls of care grow far and wide.

 

For in the spaces where we fall,

We search for voices but fail the call,

Yet far too often, eyes are glazed,

As charts and numbers leave us dazed.

 

Despite the needs that linger near,

The call for change will never disappear,

Where time is short and tasks remain,

The human story bears the strain.

 

So may we strive, with open hearts,

To see the whole, not just the parts,

For true connection, clear and bold—

We must challenge norms and break the mold

 

May we learn, through heart and mind,

That health is not for one to find,

So doctors must unite, together fulfill—

A healing bridge, a shared goodwill.

After the Match

we dozed on a mattress
rattling overtop the yellow line,
dreams buzzing to the
arrival of each subway car.

how hard we fought to
wake together, and
walk among hundreds
on this cold palate
of concrete, between the
pointed teeth of buildings,

unclear if in these shadows
we are sheltered, as
mouthbrood roe, or simply
waiting, to be consumed.

 


Poetry Thursdays is an initiative that highlights poems by medical students. If you are interested in contributing or would like to learn more, please contact our editors.


A Summer of Reflection

7AADMaxilla 3DAssay planning

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 with the kind of moments you can’t get from books alone, the kind you’d tell the grandkids about. Little did I know, it would be that and so much more.

What I thought would be a summer immersed solely in the science turned into an unforgettable bench-to-bedside journey, bridging the OR and the lab. One memory I return to often is the first time I was standing in front of a fibula free flap being procured for a maxilla englufed by cancer. As the initial cuts were made, I couldn’t help but tilt my head back and forth, blinding myself as the bright OR lights reflected off the glistening fascia. I hoped no one noticed, or else they might have wondered what was going on with me. This was nothing like anatomy lab where everything was preserved and muted, set against the background of pungent formaldehyde. Here, every structure was alive, and every movement had purpose, solidified by the smoke from the Bovie carrying the smell of burning flesh into the ether. Every experienced spread of the Scanlon, every purposefully ligated vessel, and every nerve sacrificed overrode the whispers of uncertainty while reflecting the harmony between art and science. What a profound privilege it is to work on the human body in real time.

The tumor immunology lab, though quieter, offered its own rewards. I felt it to be a space for reflection and deep introspection, where the implications of what was seen in the OR could be understood and expanded upon. There was pure excitement in reducing number-assigned tumors to mere fragments, preparing them for the creation of cell lines. It was often easy to forget that these same tumors in the OR were intertwined with the very essence of a patient’s life. What made being in the lab special was the beauty in some days being filled with discussion on the stochasticity of science, while others were more about the rawness of life as we experience it. It was this balance that made being here such an enriching environment, one where both the cells and us humans cultivating them could thrive.

From the blue drapes that mosaicked over a patient to the whooshing of the glass shield within the confines of a culture hood, each environment demanded its own sterility. I came into the summer looking for something grounding — a sense of direction, maybe even confirmation that the path I was on still made sense. I hoped that if I committed fully, asked the right questions, and paid close attention, something meaningful would take shape. But medicine and its pursuit, I learned, is rarely linear. Rejection and setbacks are necessary evils. The OR taught me that precision is only part of the equation; the lab reminded me that science fails much more than it succeeds. Through both, I came to see that sterility is not just physical: it is in our approach, our assumptions and our desire for control. I was reminded that the true reward in this work is not in meeting expectations or in crafting a perfect story in a predefined way; it is in uncovering the raw, unfiltered truth, no matter how it challenges or surprises you. Maybe this applies to life in general, but for me, it all started here. And as the summer sun set all too soon, I found myself reminiscing on the great experiences with even greater people — memories I will carry with me and reflect on for years to come.

Featured images courtesy of Abdullah A. Memon

Counting Down

I stepped into your home in a short white coat

You asked me what year I was in

I answered, I asked you how your day was

You told me, “it is as good as it gets!” (smiling)

As you count down the days

I think to myself (nervously)

We both are counting down the days

But the way you’ve chosen to peer at future days is

One I will never forget

One we will count on

One that will prevail 

 


Poetry Thursdays is an initiative that highlights poems by medical students. If you are interested in contributing or would like to learn more, please contact our editors.


The First Day

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 your papa squeezed your hand, gazing once more into his mother’s eyes. Time coiled past and present through downy curls. 

You were so untouched by the world that you weren’t sure how to cry; your mouth opened and closed around warbles of sound. You were pruned as fingers after a long bath, for you’ve been floating these nine months.

How soon you’ll crawl, then run and climb. How soon these abstract splotches before you will morph into Mama and Papa, their shapes shifting through all the memories of your childhood, shrinking as you grow until you find one day that they were little more than children, the years long gone by. You will struggle to hold onto the last tendrils of a youth slipping ever further out of reach – but that is ages away, for a time when you have aged more than the caterpillar cocooned outside our window. How soon you will explore all your parents long to show you, will weather all they long to shelter you from, and the lifetime of today will be but one day of many.

Perhaps we’ll meet again under the glow of the operating room lights. You will hold your new world in your arms and will wonder that she has your father’s eyes, opening into this brief, shared glimpse of eternity. But for now you are bundled, a bundle of joy, delicate and blinking. What a beautiful day it is, this day I share with you.