Contributing Writer
INOVA Children's Hospital
Dr. Kenneth Lopez is a 1st-year Pediatric Resident at INOVA Children's Hospital in Fairfax who is experienced in multiple fields, including medicine, chemistry, biology, public health, sociology and mathematics. He has trained in multiple industry-standard lab techniques in immunology and microbiology, as well as clinical and epidemiological translational research within multiple disciplines. His diverse experiences, leadership skills and consistent compassionate and curious approach towards tasks, allow him to contribute dynamic ideas to organizations and produce high-quality work within multiple stages of project development and implementation.
“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 …
“Your time starts now. You may begin your examination.” These were the words said moments before a life-altering moment during my high school years.
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.
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.
The purpose of this piece is not to assign blame, nor is it to debate the inciting event for the current state of the people in Gaza. Instead, I hope to inspire you, the reader, to set aside any political differences and to lean into your role as both a human and patient advocate. I urge you to speak up in support of our colleagues overseas, who are treating and operating under the threat of death; for history will not judge our silence kindly.
The stress of juggling multiple projects, some of which held little interest, seemed to overshadow their summer which should have been devoted to personal and professional development. In addition, I began to question if some of them would attempt to take shortcuts in their research.
During my three weeks working in the pediatric dialysis unit and the post-kidney transplant unit, I noticed a troublesome trend. The whiter and younger pediatric patients were resting comfortably in the post-transplant unit with their new surgically placed kidney being meticulously taken care of. The darker and older pediatric patients spent countless, mindless hours attached to a dialysis machine with little hope for a new kidney after years of being on the waitlist.
Upon reflection, my actions and feelings in caring for this patient reveal how truly afraid I was to be wrong; not necessarily about the diagnosis, but rather about whether the patient would be okay. Maybe coming in daily and opening her chart for good news was just me hoping that my initial impression was still right instead of coming to terms with the fact I was very wrong.
One of the most powerful paradoxes of medical education is that we learn how to heal the living by dissecting the dead. Our cadavers house the beauty and intricacies of human creation, the distinctiveness yet commonality of each human body and the finality of decline.
When I first started learning how to write SOAP notes, I was under the impression they would serve as objective documents to detail the medical history and current health problems experienced by patients It seemed these notes were to be created by — and for — clinicians. I now realize this perception could not be more wrong.
Humor can be a double-edged sword; when used inappropriately in the workplace, it can taint interactions between health care providers and detract from professionalism.
In my white coat, / I ask for forgiveness. / Forgive me, / to the weary homeless man
Contributing Writer
UCLA David Geffen School of Medicine
Qiang Zhang is a first year medical student at UCLA David Geffen School of Medicine in LA, CA class of 2025. In 2019, she graduated from Duke University with a Bachelor of Arts in political science. She enjoys yoga, playing music, and reading books in her free time. After graduating medical school in 2025, Qiang would like to pursue a career in Internal Medicine.
