“Can you share a story of a patient you encountered that influenced you the most?”
When I was asked this question, there was one name that came to mind immediately: Tariq.
Twelve-year-old Tariq, one of the PCRF patients who were operated on during the week-long mission trip in Ramallah Hospital. Tariq was only one of many patients who came with stories and experiences that I was sure since the moment I met them would stay with me through my studies, as I sipped coffee while studying, while I worked out to release my stress. Tariq and 15+ other patients went to class and work with me, reminding me to keep going when I feel like quitting.
So while I pulled out my deck of cards once again for this other interviewer to see, Tariq and all those people were there looking at them too, reminding me I was doing to put aside my nerves and fear because as long as my intentions to help others like them remained, I would accomplish what I wanted to accomplish.
As a pre-med student, I was always unsure of what my limitations were in a clinical setting. Could I talk to families? Could I speak to the patient? How much could I learn from the physicians? In Ramallah, much of that was easy to do. And I tried to do as much of it as possible. Naturally, the first few patients we saw, I hovered more, acted like the “fly on the wall” I was so used to being when shadowing physicians in the clinics in the U.S. due to the HIPA laws and other reasons that protect patients.
Tariq was different, though. He made me different. I watched him with his nervous parents as he waited for his turn to be called for pre-op. I introduced myself to the family and him so that he would find a familiar face when he was taken into the OR. He smiled when he could, but when I walked away, I overheard his father saying to him in Arabic, “Don’t be scared. There’s nothing to be afraid of.”
Tariq had Erb’s Palsy, which meant that he suffered an injury during a difficult birth that severed a main nerve in his arm, rendering him incapable of moving his arm or shoulder. Typically, babies who suffer from this undergo multiple procedures when they are young that allows them to regain nearly all arm movement. If left until they are older, the repair is less likely to give them full use of their arm, but it still helps.
At the age of 12, Tariq should have had his surgeries at a much younger age. However, due to limited resources and surgeons available to him in the region, he was not able to complete treatment when he was younger. So here he was, waiting for his turn to be operated on by a team of volunteer hand surgeons that many of these patients have been waiting a significant time for.
When he was wheeled into the operating room, the staff was moving around him quickly to prep him for surgery and to place him under anesthesia. I stood out of everyone’s way as I did in the few procedures before this. However, I noticed Tariq shaking, most likely due to nerves, and gripping onto the side rails of the bed so tightly his knuckles appeared white. I watched his wide eyes dart from left to right, trying to grasp what everyone was doing. He was afraid, and I was watching from the sidelines.
I didn’t know what my boundaries were, but I knew that the fear I felt as I tried to put myself in his shoes overcame me and compelled me to squeeze between everyone and move to the side of his bed.
“Keefak?” I asked him in Arabic. How are you?
His darting eyes moved to me for a few seconds as he responded, “Ana Mneeh.” I’m fine. He lost focus again and went back to watching everyone’s movement.
I watched as his hand shook on the side railing and tried to distract him again.
“So what are your favorite classes in school?”
In a shaky voice, he began to list his top 3 classes and why he liked him. His hand kept shaking, so I opened mine and put it next to his on the railing.
“My hand is here if you want to squeeze it. I know you’re a little scared, but I’m standing right here. I can tell you whatever you want to know.”
He looked at my hand for a few seconds and then asked, “What are they doing?”
I explained that they were just getting the tools ready and the anesthesiologist was preparing the medicine he was going to get through his IV. At that moment, the anesthesiologist, who noticed I was speaking to him, told me in English to explain to him that he was about to put in the medication and he would become sleepy. I passed the information to Tariq, whose hand let go of the railing and grasped onto mine. I squeezed it back and told him to squeeze as hard as he needed to.
When he dozed off, his hand still held mine tightly and firmly. The OR grew quiet as I imagined myself holding hands this small for the rest of my life. I imagined the trust I hoped parents would have when they would put their child’s safety in my hands. Would I be able to hold those hands, their lives, this tightly?
All I knew was this was the position I wanted to be in for the rest of my life. I didn’t just want it, I needed it. I dreamed of it. I breathed it. This was why I was doing all the work I was doing: to be able to hold someone’s trust this firmly.
While Tariq was being operated on, I spoke to his family, and updated them so often. I took their questions and sent them to the surgeons. I didn’t have the skills yet to practice the role of a physician, but I did have the opportunity to learn to be the best “people person,” the most compassionate and understanding person I could be. I had the opportunity to learn how to communicate with worried parents and worried patients. I got to let them make me better every day.
My desire for two letters after my name, a paycheck, or the status won’t be enough to sustain me through the stress of medical school. But people like Tariq, who remind me every day of why I am striving, that remind me how much purpose I felt when I was holding their trust, they are why I am where I am and why I keep pushing forward.
When I was asked this question, there was one name that came to mind immediately: Tariq.
Twelve-year-old Tariq, one of the PCRF patients who were operated on during the week-long mission trip in Ramallah Hospital. Tariq was only one of many patients who came with stories and experiences that I was sure since the moment I met them would stay with me through my studies, as I sipped coffee while studying, while I worked out to release my stress. Tariq and 15+ other patients went to class and work with me, reminding me to keep going when I feel like quitting.
So while I pulled out my deck of cards once again for this other interviewer to see, Tariq and all those people were there looking at them too, reminding me I was doing to put aside my nerves and fear because as long as my intentions to help others like them remained, I would accomplish what I wanted to accomplish.
As a pre-med student, I was always unsure of what my limitations were in a clinical setting. Could I talk to families? Could I speak to the patient? How much could I learn from the physicians? In Ramallah, much of that was easy to do. And I tried to do as much of it as possible. Naturally, the first few patients we saw, I hovered more, acted like the “fly on the wall” I was so used to being when shadowing physicians in the clinics in the U.S. due to the HIPA laws and other reasons that protect patients.
Tariq was different, though. He made me different. I watched him with his nervous parents as he waited for his turn to be called for pre-op. I introduced myself to the family and him so that he would find a familiar face when he was taken into the OR. He smiled when he could, but when I walked away, I overheard his father saying to him in Arabic, “Don’t be scared. There’s nothing to be afraid of.”
Tariq had Erb’s Palsy, which meant that he suffered an injury during a difficult birth that severed a main nerve in his arm, rendering him incapable of moving his arm or shoulder. Typically, babies who suffer from this undergo multiple procedures when they are young that allows them to regain nearly all arm movement. If left until they are older, the repair is less likely to give them full use of their arm, but it still helps.
At the age of 12, Tariq should have had his surgeries at a much younger age. However, due to limited resources and surgeons available to him in the region, he was not able to complete treatment when he was younger. So here he was, waiting for his turn to be operated on by a team of volunteer hand surgeons that many of these patients have been waiting a significant time for.
When he was wheeled into the operating room, the staff was moving around him quickly to prep him for surgery and to place him under anesthesia. I stood out of everyone’s way as I did in the few procedures before this. However, I noticed Tariq shaking, most likely due to nerves, and gripping onto the side rails of the bed so tightly his knuckles appeared white. I watched his wide eyes dart from left to right, trying to grasp what everyone was doing. He was afraid, and I was watching from the sidelines.
I didn’t know what my boundaries were, but I knew that the fear I felt as I tried to put myself in his shoes overcame me and compelled me to squeeze between everyone and move to the side of his bed.
“Keefak?” I asked him in Arabic. How are you?
His darting eyes moved to me for a few seconds as he responded, “Ana Mneeh.” I’m fine. He lost focus again and went back to watching everyone’s movement.
I watched as his hand shook on the side railing and tried to distract him again.
“So what are your favorite classes in school?”
In a shaky voice, he began to list his top 3 classes and why he liked him. His hand kept shaking, so I opened mine and put it next to his on the railing.
“My hand is here if you want to squeeze it. I know you’re a little scared, but I’m standing right here. I can tell you whatever you want to know.”
He looked at my hand for a few seconds and then asked, “What are they doing?”
I explained that they were just getting the tools ready and the anesthesiologist was preparing the medicine he was going to get through his IV. At that moment, the anesthesiologist, who noticed I was speaking to him, told me in English to explain to him that he was about to put in the medication and he would become sleepy. I passed the information to Tariq, whose hand let go of the railing and grasped onto mine. I squeezed it back and told him to squeeze as hard as he needed to.
When he dozed off, his hand still held mine tightly and firmly. The OR grew quiet as I imagined myself holding hands this small for the rest of my life. I imagined the trust I hoped parents would have when they would put their child’s safety in my hands. Would I be able to hold those hands, their lives, this tightly?
All I knew was this was the position I wanted to be in for the rest of my life. I didn’t just want it, I needed it. I dreamed of it. I breathed it. This was why I was doing all the work I was doing: to be able to hold someone’s trust this firmly.
While Tariq was being operated on, I spoke to his family, and updated them so often. I took their questions and sent them to the surgeons. I didn’t have the skills yet to practice the role of a physician, but I did have the opportunity to learn to be the best “people person,” the most compassionate and understanding person I could be. I had the opportunity to learn how to communicate with worried parents and worried patients. I got to let them make me better every day.
My desire for two letters after my name, a paycheck, or the status won’t be enough to sustain me through the stress of medical school. But people like Tariq, who remind me every day of why I am striving, that remind me how much purpose I felt when I was holding their trust, they are why I am where I am and why I keep pushing forward.
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