Resident Physician Contributing Writer
Melissa Palma is an Iowa-raised daughter of Filipino immigrants and aesculapian advocate. She trained in family medicine at safety-net community health centers and is a board-certified Preventive Medicine and Public Health physician in Chicago, IL. Her writing reflects on the privileges and responsibilities we have as physicians to advance health equity for our patients and our communities. When not in clinic, you can find her reading non-fiction while nursing a taro boba tea.
Just like many Americans, Teresa is a busy mother-of-two with a lot on her plate. When her four-year-old daughter fell ill with the flu, she was grateful that the Child Health Insurance Coverage (CHIP) their family relies on was recently reauthorized in January after four months of funding limbo.
It seems that each week we learn of a new mass shooting. Gunfire from a legally-purchased AR-15 assault rifle hits innocent high school students, nightclub patrons, and mall-goers. A politician reassures the nation that our brave first responders are bringing the victims to a nearby hospital. The media’s report to the public generally ends, but when I hear “trauma team to ED STAT,” my work only just begins.
Every job is different, but my experiences so far have drawn a very stark contrast to life as a resident. Now imagine, if you can: you stroll into work at whatever time you want. You round on your patients, write notes and leave. The rest of the day you give verbal orders over the phone while you hang out at the beach.
On night shift as an OB/GYN resident, you are not the same person you are when you’re among the living. It might be the long hours, the lack of sleep, or the darkness creeping in from the windows, but your temper is shorter, a pager sounding sends you over the edge, and simple nursing requests leave you sour.
I’d like to share a true story of my experience with the on-call surgery resident shortly after my first breast cancer surgery.
“How are you doing this morning, Mr. Tracy? Sorry we’re running late. You’ve been waiting an hour.”
I wanted to know how other females in medicine felt on the subject of misogyny in medicine. I compiled a survey with 10 questions and space for comments. I used SurveyMonkey to create it, shared it publicly across social media, and trusted that only those who identified as female would complete it. The results are as follows.
On July 26, President Donald Trump released another polemic tweet informing the public that “the United States Government will not accept or allow Transgender individuals to serve in any capacity in the US military,” citing the “tremendous medical costs” that transgender individuals pose to the health system.
I work at one of several hospitals in the country whose security force is staffed by law enforcement personnel. It’s also one of the 52 percent of hospitals nationwide whose security guards are armed with handguns.
The House-approved American Health Care Act of 2017 (AHCA) and the proposed Senate Better Care Reconciliation Act (BCRA) would approve cuts to Medicaid that hurt Iowans.
All physicians are taught to communicate with a fundamental language of healing. This column is a collection of reflections on how I learned this fundamental language and an homage to the teachers who taught me.
I knew what was coming before it happened. She was looking up at the ring of white coats encircling her hospital bed, eyes darting from side to side to follow the sequence of their voices when suddenly, her lower lip began to quiver. And with her quivering lip, her breaths came faster and she sucked in deep gulps of air between her pleading questions. But soon the pack was headed on to the next patient on rounds. She was left alone, and the tears rolled freely.
Resident Physician Contributing Writer
University of California San Francisco
Juliana is a PGY-2 resident in Family and Community Medicine at the University of California San Francisco (UCSF).
