By Gina Siddiqui, Illustration: Lucy Jones, The New York Times, October 18, 2022
Sal was 58 when I was assigned his case. Sal had been diagnosed with cystic fibrosis in the 1960s and was considered an old survivor; all his friends who had been diagnosed at the same time, including his younger brother, were dead.
I was 21, a few weeks out of college and one of the youngest students in my medical school class. Our assignment, to follow patients with chronic diseases to their clinic appointments, felt like a formality to my classmates whose parents were doctors and who already knew what went on in hospitals. But for me it was eye-opening.
On the day of our first appointment, I stood waiting for Sal on the freshly buffed floor of our hospital’s clinic lobby, fidgeting with my white coat and trying to hold my clipboard in a way that looked natural. The morning wave of physicians and researchers speed-walked past me to the elevators, coffee or cellphone in hand, eyebrows furrowed.
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