Evaluate a significant experience, achievement, risk you have taken, or ethical dilemma you have faced and its impact on you
It was a Wednesday afternoon, the last bell rang and I rushed to my mom's car and buckled up. The twenty five minute drive, although time-consuming, gave me time to reflect on my day and look forward to working at the hospital. My position as the pediatric volunteer was the most rewarding job ever.
I knew Miguel would be waiting for me. He was always waiting for me. I imagined that he'd have already set up the board game Battleship so that we'd waste no time when I got there. I anticipated a stack of DVDs on the table near his bedside, one of which we would watch that day. But I was also aware that he was weak, perhaps, too weak. As I stared out the open window of the car, the warm air blowing into my face, my thoughts wandered to the first time I met Miguel.
I walked in through the double doors and immediately, the distinct smell besieged me. It always occurred to me that the hospital had a distinct odor, a somewhat bittersweet scent. I took the elevator to the third floor, made two consecutive right turns, and arrived at the pediatrics department. It was my third week, and in all honesty, it was quite monotonous. The children were too sick to play any games, the parents were too depressed, and I spent most of my time in the neonatal ICU monitoring the babies or sanitizing the play room. I wasn't expecting anything different this time around, but I took a walk around the department anyways.
Room 290. That was the room Miguel was in when I first saw him. I noticed the scrawny six year old Hispanic boy in bed, and immediately, I thought that he was too tired and unwell to do anything enjoyable. I didn't even bother asking, and I was about to close the door, when I heard, "hey, do you want to play a game?".-- his question caught me off guard. I was so enthused that someone wanted to actually play a game; I couldn't stop smiling to myself. Instantly, Miguel and I formed a bond. He had a spark to him, a vivacity of some sort which radiated to everyone around him. It was like he was oblivious to the fact that he was suffering through acute lymphoblastic leukemia.
In the following weeks, I continued acquainting myself with Miguel. It was almost disheartening to know that a unique and spirited boy like him had such a critical disease. He'd narrate stories about his Grandfather and how his friends teased him at school because he was a slow learner. Miguel began to consider me a part of his family; I guess, apart from his grandfather and his brother, I was the only one he had. It brightened my day to see him so cheerful, even though he was suffering through intense pain from chemotherapy. His sanguinity motivated me; his eagerness and zeal made me forget about all my trivial problems. As the weeks progressed, however, we switched roles. As he got weaker and weaker, I got stronger and attempted to encourage him. But my efforts were futile compared to his body's vulnerability. He was too sick to even get out of bed.
Miguel is one of the reasons why I am so inspired to enter the medical field. His exuberance and hopefulness made me realize that I have what it takes to pursue my goals. While spending hours in the hospital, I realized that this is where I belong; it is my niche, and I want to spend the rest of my life in this profession. There is so much scope for cancer research and I'm intrigued by the cause and treatment options. Miguel provided me with the drive and the motivation to keep trying. Working with grad students and knowledgeable professors over the summer at the UC San Diego COSMOS program confirmed what Miguel had inspired me to do and augmented my desire to fulfill my dream of becoming a doctor.
That day, as my mom pulled over into the parking lot, I got out of the car expecting to play Battleship with Miguel, watch a movie with him, and continue listening to his stories. I walked through the double doors, familiarizing myself with the odor, and made my way up to the pediatrics department. Room 290. I slowly opened the door, but the bed was empty. I felt a lump forming in my throat and a sick feeling in my stomach. I didn't know how to react, what to think. All sorts of heartbreaking thoughts rushed to my head, overflowing my emotions. He left, without even a warning or a goodbye. Miguel was gone.
But the impact that he had made on my life would stay forever.
It was a Wednesday afternoon, the last bell rang and I rushed to my mom's car and buckled up. The twenty five minute drive, although time-consuming, gave me time to reflect on my day and look forward to working at the hospital. My position as the pediatric volunteer was the most rewarding job ever.
I knew Miguel would be waiting for me. He was always waiting for me. I imagined that he'd have already set up the board game Battleship so that we'd waste no time when I got there. I anticipated a stack of DVDs on the table near his bedside, one of which we would watch that day. But I was also aware that he was weak, perhaps, too weak. As I stared out the open window of the car, the warm air blowing into my face, my thoughts wandered to the first time I met Miguel.
I walked in through the double doors and immediately, the distinct smell besieged me. It always occurred to me that the hospital had a distinct odor, a somewhat bittersweet scent. I took the elevator to the third floor, made two consecutive right turns, and arrived at the pediatrics department. It was my third week, and in all honesty, it was quite monotonous. The children were too sick to play any games, the parents were too depressed, and I spent most of my time in the neonatal ICU monitoring the babies or sanitizing the play room. I wasn't expecting anything different this time around, but I took a walk around the department anyways.
Room 290. That was the room Miguel was in when I first saw him. I noticed the scrawny six year old Hispanic boy in bed, and immediately, I thought that he was too tired and unwell to do anything enjoyable. I didn't even bother asking, and I was about to close the door, when I heard, "hey, do you want to play a game?".-- his question caught me off guard. I was so enthused that someone wanted to actually play a game; I couldn't stop smiling to myself. Instantly, Miguel and I formed a bond. He had a spark to him, a vivacity of some sort which radiated to everyone around him. It was like he was oblivious to the fact that he was suffering through acute lymphoblastic leukemia.
In the following weeks, I continued acquainting myself with Miguel. It was almost disheartening to know that a unique and spirited boy like him had such a critical disease. He'd narrate stories about his Grandfather and how his friends teased him at school because he was a slow learner. Miguel began to consider me a part of his family; I guess, apart from his grandfather and his brother, I was the only one he had. It brightened my day to see him so cheerful, even though he was suffering through intense pain from chemotherapy. His sanguinity motivated me; his eagerness and zeal made me forget about all my trivial problems. As the weeks progressed, however, we switched roles. As he got weaker and weaker, I got stronger and attempted to encourage him. But my efforts were futile compared to his body's vulnerability. He was too sick to even get out of bed.
Miguel is one of the reasons why I am so inspired to enter the medical field. His exuberance and hopefulness made me realize that I have what it takes to pursue my goals. While spending hours in the hospital, I realized that this is where I belong; it is my niche, and I want to spend the rest of my life in this profession. There is so much scope for cancer research and I'm intrigued by the cause and treatment options. Miguel provided me with the drive and the motivation to keep trying. Working with grad students and knowledgeable professors over the summer at the UC San Diego COSMOS program confirmed what Miguel had inspired me to do and augmented my desire to fulfill my dream of becoming a doctor.
That day, as my mom pulled over into the parking lot, I got out of the car expecting to play Battleship with Miguel, watch a movie with him, and continue listening to his stories. I walked through the double doors, familiarizing myself with the odor, and made my way up to the pediatrics department. Room 290. I slowly opened the door, but the bed was empty. I felt a lump forming in my throat and a sick feeling in my stomach. I didn't know how to react, what to think. All sorts of heartbreaking thoughts rushed to my head, overflowing my emotions. He left, without even a warning or a goodbye. Miguel was gone.
But the impact that he had made on my life would stay forever.