Hella urgent. I really only need advise on whether the paragraphs in bold make sense and flow with the rest of the essay
Walking into the white-washed hospital room with the speech therapist, I noticed the elderly patient, sitting upright in the cumbersome bed and struggling to open his mouth to say hello. I only knew him by "patient #018." Still, I felt the need to hold his hand and utter the expression heard repeatedly in the building: "Everything will be all right." In the next ten minutes, the speech therapist asked him to locate a variety of objects in the room. When she asked him to point to the window, he raised his frail arms and pointed instead to the phone on the opposite side of the room. I desperately wanted to help. I felt an urge to run outside and scream, as if that would magically solve the problem.
But what could I really do? I was only a summer volunteer, a 16-year-old who cleaned the microwave in the staff lounge and refilled water in the patients' rooms each morning. As a never-ending chain of "only ifs" ran through my mind, I tried unsuccessfully to hold back my tears. Feeling a single drop trickle down my face, I stared at patient #018, wondering how his life had been before he entered this emotionally agonizing realm of continuous check-ups, injections of IV fluids, and signs reminding one to "Please call. Don't fall." I pictured his wife sitting by his bed on sleepless nights, doubting that life would ever revert back to normal. Walking through the hospital corridors after that appointment, I asked myself, "Why?" I thirsted for the answers.
I suppose it's clichĂŠ to say that was the day that changed everything; the moment that my life became "Claritin Clear," and I realized that within the next ten years, I wanted to see the title "M.D." after my name. Prior to the medical volunteer program, the driving forces behind my interest in medicine were the desire to help others and the academic rigors of the field. After my vivid encounter with patient #018, I became increasingly fascinated with the complexity of the human body and how suddenly it could succumb to the tiniest shift. I ached to learn more about how to get to the roots of such problems and how to help patients transcend them.
However, patient #018 also made an unexpected, personal impact. As the first patient with whom I had a lengthy encounter with while volunteering, he quickly made a profound impression within the first few minutes. Even though I never saw him again, I couldn't get him out of my mind for many days. I tried to imagine myself in his position but found it hard to fathom the number of difficulties he had to endure. Witnessing how frustrated he was by his disability prompted me to be more patient in my interactions with others. I started to be increasingly objective, compassionate, and tolerant.
Though it wasn't possible for me to treat his disorder, I knew I could do something. I took an opportunity to shadow a neurologist later that year and watched eleven surgeries. As the nurses wheeled each patient into the operation room, I began to empathize with them and tried to understand the mechanisms behind their troubles. When I later saw the joys of the patients and their families in the recovery room, I myself felt blissful since they had started their journey onto recovery.
The image of patient #018, shoulders drooped and eyes casted downwards, remains prominent in my mind to this day. His short period in my life has inspired me to be more determined and dedicated in broadening my never-ending curiosity and tenacity. I yearn to expand my education so that I can make a valuable mark on the lives of others and become a person who has the solutions and the utmost compassion.
Walking into the white-washed hospital room with the speech therapist, I noticed the elderly patient, sitting upright in the cumbersome bed and struggling to open his mouth to say hello. I only knew him by "patient #018." Still, I felt the need to hold his hand and utter the expression heard repeatedly in the building: "Everything will be all right." In the next ten minutes, the speech therapist asked him to locate a variety of objects in the room. When she asked him to point to the window, he raised his frail arms and pointed instead to the phone on the opposite side of the room. I desperately wanted to help. I felt an urge to run outside and scream, as if that would magically solve the problem.
But what could I really do? I was only a summer volunteer, a 16-year-old who cleaned the microwave in the staff lounge and refilled water in the patients' rooms each morning. As a never-ending chain of "only ifs" ran through my mind, I tried unsuccessfully to hold back my tears. Feeling a single drop trickle down my face, I stared at patient #018, wondering how his life had been before he entered this emotionally agonizing realm of continuous check-ups, injections of IV fluids, and signs reminding one to "Please call. Don't fall." I pictured his wife sitting by his bed on sleepless nights, doubting that life would ever revert back to normal. Walking through the hospital corridors after that appointment, I asked myself, "Why?" I thirsted for the answers.
I suppose it's clichĂŠ to say that was the day that changed everything; the moment that my life became "Claritin Clear," and I realized that within the next ten years, I wanted to see the title "M.D." after my name. Prior to the medical volunteer program, the driving forces behind my interest in medicine were the desire to help others and the academic rigors of the field. After my vivid encounter with patient #018, I became increasingly fascinated with the complexity of the human body and how suddenly it could succumb to the tiniest shift. I ached to learn more about how to get to the roots of such problems and how to help patients transcend them.
However, patient #018 also made an unexpected, personal impact. As the first patient with whom I had a lengthy encounter with while volunteering, he quickly made a profound impression within the first few minutes. Even though I never saw him again, I couldn't get him out of my mind for many days. I tried to imagine myself in his position but found it hard to fathom the number of difficulties he had to endure. Witnessing how frustrated he was by his disability prompted me to be more patient in my interactions with others. I started to be increasingly objective, compassionate, and tolerant.
Though it wasn't possible for me to treat his disorder, I knew I could do something. I took an opportunity to shadow a neurologist later that year and watched eleven surgeries. As the nurses wheeled each patient into the operation room, I began to empathize with them and tried to understand the mechanisms behind their troubles. When I later saw the joys of the patients and their families in the recovery room, I myself felt blissful since they had started their journey onto recovery.
The image of patient #018, shoulders drooped and eyes casted downwards, remains prominent in my mind to this day. His short period in my life has inspired me to be more determined and dedicated in broadening my never-ending curiosity and tenacity. I yearn to expand my education so that I can make a valuable mark on the lives of others and become a person who has the solutions and the utmost compassion.
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