Chapter 11 Perfect Autobiographical Phrases
"If you could present yourself to the Committee on Admissions, what would you want to make sure they knew about you?"
(Michigan State University)
"What is one life experience you want to talk about?"
(Albany Medical College)
"Who would you consider to be the most influential person in your life and why?"
(UC Davis)
Most AMCAS essays focus on the applicant's decision to become a doctor, leaving the admissions committee in the dark about personal experiences that might make the applicant an appealing addition to the medical school's class. That's why many schools pose secondary essay topics to learn about their applicants' personal stories: to meet the person behind the MCAT score, grades, and clinical and research experiences. As we'll see in this chapter's perfect phrases, stories about your family background and upbringing, key moments in your life, or important people or influences in your development can give medical schools the personal insights they seek.
Childhood, Family, and Upbringing
After three years of hard work at my Kansas boarding school, far from home, I finally received my diploma. When I stepped off the plane at Singapore's Changi Airport, I eagerly searched for my parents in the crowd. Instead, I saw my uncles, each with a gloomy look on his face. "Your dad had a heart attack last week while playing tennis," Uncle Ji said, his voice trembling, "and they couldn't save him." I froze, stunned. Tears flooded my eyes as I pictured my father's lopsided smile and heard his gravelly voice. Not only had I lost a loving and caring father but also a role model who supported the family. In the days that followed, my mother, who my younger brother, Kaiwen, and I once turned confidently to for help, became physically and emotionally fragile. Kaiwen, stunned by the unexpected loss, became depressed and helpless. It was suddenly up to me to remain strong so the family could function. I began making all my family's decisions, from organizing the funeral to planning for our financial future. My father's premature death—easily the worst moment of my life—accelerated my maturation, helped me become independent, and forced me for the first time to deal with death.
I was born with developmental dysplasia of the hip. If my condition had not been corrected, I would have limped for the rest of my life. When I did not respond to the manual reduction treatment method, I was operated on at Deaconess Children's Hospital of Eureka Springs, Arkansas. Fortunately, the operation was a success, and after a few years of rehabilitation I could look forward to a normal life. Two memories from my experiences at Deaconess will always stand out. The first was the relationship of trust I formed with my orthopedic surgeon, Dr. Barry Matsugawa. Every hour, he would come in to check on me, always treating me like a member of his own family. The special, very personal attention Dr. Matsugawa gave me lifted me out of my fear and anxiety. My second memory from Deaconess is that most of the other children faced even bigger challenges than I did. These children, ranging everywhere from seven to fourteen years old, were permanently disabled and in constant pain, yet to my amazement they always kept their spirits up and did everything they were asked to do to the best of their abilities. From their courage, I learned to never give up. Seeing these children befriend each other and rally to each other's aid helped me to understand the concept of teamwork in new ways. Disabled, I have learned, does not mean "unabled"—these kids' ability to work together as a team was as natural and sincere as any "normal" group of people I've met. I also felt a deep desire to help these children and children like them and knew from that point forward what I wanted to be when I grew up. My philosophy of the medical profession is based on this early and extended experience with medicine from the patient's perspective: I will be able to offer my future patients genuine empathy because I know the pain and fear they are experiencing.
Growing up in an isolated valley of the Ch'ang-pai Mountains, I had a burning desire—unsatisfied until I was eight—to see what was on the other side of the summits surrounding our home. My father, a tax collector, was the first in his family to attend college, and he raised me to understand the value of education and self-reliance. In 1998, my family and I immigrated to the United States, but when my grandfather fell terminally ill a year later, my parents returned to China to care for him. I was only 17, but I made a gut decision to stay in the United States and fend for myself, against my parents' direct wishes. As a child of a culture in which obeying one's elders is bred in the bone, it took everything I had to disobey my parents. I was on my own.
Every Sunday, my sisters and I would find ourselves engrossed in our grandmother's stories about how naughty my father was as a kid, the hardships of the Vietnamese War, or what our grandfather Thieu was like. So when grandma suddenly started forgetting parts of her stories, we noticed immediately. I remember the helpless looks we all gave each other when my father told us that she had been diagnosed with Alzheimer's. There was no drug to give, no organ to transplant, no surgery to perform. Month by month, then week by week, some unknown force within my grandmother's brain robbed her of the qualities that made my grandmother "mine." When I questioned her doctors, they tried to be informative, but their answers finally came down to a frustrated, "We don't really know." Alzheimer's and the inability of my grandmother's doctors to help her first made me realize that the intellectual curiosity that fueled my love of science could only truly justify itself if it improved people's lives. My grandmother's memory has always enabled me to resist doing research for its own sake, to always ask, "Who can this benefit?"She is the primary reason I want to pursue a career in academic medicine.
My family dreaded Monday, Wednesday, and Friday nights. On those days, nervous anticipation made the dinner table quiet and the food difficult to eat. Everyone was wondering, "Should we get it over with or put it off as long as we can?" Once we decided to go ahead, my father summoned my sister Samantha and cleaned her quadriceps with alcohol. "One more minute, just one more minute, please!" Samantha pleaded. My father always patiently waited until my sister was ready. "Relax your leg, Sammie. It'll hurt less," he gently advised. After Samantha's final deep breath and terrified go-ahead nod, my father plunged the needle into the tense leg muscle at a perfect ninety-degree angle. My mother and I could only hold our breaths and pray the pain would not be as bad as the time before. It was only last year that my father admitted to me how difficult it was to have to administer my sister's intramuscular growth hormone injections over the nine long years of "shot nights."
I have a very special brother. Curtis was born with a rare genetic disorder called methylmalonic acidemia and homocystinuria (MA&H) that affects one in 50,000 fetuses. Diagnosed late, he suffers from hydrocephalus and major developmental disabilities like cortical blindness, small brain matter, and delayed development. Since MA&H is now curable in early stages, Curtis is one of the oldest living patients. His impact on my life has been enormous. I first became interested in science to better understand what had happened to him, and eventually I majored in nutrition, which taught me the chemistry behind Curtis's disorder. Watching him doggedly survive all his problems taught me to be a fighter in my own right. After my first semester at Haverford, for example, I seriously doubted I could handle the intense academics. Inspired by Curtis, however, I sought help and persevered; my grades improved every semester. But perhaps the greatest thing Curtis taught me is to extend my compassion beyond the confines of our family by dedicating myself to help others. Curtis's disorder gave me firsthand exposure to the critical role that pediatricians play in the quality of life for both the patient and the patient's family. He has been a driving force in my decision to become a pediatrician.
Key Experiences
During my junior year in high school my father received a different kind of emergency call. One fall day my Aunt Suzie, whose family lived on our street, ran up to our house breathless and panicked, crying out to my father to come help. My father grabbed a cell phone, and we sprinted to her back barn. There we found my Uncle Drew lying unconscious with a gaping head laceration and the potent smell of car exhaust hanging in the air. As he worked on his car with the engine running, the barn door had closed without him noticing, and when he succumbed to the carbon monoxide, he had struck his head on a shovel. As my father started cardiopulmonary resuscitation, I immediately called 911. After requesting help, I began helping my father with CPR, but the look in his eyes told me to stop. We had come too late. My uncle was dead.
The year was 2003. I sat in Dr. Krull's hard metal office chair waiting for the test results that would change my life. When Dr. Krull walked in, he immediately sat down opposite me with a sober expression that scared me out of my wits. "Nellie, your enlarged lymph nodes can have two causes. They may be simply the result of a virus, the most likely case. But it is also possible they are a form of cancer." My eyes began to tear up as he continued. "The only way we can tell whether the lymph nodes are malignant is to perform a biopsy, and, of course, we need to do this as soon as possible. I have it scheduled for Thursday. Is that okay for you?" I could not believe this was really happening. I was 17 years old—in the prime of my teenage years—and I was being told I could have a life-threatening disease. Unable to respond, unable to move, I could only watch his mouth explain that my lymph nodes' rapid pace of growth "was consistent with" cancer. I do not remember anything he said after that. As my mother prepared me for Thursday afternoon, I slipped into a state of numbed disbelief.
I can still recall that hot, humid July day in the Florida Panhandle and the feeling I had as I drove up to my grandmother's house only to see an ambulance sitting in the driveway. Running into the house, I discovered that the paramedics were preparing to transport my grandmother to the hospital. I suddenly felt overcome by powerlessness. For years, my grandmother had battled breast cancer and survived, but on this July day the disease had caught up with her, and she would never awaken from the coma it had induced in her. The only thing that redeemed the awful day was the compassion her physicians showed her and my family at the hospital as we prepared to say goodbye to her. One of the physicians even asked us to gather around grandmother's bed as he said a prayer for her, my grandfather, and the rest of our family.
The impact of moving to Manhattan from Djakarta for college was both subtle and total. Although my values are the same, I now have a much deeper confidence in my instincts. I know I can adapt to new challenges and learn unfamiliar topics quickly. And though living overseas has given me a greater appreciation for being American, I now see myself as a "permanent" citizen of the most mysterious and exciting city in the world.
It was only 10 days into basic training when our drill sergeant told us to retrieve our enlistment contracts from our wall lockers. Sitting mute on the polished tiles, we all read for the first time the clause that says you can be reassigned "in time of war." Sergeant Alvarez then turned on the television, and we grimly watched scenes of warfare in Afghanistan. We had been reassigned to infantry training—next stop: Operation Enduring Freedom. Surviving boot camp at Camp Lejeune became my rite of passage, a journey into the deepest part of me. Over the next several weeks, I overcame my fears and doubts and learned how to guide a squad of men shaken by suicides and an unforeseen war into becoming more than they had known how to be before. I began my nineteenth year as a boy surrounded by strangers. I emerged from it leading men who had become my brothers.
Saltine crackers—it is hard to imagine that these dry, tasteless biscuits were at the top of my older brother's wish list the summer he turned eight. That July Irfan had suffered a brain aneurysm that required two surgeries and an extended hospital stay. Because of his post-surgical nausea and resulting inability to hold down any solid food, these bland crackers were the only food Irfan craved. When the nurse informed him that the hospital cafeteria had no saltines, the composure Irfan had maintained so bravely for three weeks fell apart, and his pain and frustration at being ill boiled to the surface. As we helplessly watched the tears stream down Irfan's face, Dr. Boniface quietly stepped out of the room only to return a short while later with a box of saltines behind his back. Sitting with Dr. Boniface, contentedly munching crackers and discussing baseball, Irfan briefly escaped the horrors of dizziness, bedpans, the permanent scar on the back of his head, and, worst, the fear of never being the same again—of never being able to hit a baseball again, play the piano, or even walk properly. Dr. Boniface's treatment of Irfan went past "medical attention" and became something much bigger: it accelerated Irfan's recovery by allowing him to be a normal eight-year-old once more when the world he had known suddenly crumbled around him. This doctor's gesture had a huge impact on my six-year-old's vision of the world and marked the beginning of my interest in medicine.
I almost didn't recognize him. When I saw my grandfather for the last time in the summer of 2003, he had been unconscious for days. Half his face was covered by an oxygen mask, and his body seemed tiny amidst the beeping machines in his Seoul hospital room. How was it possible that this brave man who as a student activist and politician had helped bring democracy to South Korea had become so frail and small? My grandfather had been diagnosed with lung cancer in 1997, and since then everyone in the family had taken turns going back to Seoul to spend time with him. Seeing the man I admired so much fight courageously but futilely with death, I felt frustration at my inability to help. Grandpa's brave battle with death ended later that summer, but it left me with an intense desire to acquire the medical knowledge to save the lives of people like him who suffer through the pain of wasting illness.
Role Models
The physicians' axiom, "First do no harm," has special meaning for my father because it's not merely part of his creed as a doctor but is deeply rooted in his Hindu values. Born and raised in rural Gujarat, he earned a scholarship to UCLA at the age of 16. Confronted with the stark cultural contrasts between his new land and his old, it was his ideals—stemming largely from his Hindu upbringing—that gave him the integrity to endure. I inherited his untiring endurance and was taught to embrace his belief that life should be lived honestly and evaluated in moral terms. Ironically, it was because of my father's overwhelming commitment to medicine that I was initially not attracted to the profession. Even today, I can vividly remember my trips to the ER dormitory—the only way I could see my busy father. I eventually realized that he was willing to make such sacrifices because of the pure satisfaction helping people gave him. I believe that satisfaction is intimately related to the integrity and unrelenting care that he brings to the practice of medicine.
Not until we saw Dr. Rubbra at New York University did I understand what it really means to be a great physician. Dr. Rubbra spent many hours of his time with Kimber and my parents just listening, consoling, and caring. After the first visit, he told her, "What you have is real. I don't know what it is, but I am going to work as hard as I can until I find out." Kimber burst into tears. Just to hear that someone believed her, in spite of what the tests said, and would stay committed to her despite frustrating results was the greatest thing my sister could have heard. For the first time someone understood that regardless of how her illness appeared from the outside, it was life-changing for her. Dr. Rubbra had placed Kimber into occupational therapy to help her relearn how to live her life. Though exhaustion had left her isolated and lonely, therapy taught her how to conserve enough energy to spend time with friends, if only once a week. Because of Dr. Rubbra's empathy, he could truly hear that what Kimber needed before a diagnosis was some semblance of a normal life. Kimber's condition was recently diagnosed as postviral encephalitis, but there is still no long-term prognosis. My original image of a physician was not too different from that of a mechanic: a technician who fixes a problem. But Dr. Rubbra's treatment of my sister made me realize that the ability to not only treat an illness but to help a patient cope with the changed reality of his or her life is the mark of a truly great physician.
"Hello, friend." This simple phrase was my introduction to medicine. They were the words that greeted me every time I visited my pediatrician, Dr. Ward Mangan. Young children do not like to be caged up in a room with a complete stranger who looks up their nose, peeps in their ears, and inspects their toes with callused, adult hands. But without fail, Dr. Mangan's friendly smile always calmed my fears and made the four sterile white walls disappear from view. During one "emergency" visit to his office, I saw a grin bloom on my father's face as Dr. Mangan explained that the abnormal bump on my left wrist was nothing more than a cyst filled with water—not the malignant growth my mother had feared. It was this combination of skills I discovered in Dr. Mangan—healing through kindness and through teaching—that 15 years later still explains why I am so strongly drawn to a career in medicine.
"Let's go see Mrs. Jenns," was Dr. Brian Melman's way of recruiting me for an after-hours shadowing session late last year. It was 9 p.m., and he had already been on call for two days—he couldn't have slept more than a few hours, and he looked it. Yet, though 30 years my senior, he looked ready to climb Mt. Everest—or pay a house call to a dying patient. Dr. Melman inspires me with his intelligence and clinical expertise but also with his indefatigable attitude. For him, pharmacology, physiology, biochemistry, all the scientific aspects of medicine, are just gateways to the more rewarding subject: helping sick people. Already contemplating med school, I asked him how he maintains his energy and enthusiasm. "It's easy. As bad as I sometimes feel, and sometimes that's pretty rotten, I know that what the patient is going through is much worse."
My brother Jason was my friend, my first mentor, and my toughest competitor. When he became our state's high school wrestling champion in 2000, I practiced with and learned from him until in 2001 I took the title from him. When he handed me the tournament cup at the awards ceremony, he gave me his "Keep tryin', little brother—it won't help" smile and whispered in my ear: "You'll be giving this back to me next year." I excelled in sports, school, and life because of the determination and leadership I learned from Jason. Telling me, "I want to serve my country," he became a Special Forces volunteer in Iraq in 2003. Although a sniper's bullet took him from me 18 months ago, he'll always be the person I look up to the most.
Even today, the people of Brockton, Ohio, still debate how my grandfather survived. Five years ago, while he was crossing the street in the farming town he rarely left, my 78-year-old grandfather was struck by a speeding car and lay in the deserted road for almost an hour before a neighbor found him. He lost his leg in the accident, but amazingly he never voiced any anger or desire for vengeance. "The driver probably didn't see me" he charitably offers and regrets only that running his farm is harder now. When relatives advised my grandfather to sell his farm and move to Columbus where we could look after him, he protested that that would be like losing his other leg, and he never let us raise the subject again. After the operation he bought farm equipment that he could operate with one leg and continued running his organic farm with the same tirelessness as before. Everything takes him longer now, but even at 83 his farm is productive, and he remains the simple, cheerful man he always was. I thought a lot about my grandfather as I contemplated abandoning a career in my father's dairy business for medical school. He was the only member of my family to encourage my career switch, though he could easily have chosen to view it as a rejection of the vocation he's devoted his life to.