Five years

I know it’s been a while. My life has been very busy yet also filled with a whole lot of beautiful, blissful nothingness. I guess you could say I have taken a leave of absence from writing and I will on another day touch upon why that is so. 

So far, 2014 has been pretty good to me.

I thankfully matched into great residency programs. I am doing one year of internal medicine at the Medical College of Georgia in Augusta and then I will be specializing in physical medicine and rehabilitation (PM&R) at the University of Alabama at Birmingham. I also graduated and earned my medical degree this past May. I am now a real doctor.

People turn to me for help. For the most part, I am no longer seen as an invalid. For the most part, I am respected now. I have the privilege of seeing people when they are most vulnerable. I have the ability to help and to heal.

The things for which I worked so hard my whole life, especially these past five years, have finally come to fruition. I struggled so much these past five years.

My friend’s father suffered a hemorrhagic stroke the other night and is still unconscious. It reminds me of my traumatic brain injury that also resulted in a significant brain bleed. I was in a comatose state for about two weeks. My doctors at first did not think I would survive. After I survived the most critical time period, my family and friends were told that I may suffer significant mental deficits. I am forever grateful that I made it through better than what was expected.

When I wasn’t able to lift my right arm, I worked hard to get it stronger and stronger. I could not transfer onto things by myself but I worked at it just so I could move out of my family’s home and live by myself and attend medical school. That was my dream and I had to hold on to it. It was one of the very few things I still had left.

I didn’t want a van. I wanted a car. I didn’t want a big power wheelchair. I wanted a small, manual wheelchair. I wanted to be as “normal” as I could be.

When I had to see a neuropsychologist and speech therapist every week and they told me that I was not mentally the same and that I had to adapt, I ignored them. This was my chance. I had been given a second lease on life. Who knows how much longer I would have. So many things had been taken from me. I had to use whatever I still had left. If not for myself, then for everyone else I have come across who are in much worse conditions than I am or ever have been.

I would have to be the best I could be.

It has been five years.

That’s half a decade.

That’s half of the age of my youngest sister.

Things could have been totally different. Some say that things should have been totally different. I may be an outlier.

But I refuse to live life with the societal restraints of simple terms such as “handicapped” or “disabled” that people use when they themselves have not come to term with their disadvantages.

I do not remember what it was like to walk. I do not remember what it was like to stand. I do not remember the feeling of sand between my toes while on the beach. I do not remember running, jumping, playing or lifting.

But these things do not bother me. I have learned that life is not something onto which we can hold. It is not supposed to be perfect. The future cannot be feared. These past five years have shown me that.

And now, looking back, I would not want my life to be any other way.

My speech at the BHS Baccalaureate Ceremony, 05/18/2014

I know it has been an incredibly long time (five months!) since my last blog post. Once this blog became more popular and started to hit a few thousand views each month from people all over the world, I started writing less and less. I will write something and post something up this week or early next week and update everyone with where I have been and what has been going on in my life. In the meantime, here is the talk I gave at the Brookwood High School Baccalaureate Ceremony this past May. I graduated from Brookwood High School in 2005 and was asked to speak at this ceremony.

A recent exchange

An interesting exchange happened between a physician and me earlier this week. I had seen him before but did not know his name, so I decided to say hi and introduce myself. After we greeted each other, the conversation went something like this:

“I’m here for a few weeks doing a rotation,” I tell him.

“What year are you in? Third year?” he asks.

“Fourth year.”

“So you already applied for residency? What are your top places that you want to go to?”

I tell him my top three choices and expect him to congratulate me for getting those interviews or to tell me good luck or something like that.

He quickly responds, “Oh, okay. You had your accident when you were coming back home from Augusta, right?”

I did not expect that. I smile a little. “Yes,” I respond.

“So, you cannot walk at all? Can you move your legs at all?”

“No….” I am not sure where this conversation is going.

“So, is there any hope for you to walk again?”

“Well, I have been this way for almost five years and I have not gotten anything back. But it’s okay.” I give him a big smile.

                “Well, I’m sure there is something out there, like something that stimulates the nerves to move the legs and allows you to walk again.”

                “Yeah, I’m sure there is. Alright, I have to go see a patient right now. It was good seeing you,” I say to him and then go away.

How did that conversation make you feel?

There are a few things wrong with that exchange. I hope you noticed them.

I did not really know the guy. I recognized his face, but that is all. After we greeted each other, he asked and I told him about the prestigious places I interviewed at to complete my medical training and specialization. One would expect to receive a response with comments or questions related to what I had just said. Instead, the immediate next questions were about my disability and if there was any hope for me. I get asked why I am in a wheelchair nearly every day and I do not mind it at all. But I was not sure what that topic had to do with me completing medical school and starting a medical residency program.

This was a reminder.

It was a reminder to me that despite everything, some people will look at me and still only see my disability. I have and will always strive to be the best I can be in order to overcome this mentality, but it persists. The things I have accomplished and hope to accomplish do not mean much to a lot of people. They will always see my wheelchair before they see me.

Everything in my life may be going great but, for some, I will always be imperfect because of what they see when they look at me.

As I mentioned in my last talk, I am still looked down upon and pitied.

I will never be considered whole.

Another thing wrong with that conversation is what the physician said to me afterwards about how he is sure there will be some technological or medical breakthrough in the future that will help me.

Please do not get me wrong; I would give up my life savings and my salary for the next 10 years to walk and be able-bodied again.

But I do not need to be consoled. Well, at least not for the wrong reasons. The hidden, unconscious feelings that some have when saying those types of things to me is pity, gratitude that it is me and not them in this situation, and also bewilderment that life can go on despite these obstacles. All of these thoughts and feelings express a deep seated belief that the lives of others are better than mine and, essentially, that other people are better than me.

This is not an issue of pride for me.

People think that life would surely end if the ability to walk or to be “normal” was permanently taken away at such a young age.  Life will always be imperfect. Life will be different and, obviously, there is clearly something wrong with being different.

The people closest to me and I would like to be appreciated for the things I have done and for who I am. Instead of giving off positive vibes, the feelings and vibes given off my others are often negative. That is what I am trying to express right now. The seemingly innocent pity when people say these things carries with it an implication that there is something wrong with me as a person and that I will never be complete. Yes, my life and the lives of those close to me may be a little different, but we are happy. I live an amazing life that is full of love. I am at peace and I am content.

These are feelings that people strive for and work towards their whole lives without attaining.

I of course know that people will always see my wheelchair when they look at me. That is obvious. I just hope that one day, people will measure my worth by my character and accomplishments, and not judge me by what they see as my imperfections.

Everyone has a Disability - Moving Forward

I know I have not written anything in a very long time. In addition to traveling for interviews, I have been working hard in hospitals/clinics and also relaxing a lot. I have written plenty of notes and thoughts on scraps of paper over the past several months, but no formal blog posts. I am enjoying each day and if I am not required to spend a lot of time in front of a computer, I will not do so and that means I may not do much formal writing. My free time is spent being with friends or reading books. Now that I am done traveling and interviewing, I hope to get back to writing, too.

I gave a talk entitled "Everyone has a Disability - Moving Forward" at the annual U Beyond event at the Atlanta Symphony Hall in late January. My talk was recorded but I realize that some of you would prefer to read the transcript instead. I will post the video, too, once I find the link. I am providing the transcript below.

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I want everyone here to take a moment to think back and reflect upon what their first impressions were as I was introduced and as I came onto this stage.

I always wonder what people think about when they first meet me. A lot of times, I can see it in their eyes or hear it in their tone of voice.

And as you get to know me more, these thoughts evolve.

I am speaking to a pretty diverse audience here today. I know what some of you may be thinking. For some, it may be admiration.

I know others may be thinking, “Aw, look at this guy. I feel sorry for those close to him. I feel sorry for his parents.”

Quite frankly, I do not feel sorry for my parents. I do not feel sorry for myself. And hopefully, by the end of this, you won’t either.

I’m not sure how many of you are familiar with my story, so I’ll go through it briefly. About 5 years ago, I was just like any one of you in their early 20’s. I was having fun, loving life, and I didn’t have a care in the world. Just like every young person, I thought I was invincible. I had tons of opportunities available to me in life that were still open  for me to accomplish. Then, one fateful afternoon, everything was taken from me.

I woke up in the hospital a few weeks after a devastating car accident and at first was not aware of the extent of my injuries. “Everything is fine. Everything is normal. There is no way this is happening to me,” I thought. Because let’s be honest:  who here ever does imagine or expect their life to change more drastically than they could ever even think?

Over the next few weeks, I learned more and more about my injuries. I had suffered a T3 complete spinal cord injury, a traumatic brain injury, and a C5 brachial plexus injury. But I was hopeful. Just like people would always tell me, I also told myself that I would be fine. I would recover 100% and be back to the way I used to be.

Other times, when I was alone in my hospital room with nothing but my thoughts, a little voice in my head would whisper, “Is this it, Hammad? This is my life? What am I to do now?”

Lying in bed, I knew I had a choice to make:  to let this rule me or for me to rule it.

So, I pushed through. Thankfully, I have the most wonderful family, friends and physicians. There was a lot that I had to overcome. Needless to say, things have not been easy for me. My life had changed completely. I did not know what to expect.

There were many things that I had to overcome. I knew what I wanted to do. I knew that somehow, things would work out. Though I was optimistic, I did my best to remain a realist. So, I spent 3 months as an inpatient at the Shepherd Center in Atlanta. After that, I spend several months in and out of outpatient rehab.

I wanted so badly to get up and walk again. I wanted to be that person. Almost everyone I know told me I was going to be that person and that I would walk again. We all believed it. “You don’t know how many people out there are praying for you,” people would tell me.

How could I ever accept anything less than walking? How could I ever accept and live my life in a wheelchair? How could I accept defeat? Was that a true defeat? If I did not accomplish what I wanted, would I be a failure? Would others look at me and think I am a failure because I was not healed?

Most importantly, would I consider myself a failure?

I’ve never been one to accept failure or defeat. So, a year after my accident, I moved out of my parents‘ home into a new apartment and started medical school.

Still, things were not easy. Not only was I having to face the challenges of medical school, which is enough for anyone to get through, I was also trying to learn how to live on my own, live with my disability, and be the best I could be.

There were some times when I was so distraught and so frustrated. I would just lie in bed and think about how different my life would be if this had never happened to me or if I was back to “normal” again.  I did not expect life to be this way and I definitely did not expect medical school to be this way. Becoming a doctor was my dream. But I didn’t want to become a doctor with a disability.

I knew I had to move forward. I knew I had to accept things.

If someone were to ask me what my greatest accomplishment was, what do you think my answer would be? Getting into medical school? No. Surviving and going through medical school? No. Surviving the accident? No. Surviving months and months of physical therapy to get my body strong enough for me to live on my own? No.

Sometimes our greatest battles are not ones that people can outwardly see.

My biggest accomplishment was my acceptance.

No, I was not accepting defeat. Just because I was not healed and back to the way everyone expected does not mean that I’m a quitter, or a failure, or that I just settle for less than the best.

Finally accepting things meant that I was able to not only acknowledge my disability, but also to life with it, grow with it, and flourish with it.

You see, we all have something that is holding us back from reaching our true potential; from truly growing and flourishing, in all aspects of life. We may or may not have acknowledged them yet. But really, I suggest all of you to take some time alone, get away from technology and everything else for a night or perhaps for a long time, and truly reflect. I know I am speaking to a pretty diverse audience here who are from various backgrounds. So, what is holding you back? For some, it may be anger. For others, it may be jealousy. It may be our ego.

You see, we have to realize that our time on this earth limited, therefore it does not matter if life has to be lived with a visible handicap like mine or any other, but we also have to realize that we are all struggling. We all experience pain. And we all have our insecurities and our ego. We are not special or all that different from each other.

So, after I was able to accept that I had a physical handicap that is visible to the world, I realized I had it easy. Yes, you heard that correctly. I am thankful. I have life much easier compared to many of you. The rest of you have to hide your handicaps and your insecurities, hide your anger, hide your fears, hide the things in your past that you have done that still haunt you to this day. I do not have to do it. I am an open book.

I still had my mind, and that was the greatest gift. But, most importantly, I had been given time. I had not died in that accident. I had been a second lease on life.  A few things had been taken away from me. I cannot do many things that I have always wanted to do. But with everything taken away, I have been able to truly appreciate everything I do have. And with all these things I have remaining, and with the life that I have ahead of me, I knew that I could be the best that I could be. I know my limitations. These are simply physical. But everything else in my life has no limitation. I have the power to change and the power to be better. And so do all of you.

I want to end this talk by an email I received from a close friend of mine about 5 months after my injury:

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Salaam,

I know my words kinda suck when I try to encourage you sometimes.  I do hope you'll forgive me because I realize nothing I say can hold any weight since I haven't gone through what you've gone through, and I really can't relate as well as I would like to.  I just want to say that I'm happy you're alive.  You may not be right now, but just think if you would have been ready to meet your Creator on that day. […] Don't forget that no matter how alone you may feel, everyone's thoughts and prayers and hopes are with you.  They are looking to you, hoping that at least you'll be happy in any condition, that you'll be their hometown hero, showing resilience in the face of enormous hardship.  You can serve as a reminder to everyone that their hardships are nothing in comparison and if you are able to overcome your own, then they can also overcome their own with faith and perseverance.  I don't know if that sounds like a huge burden or if it sounds encouraging to you, but I'm just hoping I can help you understand that you have indeed gained a very valuable gift, however disguised it might seem.  […]

Khair, I honestly don't want to sound like I'm preaching.  It's not like you don't already know all of this stuff.  I'm just hoping the reminder would encourage you that at least there's one person beyond your family who believes in you (and rest assured there are hundreds more people who care just as much as I do, if not more).  

So, I actually rode on Greyhound when I came back to Atlanta for Eid, and I met this woman who was a writer on the way there.  I asked her to read one of her poems for me, and she read the following piece.  I liked it so much, I gave her $20 for a printed copy, even though she only asked for $2.  I bought it for you.  She said you may not be ready for the poem because it took her father over two years before he came to peace with his paralysis, but I figure I would go ahead and let you read it at least.  I've typed it exactly as she printed it on a piece of fancy paper:

My Father's Legacy
In honor of my father
Ollie Christmas
Oct. 3, 1930 - 

It was a heinous bullet to the spine,
That caused my father enormous grief,
Thought he could no longer play the ladies' man,
From his anguish there was no relief.

At first he thought he would kill himself
For he could no longer see his worth.
Thought of everything short of selling his soul
For another chance to walk this earth.

When those feelings finally subsided
But he still couldn't function as before;
He was forced to dig deep down inside
To come up with something more.

And his legacy, had he not lost his legs
I cannot say what it would have been.
But the man that rose from that mess of a test
Is to many, a wonderful friend.

Through the years he's been there for his children
Always doing whatever he could
Taught us resourcefulness beyond belief;
Gave us a basic grasp on good.

Sometimes I wonder, 'Did he call the thing
That happened so long ago?
That took what he thought was his manhood
Yet allowed greater manhood to show.

I say, "Thank you" to my Daddy
For the strength he mustered in his soul
As the whole man who was half-a-man
Became the half-a-man who's whole.


(c) Revised Copyright 2007, Andikaa Delphine Peterson-Hill, Divine Celestial Design Publications

Just say it

It has been a while since I have written anything on here. There are several reasons for that and I may eventually explain them. One of them simply is because I have been doing a lot of traveling and interviewing these past several months. I am also speaking at an event at the end of next week and am not even sure what I want to say. I guess I should explain why I am like that.

I do not think of things ahead of time. I do not prepare for interviews. Similarly, I do not have multiple drafts or blog posts or anything else I write. Many times, I do not feel like reading over what I just wrote, which may explain typos or other errors I may have. Just like my blog posts, I wrote my personal statement for residency in one sitting and then submitted it. I knew I could do it. I like it that way.

Why? How is this possible?

Because I speak from the heart. More importantly I am not afraid to show my vulnerabilities.

I feel like preparing things ahead of time or having multiple drafts of something will prevent me from revealing the truth. I do not want to second guess myself. If I say something, it is because I feel it.

Because of this, I do not get nervous when I have to speak publicly. I do not get nervous before interviews, no matter how important they may be.

I do not understand why people get nervous. If they are afraid of the consequences, perhaps of a certain interview or speech they have to give, they need not be. They are who they are; nothing more, nothing less.  If the interviewer does not like you for who you are, you are probably not a good fit there anyway. If one is worried about being judged by others, such as an audience, I must ask:  who are these people to judge you? How do they have a right to make judgments about anyone? They, too, have hopes, have fears and have loves. If the roles were switched, would they have the same concerns?

By fully expressing yourself a lot of times, you are not really showing you are unique. You are showing that you are more similar than they had thought and that they, too, have a secret life just like you.

Do not impress. Do not try to be anything more (or less) than what you are. I have found that by being purely honest and exposing my vulnerabilities—no matter how odd or weak I think I may seem at times—I am able to relate with others and they are able to relate to me. We spend too much time and effort trying to make us seem stronger and more impressive than we really are.

I do believe that this will help me in my future profession as a physician and that having this outlook may help others in their profession, but it should not stop with just our careers. With everything we do, see or talk about in life, we need to realize how connected we are to each other.

This is real. Life is real. We either live without regrets or we watch as it passes us by.

Acceptance: the final stage

This post is long overdue. I have wanted to write this for quite a long time, as can be seen by how long ago I wrote Stages Part 1, Part 2 and Part 3. I did not know where to start so I avoided it or told myself I would write when I had time to relax. I still do not know where to start or what to say and I have a few other things I really need to do, but I shall write. I do almost all my writing in one sitting and when I speak, I almost never have things prepared. That ensures that everything I write and speak about comes from the heart.

Acceptance.

Acceptance is the last stage in Kübler Ross’s model of the stages of grief that one goes through in dealing with something tragic or traumatic.

There were many times when I thought I had accepted things. I was okay. I was not angry. I didn’t curse the heavens. I was not bitter. If you have kept up with my blog from the beginning, you will see that that is true. I have been put in difficult circumstances but it is in these circumstances that I carry on with my life.

It is in these circumstances that I have found peace.

It is in these circumstances that I have found purpose.

Acceptance of my disability was not as straightforward as I thought it would be. First, I had to accept my own mortality.

I almost died. That phrase gets thrown around a lot by many people, but in my case, I really was just a few inches or a few breaths away from leaving this life. I am not sure what impression I would have left upon this earth if I had passed away four and a half years ago.

As many of you know, I moved out of my family’s home to my own apartment in a different city and started medical school one year after my accident. “I am ready,” I thought. I was hit with reality once classes started.

I had to adapt to living on my own. Life was different. Things took longer for me to do. I could not relive many of the memories I had made in Athens. Needless to say, medical school classes were a lot tougher than I had imagined.

“You cannot compare yourself to others,” a friend said to me after I told him how I was having a hard time. “You are different than all of them. In addition to overcoming the challenges and rigors of medical school classes, you also have a lot more to deal with. You had a significant injury and became completely paralyzed just a year ago. That alone is more than enough. That alone is more than most people can deal with.”

That consoled me a bit. I am not one to back down from a challenge and I knew this would be difficult. But just like I was blindsided by this injury, I was blindsided with what to expect. I carried on with my life by moving out and starting medical school as soon as I could not only for myself, but for everyone else. I knew I could do what I wanted to do. As I have said before, I am stubborn. But others did not believe that I could do what I wanted to do. This is not to say that other people did not support me in my endeavors. They just did not expect much of me. I knew, however, that in order for me to be considered an equal to the general population once again, their expectations of me would be much higher and that I would forever have to prove myself.

All through my first year of medical school, I worked hard. I pushed through any all obstacles. There were times when I fell onto the floor with no one to help me. There were times when I was depressed. There were times when I was frustrated with everything.

One Friday night, after receiving a harsh score on an exam, I found myself dead tired but unable to sleep. “What am I doing?” I asked myself. “I should not even be alive. I am living on borrowed time.” In my frustration, I came to an interesting realization:  I was not happy. I mean, I was outwardly happy as far as people could tell, but I was not living a life of peace and fulfilment. I spent every day studying. I spent most nights either studying or worrying about classes. I was not spending time with my friends or enjoying life. I could have died. I can die any day. All of us can die any day. So I asked myself, “Suppose I was told that I would only live for a few more months or a few more years. Is this how I would want to live life?”

That question, with all the thoughts and musings that came along with it, was a big turning point in my life.

I thought a lot about death. I saw a lot of sickness and death in the hospitals.

I accepted my mortality.

Next, I had to accept my life.

To be honest, I am not sure when or how that happened. As I said earlier in this post, I thought I had accepted things from the beginning. It was not until much later that I realized that that was not the case, though I knew from the beginning that I was different and that things would always be different for me. After I accepted my own mortality and the fragility of all of our lives, things seem to just fall into place.

In the summer between my first and second year of medical school, I underwent a sort of “enlightenment,” so to speak. I took a break from studying and the fast pace, goal-directed life of which we seem to all be a part. I spent a lot of time by myself in my apartment. I read for pleasure. I watched movies. I listened and I learned. Everywhere around me, there were things I had never noticed. In each moment, in each movement, in each breath, I was there.

As John Steinbeck wrote in The Winter of Discontent, “I wonder how many people I’ve looked at all my life and never seen.” From then on, I made sure to truly “see” everyone.

I moved on to my third year post-injury and my second year in medical school as a different person. My eyes were finally open.

During my second and third year of medical school, I found immense joy in everything that I did. I really loved being in medical school and doing everything that I was doing, especially interacting with patients. Learning things had a purpose for me. I could use everything I had learned to help someone else.

I overcame my insecurities and overcame my fear. I moved past thinking of myself as different from everyone else and knew in heart that I was the same as everyone else.

I am not sure how it happened, but it happened. How did I know I had accepted things?

I knew I was in a better place when I finally realized that I was genuinely happy and at peace with what I was doing and what I intended to do. I intended to take care of others. I had already affected and helped others in many ways over these past few years, but this realization was different.

When I accepted my life, I accepted one thing:  in everything I do, I will do my best to ease the suffering of others and I want each and every person I come in contact with to be better than me. I want them to progress and to be healed. I myself am paralyzed and have to live in a wheelchair but nothing would make me happier than to see others at peace with themselves. I would gladly volunteer to take the suffering of others upon myself.

I can now say that I have not only accepted by disability, I am thankful for my disability.

“'The two most important days in your life are the day you are born and the day you find out why.” – Mark Twain

Stages, part 3 (finally!)

I have been itching to write for quite some time now. A brief recap of what I have been doing: after completing the USMLE (United States Medical Licensing Exam) Step 2 in late August, I spent this past September doing an elective rotation at the Shepherd Center—the same place where I spent about three months as an inpatient after my accident in the summer of 2009. Being there brought back a lot of memories about which I could write plenty, but right now I want to write about something that I have intended to write about since I wrote “Stages” and “Stages, part 2: Anger” months ago.

As I said in the post “Stages”, the Kübler-Ross model’s five stages of grief are denial, anger, bargaining, depression and acceptance. I wrote about stage one, denial, and stage two, anger, already in the two posts linked above. Tonight, I will write about the next few stages.

“If I could at least get something—anything—back, I will be thrilled. Please, God, give me something back,” I thought to myself and bargained with God more than once. I imagined what I would do and how I would tell people once I had recovered. I wanted to take a photo of myself standing and giving high fives to my two best friends who also spent their summer of 2009 with me in the hospital. I would make that photo my Facebook profile picture. Maybe I would not be able to walk perfectly and I would have to use a cane. I would buy myself the coolest looking cane. I would have the coolest stories to tell people while looking wise and holding my cane.

“Man, this is going to make the best personal statement,” a friend said to me as I lay in my hospital bed. He, too, believed that I would be out of the hospital soon and running again.

In the bargaining stage, people usually bargain with a higher power. I certainly did. I prayed and vowed that if I was healed, I would forever be in God’s debt. I would be a changed man and I would always be righteous. Little did I know at that time, this is what everyone goes through.

I thought I was doing everything right. I was 100% confident that everything would be okay. I would be completely healed. I did not think anymore that I would wake up one morning and suddenly be completely and miraculously healed, but I did think that I would one day discover that I could move a toe or feel the warm water running over my legs in the shower.

Throughout this time, though, I never allowed myself to truly be outwardly and noticeably sad. There were some difficult times through which I had to go during the over the course of the first year after my accident. If I was 100% healed, if I could walk again, then none of this would be happening. Everything would be okay and everything would be so much easier. I would get what I wanted and would not have to struggle.

But, as the Lebanese writer Khalil Gibran said, “Out of suffering have emerged the strongest souls; the most massive characters are seared with scars.”

My family and friends were always looking to me for strength, instead of the opposite way around. So, rather than going through the typical fourth stage of grief, depression, I kept a smiling face. This does not mean I did not feel pain. As I wrote here, I did. But you could never tell.

As I was telling a close friend of mine and as many of you may have read if you have kept up with my blog since the beginning, my first year in medical school was a struggle. In addition to dealing with the rigors of a new medical college campus with a surprisingly more difficult curriculum than the main campus, I also had to deal with coming to terms with my disability and adapting to living alone once again.  Coming to terms with a something as big in one's life as a crippling disability is something that usually takes people many years. It was my choice to start medical school only one year after my injury. I did not want to waste more time and I did not want people to see me as more “disabled” than the disability I had already made me seem. So I carried on. Life was not stopping.

There came a time during my first year of medical school when I was struck with a strange yet honest realization. I spent most of my time studying. Even as things fell apart, things were not slowing down. I was not having fun. There was no time for fun. I realized that in all honesty and as morbid as this may seem, I could die soon. We all could.

So I asked myself, “If I knew I had one week to live, what would I be doing? Is this how I would want to spend it?”

I kept a smiling face. I looked at the bright side of things. I moved forward.

This is what I set out to do.

There are too many times we get locked in the third or fourth stage of grief, bargaining and depression. For some, this is a hole from which some never rise.



A turning point in my life came in the summer between my first and second year of medical school, the summer of 2011.

This post is getting fairly lengthy and I have not even concluded it properly yet. It is also time for me to go to sleep. For now, I will end it right here. I actually wanted to write about the fifth and last stage, acceptance, and I promise to do that very soon since I am eager to continue this. In the meantime, I provided many links above through which you can read and refresh your memory until then. And as a preview for the upcoming post and to see what place I was in at that time of change in the summer of 2011, here are two, more refreshing posts: “Clearing my mind” from August 2011 and “Balance” from September 2011.

I’ll leave you with a quote by one of my favorite writers, Chuck Palahniuk, that I actually made into an image and used as a wallpaper for my phone for the first year or two after my accident to give me strength: “It's only after we've lost everything that we're free to do anything.”