Tag Archives: Medical Student

Ophthalmoscopes and the Eternal Wow

by Joceline

Within a few days of getting to med school, we were instructed to drop a lot of cash on various things, like 1) tuition and 2) an ophthalmoscope.  Although both were exorbitantly expensive, only one was really necessary (hint: it’s the really expensive one).

What is an ophthalmoscope?  It’s a device you use to look inside someone’s eye, at their retina.  It’s actually pretty fun to use, but it’s about $500 for something you rarely use–and anytime you really do need one, it’ll be on the wall in the patient room. So I never bought one.  And accordingly, never really learned how to use one, until my Neurology clerkship this past month.

ggg

You use the lens to look through the patient’s pupil onto the back of the eye, or the retina (the orange thing).

The pupil is such a small opening, you have to get really close in order to see–like close enough to kiss, although that’s generally discouraged.  Imagine trying to look at the inside of a ping-pong ball with a magnifying glass, through a small hole in the side.  You end up having to move around to see bits of the retina at a time, from all different angles.  It’s like trying to see a mural through a hole in a wall, or looking a painting in the dark aided only by a tiny flashlight.

So maybe this is burying the lede a bit–but what does this have to do with the Eternal Wow? (You know, those times I completely geek out about living in the moment and the limits of our existence.  Otherwise known as being extremely high on life.)  Well, as I was kissing-close to a patient’s eyeball one day, my face screwed up in concentration, trying to see through her constricted pupil–I realized that she was seeing the world through the same tiny opening.  I was looking in, she was looking out.

Think flashlight metaphor earlier.  If my view of the retina was limited by her pupil, our view of the world is just as limited–by our senses, our perceptions, our biases, tiny fractions of experiences that shape how we “see” life.  Sometimes I get caught up thinking my life is so big, and then little moments like this give me a little perspective.

“There’s a metaphor rolling around in there!”

There’s No Crying In Surgery and the Friendliness Setpoint

by Joceline

Well, that was a long, semi-unintentional break from blogging.  I blame mostly writer’s block, but the truth is, I had a bit of a blue period for the two months I was on Surgery.  It was weird.  I was simultaneously extremely cranky, but happy.  But mostly cranky.

I was mean to everyone--my roommates, my boyfriend, even the poor Century Link guy.  To be fair he tried to overcharge me $40.

I was mean to everyone–my roommates, my boyfriend, even the Century Link guy. To be fair, he tried to overcharge me $40.

Why so blue?  To explain, we have to talk about the Friendliness Setpoint.  The Friendliness Setpoint is the reason why the Golden Rule doesn’t always work, but that’s a post for another day.  Anyway, your setpoint is your basic level of friendliness to a random stranger or acquaintance–to people who aren’t your friends, but that you maybe know mildly or have to work with.  It’s how you greet your barista.  It’s whether you smile at people you pass in the hallway, or don’t look at them.  It’s how friendly you are to, say, a new medical student on your service.

My setpoint is set extremely high.  I talk to random strangers, I bounce around the hospital grinning madly at people, I get called ‘perky’ by people in the cafeteria.  It’s not because I’m any nicer than someone with a lower setpoint, it’s just that I’m more demonstrative about it.  I’m an effing golden retriever.  Also my voice is very high-pitched and it makes me sound approachable.  You know people like this.  Many pediatricians are like this, or anyone who has to ask for signatures on things in the street.  Let me make the distinction now, before people start thinking this post is about how mean surgeons are and how nice I am, I didn’t call this a Kindness Setpoint.  It’s a Friendliness Setpoint, it only deals with how outwardly nice you are to people you don’t know, not how nice you are on the inside.

The point is, for whatever reason, surgeons tend to have a lower setpoint than doctors in other specialties.  It’s not necessarily that they’re meaner.  It’s just, they’re not interested in small talk.  They don’t smile when you (I) greet them with a high-pitched “Good morning”.  They don’t soften criticism with a perfunctory “That was good, but”.  They’re nice to people they know, but to acquaintances, their setpoint is set to: Neutral.  (Mine is set to Hugs.)

Again, this is not a post whining that the people were mean to me on Surgery.  It was just something I realized when I would come home wondering why I was in such a bad mood.  The truth is: things get complicated when there’s a setpoint mismatch.  In my case, I’m used to the world going around on Hugs and when I meet a bunch of people on Neutral, I start to wonder: why is everyone mad at me?  It’s because if Hugs is my default setting, I’m Neutral to the people I don’t like.  So if I encounter a bunch of people who don’t want to talk to me, I assume it’s because I did something wrong…when it’s really them being normal.  (Or at least I hope, or else I really screwed up that clerkship.)

Here, I made a graphic.  It's true though; in my mind, not smiling or talking to someone is about as mean as I get in my normal everyday.

Here, I made a graphic. It made me rethink any time I’ve written someone off as cold or a bitch–maybe they just have a lower setpoint than I do.

No one was pissed at me, I had just fallen victim to a Setpoint Mismatch.  And once I realized this after the first couple weeks, it all got better.  I think one of my attendings said it best: “There’s no crying in surgery.  You can’t take anything personally, because we’re all very stressed, high-strung people trying to do a stressful job and if we lash out at you it’s because we’re stressed.”  (He said stressed a lot).

Wait, did I mention I was happy, too?  Maybe it didn’t sound like it…but despite feeling like I was constantly being yelled at, it was strangely amazing to be helping in surgeries as well.  I mean, you can do things like cut out cancer.  I saw a lung reinflate after we transplanted it into a patient who had rated her previous quality of life at a 2.  I won’t gush any more, but for a little while (and maybe even a bit right now) I considered going into surgery as a career path.  I’d just have to adjust my little Friendliness slidey bar…

Just kidding, I don't think I could ever stop being high-pitched or smiley.

Surgical clamps lined up in their sterile glory. You’re probably not supposed to Instagram in the OR but they had given me permission to take photos for learning purposes. This counts, right?

My Life on Surgery

Wellllll I’ve been slacking on the whole posting dealio.  But that’s because I started my surgery rotation!  I’m on the Colorectal service, where we do a lot of bowel surgeries.  I talk about poop a lot (yeah, that hasn’t changed).  A fart earns my patients a high five.  Actual poop gets them a fist bump!  If it’s a lot of poop, my voice gets all squeaky with joy.

Other things I do on surgery:

1) Feel stupid all. the. time.  We call it “pimping”–not that kind of pimping, but maybe just as humiliating.  It’s when a higher-up asks you a question that you probably should know the answer to, but invariably don’t.  What’s worse, though, than getting pimped mercilessly?  Not getting pimped anymore, because they’ve decided you don’t know enough to be worth it.

If I could hide, I would. via whatshouldwecallmedschool

2) Take longing pictures of Autumn colors through the hospital windows.  It’s killing me that I get home after it’s already dark…but iPhone to the rescue!

3) Turn 23!

Denise came to visit! Also, check out the sweet moose hat I got as a bday gift!

Big Babies and Bigger Thoughts

by Joceline

Delivered that sweet baby today–well, in truth, my attending held my hands and moved them around for me.  And, you can pull hard on a baby’s head.  While I love babies and thoroughly enjoyed my week on Newborn Nursery, I’m still a little terrified that they’ll explode if I handle them too vigorously (it’s that giant head, I’m afraid it’ll flop off and crush their little neck).  But seriously.  More force than I would have expected.

Also more…well, let’s put it this way, next time I will wear a face mask.  And shoe covers.  This is only the second delivery I’ve seen, but the equipment is really cool–the bottom half of the bed flips off and then it’s essentially a table that holds your legs for you, with a bucket at the end.

Also some people like to call babies little alien parasites, but do you know what really does look like alien paraphernalia? Umbilical cords. They’re all white and intestine-y and gel-like, with a giant pulsating vein.  COOL.

Anyway, the whole thing was AWESOME and went extremely smoothly, taking about ten minutes.  Well, let me amend that.  It was about ten minutes from when we walked in and the mother started pushing, to the end of it.  Which got me thinking.  She had been having sporadic contractions for probably a few days, and actively laboring for at least hours.  We were there for the exciting flurry of pushing and pulling and gushing (and wiping), and then we left her to enjoy her baby while we finished up charts and filled orders and went on to see other patients.

It’s just so weird to me.  My life is intersects at such pivotal points in other people’s lives–babies being born, people getting sick and maybe getting better, or maybe not and having to get major treatments or even dying.  That next work day for me is someone’s birthday, or big surgery day, or something.  Not to get all depressing when I was just talking about babies, but once we ended up putting someone on dialysis, for the rest of their life.  We put in the order and that was that–they got wheeled down to dialysis and now they have to go to the kidney center, three times a week for three hours, every week until they die.  To me that was just another day on Gen Med, but to them it’s “that summer where I had stomach pain and had to go the ER, and had to stay four days in the hospital, and that’s when I went on dialysis”.

I guess, now and when I actually start working, I don’t want to forget that all the stuff that’s part of my workday could be a major event for someone else.  I can see how, when it’s the thousandth baby you’ve delivered, it becomes another routine thing.  Luckily right now everything is exciting because it’s new and I generally have more excitement about things than is necessary.

Although, I think delivering a baby will always be cool because I don’t think I’m going into OB-Gyn, so it won’t be routine, and also, BABIES coming out of someone, how terrifying cool is that??  Also, here is my pledge, I will pick the epidural, because modern medicine is a great thing.  And so is not tearing your vagina.  Words to live by.

Oh hello

Sorry for the untimely posting these past few weeks, I’ve been busy studying for the Pediatrics shelf and now I just started OB-Gyn. Which is awesome, by the way, today I got to do copious pelvic exams and pap smears and tomorrow, I might even get to DELIVER A BABY.

If it happens I’ll tell you about it tomorrow night, I have to read up on labor and delivery now so that when I get pimped, I won’t look like an idiot and my attending will be more inclined to let me touch a child as it exits the birth canal.

On that note, here’s how you fix a post-partum hemorrhage (after you deliver the baby and placenta, the uterus is supposed to squeeze itself shut to clamp off all the blood vessels it grew during the pregnancy. If it doesn’t contract hard enough, the woman bleeds, which is life-threatening. So you fix it by massaging the uterus from the outside, against your fist, which is on the inside.  Graphic.)

How to Be Sick Like a Med Student

I am rarely sick.  Whether it be because of all the dirt I ate as a child or because I am terrible about washing my hands despite spending 50% of my time in hospitals, I haven’t been laid-up-in-bed sick since elementary school.  The last time I was significantly ill was when I had walking pneumonia four years ago, and I crushed that nonsense like a champ.

A wee cough? Take an aspirin and walk it–no, STRUT it off.

People like to feel smug about all sorts of health-related things–trust me, I hear about this all the time.  Being regular, being more constipated than you’ve ever known, having the most sensitive skin/the heaviest flow/abnormally low blood pressure, having a high tolerance to pain.  Incidentally, everyone you ask has a high tolerance to pain.  It’s always “Oh, I usually have a ridiculous pain threshold but this pain is really bad.” No one’s ever like, “Yeah, I admit it, now can I have some Oxycontin?”

Anyway, my smug thing is never bellyaching about my belly aching–heck, never having my belly ache in the first place.  Headache?  I take some ibuprofen and sit the eff down.  Period cramps?  I ask myself, is this worse than giving birth sans epidural?  Nah.  Perhaps an interesting attitude from someone who intends to go into healthcare, but let me assure you I am very sympathetic to my patients.

But anyway, this weekend I had a pretty raging hangover both Saturday and Sunday morning (and in typical Joceline fashion, I never get hangovers).  I assumed it was because I had sweated out considerable amounts of body water the nights previously and completely failed to rehydrate.  So I washed some ibus down with water and forgot about it.  Come Monday morning though, I woke up with the same hangover symptoms as Saturday and Sunday…without drinking the night before.  Splitting headache, fogginess, and most concerning of all, nagging muscle pains (myalgias) that wouldn’t go away no matter how much stretching I did.

Well shoot guys.  This was the first time in a long while I’d felt bad without a clear cause–no period or alcohol to blame for my symptoms.  Also, ever heard of Med Student Syndrome?  It’s when you think you have every new disease you read about, from Ragged Red Fibers to leishmaniasis.  We’re armed with a beautiful thing called A Little Bit of Knowledge About a Lot of Scary Diseases, and when you say myalgias we’re primed to come up with a list of any possible diagnoses that have the slightest association with muscle aches.  My thoughts included:

- the flu
- an STD prodrome (ohGodpleaseno)
- Lyme disease/other tick-borne illness
- lupus (should be on every differential, don’t you watch House?)
- lymphoma/leukemia
- epidural abscess in my spinal cord causing back and leg pain
- anemia
- polymyalgia rheumatica
- chronic migraines (despite never having had one before)
- lead poisoning
- MELAS (Mitochondrial Encephalomyopathy, Lactic Acidosis, and Stroke-Like symptoms (okay a congenital disease so I definitely don’t have it (but the name is so ridiculous I had to include it)))
- PMS (just when you think you’re an adult and have this PMS crap under control)
- fibromyalgia (oh no am I one of THOSE people?!)
…among others.

“It might be a tumor.” “IT’S NOT A TUMOR!!”

It was scary.  And thus I realized the shittiness of being sick.  It’s not that you feel bad and everything hurts–yes, that sucks, but it’s not the worst part.  It’s that, until someone figures it out, you could have anything.  A whole host of diseases that you know are bad, and then maybe there’s something out there that’s even worse that you just don’t know about yet!  Especially when your symptoms are as vague as “headache” and “muscle pain”. And I have to say, being in med school definitely exposed me to a bunch of knowledge that makes being vaguely ill pretty bad.  Not only do I know obscure conditions that can make it on the differential, but I am also constantly around sick people.  Maybe it’s time to start washing my hands…

Oh, also, I’m pretty sure I know what it is now.  Turns out I was suffering some severe caffeine withdrawal over the weekend.  A large coffee with dinner pretty much eradicated my symptoms.  So much for not whining about silly things…

When I Forget How To Talk to People Who Aren’t in Med School

by Joceline

It happens fairly often.  The forgetting, that is, not the talking to non-medschoolers (I lead an insulated life).

But inevitably when I say something weird like, “So you’re in consulting? What do you do?” and the response is “…I just told you. Consulting,”  I have my ace in the hole to distract them.  It’s…my repertoire of Nasty Medschool Anecdotes.  I’ll share two below, but not all of them, or else I won’t have anything else to talk about.

Anecdote 1: Any mention of earwax removal.
One of the most satisfying things I get to do is removing a big plug of dried-out maroon earwax.

I’ll never look at apple butter the same way.

There are two options. Option one is to get about a quart of warm water and some hydrogen peroxide, and blast it into the patient’s earhole with a syringe.  (Cold water will give them vertigo.)  After a few syringes’ worth, the water coming back out will be progressively dirtier, until earwax starts dripping out in sticky clumps.  Super duper.

Or, I prefer to freehand it with an earwax spoon.  It gets a little dicey with the pain and all, but I don’t like looking at the earwax-water catching bucket, with its ring of residue from patients past.  I just tell the poor patient to relax and scrape away, until I get myself a nice little birthday candle.

http://www.utmb.edu/pedi_ed/aom-otitis/aaOLD/images/curettes.jpg

Not just for caviar!


Anecdote 2: Where my snacks at?
I’m fairly certain this is an urban legend, since I’ve heard it from people in different years (and schools) that aver that “it happened to a guy I knew.”  But anyway.  So the story goes:

A morbidly obese patient is admitted to the floor and there is an awful smell in the room.  Now, the hospital is a place full of diverse smells…but I’ve been assured that this was the smell of something else.  Something angry.

(Side note, I met a mentor who kept orange peels about her person…so she wouldn’t have to be always smelling poop. Smart lady.)

Anyway, some brave souls finally decide to get to the heart of the smell.  They poke about the room…and then about the patient…and finally, after some probing, they lift her breast and find…THE SAD REMAINS OF A GRILLED CHEESE SANDWICH.  THERE WAS A ROTTING SANDWICH.  UNDER HER BOOB.  IT WAS A SANDWICH.

Her response? “Oh!  That’s where that one went.”

I’ve heard the story start multiple ways with multiple hiding places on the body, but for whatever reason, it’s always a grilled cheese.

Good start to my repertoire, right?  I’m pretty sure this is what the old and distinguished doctors are talking about when they say “collect good stories for your memoirs later.”  Because any chronicle of my life will definitely include delivering earwax babies and grilled cheese boobs.

The sh*t we say/hear…

compiled by Denise

An LiL style salute to an oldie (but goodie) meme:

Sh*t people in D.C. say. I think Emily D. and I would both agree: watching this video is like condensing a week’s worth of happy hour conversations into one clip. Scary.

Sh*t people say to asians. Joceline, during college I’ve probably witnessed about 90% of these things being said to you. In fact, I might’ve said some of these things to you…

Sh*t people say to hapas (like me).

Sh*t vegans say. Since I’m a “young” vegan, I don’t think I’ve reached the level of dedication seen the video below. What about you, Emily A?

…and more

Sh*t Med Students Say. Joceline has dropped many of the big words heard in the video below (at least, I think…). She also blogs about stool. A lot.

Stuff Catholic Girls Say. Just FYI, in the past 24 hours I’ve 1) worn a saints’ bracelet 2) told someone I’d pray for them and 3) used the term “church date” in casual conversation.

Sh*t Portlanders Say. I’ll let Emily A. comment on the accuracy of the following parody.

And of course…something that applies to all of the bloggers. Stuff UVA students/alumni say.

Bowel Movements and the Bedroom

Remember that time I said I had no filter?  And that I routinely talk about bowel movements without realizing my conversation partners might not be completely desensitized like I am?

Well, four weeks of Gen Med in the hospital out-awkwarded me.  I’m still completely comfortable grossing my friends out at the dinner table, don’t worry.  It’s just when I have to peer into the smiling eyes of an adorable 86-year-old lady and ask her what color her poop was that I feel a little weird.

But seriously, it doesn’t stop at “How have your, uh, bowel movements been?”  I can’t just cop out with “Normal?  They’ve been normal?”  No, because someone will inevitably ask, “Normal? What does normal mean for her?”

Well, it means:
How many times a day?
Is it loose or formed?
Can you hold it in, or do you ever…go…on yourself?
Any blood?  Is it black and sticky?
Does it smell, um, especially bad?  To which one of my patients hilariously snapped, “Bad? Of course it does! It’s shit!”

Surprisingly, I’ve only ever had one person ever say, “I try not to look at it.  Why are you asking me these things?”  The rest were all willing to discuss it with me.

Oh, that brings me to another thing–there is no good, professional-sounding way to say poop.  I like “bowel movements”, but you inevitably get the patients who ask, “What’s that?”  Asking how it is “when you go” is too vague, and “going number 2″ is childish.  Also, you can use “stool” as a verb, as in “She was up all last night stooling after we gave her 1 quart of Miralax.”

But even more cringe-y than the poo questions is…taking a sexual history. It starts with “So are you sexually active?” and goes on to “With men, women, or both?” and if you really want to spell it out, “Penis to vagina sex? Or other sorts?” Now, I’m not fainthearted.  I had guy friends who gave me the charming nickname Peen (it rhymes with Joceline).  But asking the aforementioned charming 86-year-old granny about her carnal tendencies is where my courage usually draws the line.  At that point, if my attending asks, I’ll just say I forgot to take the history.

I’ll leave you with one of my favorite stories from a mentor.  She was taking a history from one of her patients, and asked,

“Are you sexually active?”
To which the patient replied, “No, I usually just lie there.”

If Only Pop Culture Were Medically Accurate

I used to absolutely love medical TV shows.  There was solid 3 month period of first year when Denise and I obsessively watched the first three seasons of Grey’s Anatomy five episodes at a time.  Scrubs, House, Private Practice, even the more medical bits of CSI–I ate it up.

I still do, secretly and guiltily, but I have to admit, med school has really ruined the charm. Watching one of these shows with me isn’t very fun, since you don’t want to keep hearing things like, “Why is she wearing heels in the hospital?” “THAT’S NOT HOW HOSPITALS WORK!” “Interesting how these people seem to be lab techs, surgeons, GI doctors, and psychiatrists all at once.” “COME ON!”

Yeah, this doesn’t happen in the hospital either.

But honestly, my biggest pet peeve about how TV portrays medicine is: how to perform CPR.  It’s mostly because TV shows could do so much good–imagine if everyone who watched Grey’s would come away thinking–ah, both hands on the sternum and really throw your back into it!  Yes, real CPR can take upwards on ten minutes of sweat-inducing chest compressions, which would make for just riveting television…but what if Meredith Grey was trying to save someone’s life and casually mentioned to the camera, “Yes, CPR guidelines have changed and it’s really only chest compressions that are necessary!  Make sure you call for 911 and an AED first!  And if I do want to give rescue breaths, it’s a 30:2 ratio!”  Now wouldn’t that be charmingly educational?

Instead, if pop culture were correct about live-saving techniques, you would be able to:

- Inject a syringe of epinephrine directly into someone’s chest wall and have their heart magically start. (NO!)
- Give about 8 chest compressions while sobbing photogenically, each compression about two seconds apart.  (Chest compressions should be fast, 100 per minute, in sets of 30 with two breaths in between. Or, if you don’t want to on-the-mouth-kiss a random stranger, you can just do chest compressions until help gets there, it’s proven to be just as, if not more, effective.)
- Shock someone and have them convulse about four feet in the air. (Like most other TV-to-life comparisons, it’s not that dramatic.)
- After it seems futile (about 20 seconds in TV time, or a montage), drop to your knees dramatically, scream “NOOO WHYYY”, and bang your fists dramatically on their chest in a final gesture of defeat.  And then have them come back to life. (COME ON!)

Anyway, that’s just my two cents.  Medical TV shows could be such a force of good!  But instead, all anyone ever thinks doctors do is have a lot of dramatic sex, while having really good hair.

I mean hell if I were as attractive as these people I wouldn’t have gone to med school.

Signs, Symptoms…and Race?

About the Author: Mazvita (pronounced Ma-ZHEE-ta, but she just goes by Z) is in my class at medschool.  She’s always ready to: bust it up on the dance floor, pick a fight with you about culture (don’t ask how she feels about Halloween), and ruthlessly speak her mind in her sweet accent–which is NOT British, mind you. Read on as she analyzes how  doctors take race into account when treating a patient.  It’s usually the second thing we say: “Patient M is a 57yo black male presenting with…”  We often use race to help us find a diagnosis–Z argues it shouldn’t be a topic of conversation at all.

I was talking to my Psychiatric attending, and he brought up the issue of race and asked what it means to me, a member of the new generation.  How important is it for me to know and emphasize the race of person, especially a patient that I am caring for.  To me, the colour of your skin is of little importance, even in healthcare.

This argument was raised: Race helps you develop a better differential diagnosis.  My response is: a patient does not come in to the hospital with their ethnicity determining what the diagnosis is, his/her symptoms do.  Granted, based on genetics, one may be at greater risk for developing a certain condition or have poorer outcomes of an illness, but does anyone truly know which genes determine race–and how likely they are to be inherited with the other genes that decide your risk of a disease? Since the scientific community has not yet developed a concrete answer to that question, why do we continue to base some of our medical practices on “race?”

We live in a world where people marry for love and not necessarily the colour of your skin.  What we used to think were distinct “races” are now in fact a mangled, jumbled mess of chromosomes. One cannot look at a person and know his/her genetic make-up.  If I were to walk into a hospital in the USA, it would be assumed that I am African-American, when I am in fact African.  Since I have the same skin tone as another ethnicity, do I still have the same health risks?  I do not share the same heritage.

Research has been done for various ailments; some conclusions state that one race is more likely to have more complications than another.  However, just as race is a polyallelic trait, disease outcomes are multifactorial. I was told that there is a correlation between race and disease outcome.  This is true, but instead of just accepting this as fact, shouldn’t one question why this correlation exists?  It is well known that certain people have better access to resources than others, be it access to healthcare, ability to pay for services, socioeconomic status or education.  I have faith that this, along with genetics, determines one’s true risk of a disease, not the amount of melanin that they produce.

I keep on referring to genetics as being the true determinant of a person’s probability of developing a condition, and I have stated that the colour of your skin is also genetic.  So, why do I not accept that your skin colour determines the likelihood that you will develop a disease?  I say that some genes are stronger than others; you may have inherited a darker skin tone from one parent but gotten protective genes from your other parent.  I am reminded of an article I read about a set of fraternal twins, born to an interracial couple, that have opposite skin tones.  Yes, paternity was a question initially, but after genetic counselling it was determined that the father of the twins, who is considered black, had European and African ancestry.  Combined with the European lineage of the twins’ mother, one child appears black (due to the father’s African heritage) and the other child white (a combination of both parents’ European descent).

To the twin that appears “white,” would one tell him that he is not black because he is not dark enough? Or would one tell him he is black because his father is black? Why should his racial affiliation be a concern or an issue? He is a human being, not a box to be checked on a demographic questionnaire.

Bottom line – I believe that continuing to base medical diagnoses on what is most likely to occur in people with the same skin tone is an advanced practice of prejudice.  And just because there are examples that prove the rule more often than not, it’s still not acceptable.  I am convinced that the rule is true most of the time because we live in society that has a tendency to repeat a vicious cycle, maintaining certain differences between races. I just hope that eventually we, as inhabitants of the same planet, come to the conclusion that we are all one human family, and that we should focus on what unites us, not what segregates us further.