Sometimes, We Don't Know The Root Cause.
On being a patient's daughter for a terminal illness while practicing medicine during the MAHA era.
Sitting with my two best friends at our usual table, we are surrounded by the smell of hazelnut coffee and peals of easy laughter. Our mountain of breakfast food arrives, and my best friend looks down at her plate of sunny-side up eggs, raspberry jam toast, and crispy, fried bacon and laughs, saying, “I’m just so glad I started eating again.”
As I sit at…