Vascular resident Saranya Sundaram, MD, shares a story of finding cultural understanding and community.
“It’s Sundaram, S-U-N…” I’m interrupted by a nurse asking me if I’d like to call anesthesia for an airway. I quickly nod and ask them to grab the crash cart.
“I’m sorry, you said… S-U-N-D-A-M?” the radiology resident repeats over the phone.
“No, I said S-U-N-D-A-R-A-M.” Another nurse asks me if this was the central line I wanted, and I give a thumbs up. They let me know they are still struggling to get another IV, but they could push the calcium through the remaining 16 gauge in the left arm. I tuck the phone against my shoulder and start grabbing the ultrasound, some flushes and gauze.
“I’m sorry, I still can’t find you. Can you spell it again?” he says a little louder over the phone, to get my attention. “It’s, what, S-U…” I try cutting him off, asking if there’s another way to look me up. I understand he needed my name for the wet read and thanked him for letting me know about the subdural on bed 11, but I had a man in the ICU a full minute into chest compressions, and I needed to get control of the room. He starts to argue, though I was saved by my intern who, after witnessing my frustrated expressions from across the room, grabbed the phone from me and promised to handle it. I thanked him quietly and refocused on the room.
I find myself back at this experience every once in a while. Sometimes, it’s while reflecting on my own, at home snuggled up with my dog, about the general absurdity of the situation. Yes, the absurdity that while running my first code as ICU chief, I was spelling my last name to a person who couldn’t be bothered to figure it out.
If I really thought about it, there wasn’t a clinic where I hadn’t gotten the I-know-you-aren’t-from-around-here-and-I’m-going-to-figure-you-out stare. And I had grown accustomed to the questions that followed— “Where are you from?” “Where are you really from?” And the occasional and bold, “You’re Indian right?”
In truth, Charleston wasn’t much different from the towns that I grew up in. My parents were deeply religious South Indians who just happened to settle on sleepy Carbondale, Illinois, as their opportunity for a life in America. Regardless, my parents had always been good at finding “the community,” even in places like Emporia, Kansas, where their children were born, or Grand Rapids, Michigan, where they grew up. It wasn’t until my later years that I realized my parents and Brother were the only aspect of “the community” I needed.
With thousands of miles now separating us, that quiet comfort of feeling seen and understood felt farther than it had ever been. But I’d like to think my time on research this year has allowed me a certain clarity. That out-of-place feeling is dealt more subtly outside of the hospital. And without the defense mechanism clinical efficiency had allowed me, I am forced to think about things as they happen and also pay more attention to how the people around me respond to similar situations.
Two of my co-residents have found ways to make themselves feel a little more at home, trying all the Vietnamese pho spots they happen upon or finding the best beef broccoli in Charleston at the back of a Chinese grocery store. And I realize now that spending time with them has always brought me closest to that feeling of community. Thinking back, things like the annual “Happy Diwali” phone calls from my program director were opportunities to be a part of “the community,” even if I didn’t realize it at that moment. It wasn’t until I was in the middle of a debriefing with one of my attendings, who happens to be one of a few Black female surgeons practicing in South Carolina, that it hit me—that feeling of “otherness” could be shared and understood across vastly different backgrounds.
I’ve started to lean into that clarity and the people who may not look like me but can understand me. The comfort that I have found from shared experiences has been life and outlook altering. Every once in a while, yes, I get that twinge of discomfort when I use a nickname at restaurants or spell my name over the phone. But I notice myself smiling more when I think about how much my co-residents or attendings would enjoy hearing about this new absurdity. And, for a moment, I realize that I have found my own sense of community.
Saranya Sundaram is a vascular surgery resident at Medical University of South Carolina in Charleston.
