Admissions Essay - Yo Soy El Chinito! :: Medicine College Admissions Essays

Admissions Es joint - Yo Soy El Chinito   The following is an account of a day in my life. It begins with a dream Andale, es todo, I enounce (All right, thats it). The medication is bringing your blood pressure back to normal. Youll be fine. By the way, how are the kids? I pat my patient Pancho, a farm laborer, on his brawny shoulder and escort him down the hallway of the Mendota Clinic.   I shake up up. Lying in bed, I contemplate how vividly my dream depicts the prospective I aspire to administering primary care in Mendota, a itty-bitty farming community in central California where I grew up. Mendota is dwell aboutly by Hispanics. I remember how everyone called me el chinito (the little Chinese), and knew my family because we were the exclusively Chinese family in town. In high school, I observed many another(prenominal) an(prenominal) docs come and go at the Mendota Clinic where I volunteered those departed did not say Spanish or have extensive exposure to His panic culture. Moreover, I was saddened because I saw many people, particularly migrant farm workers, generate to preventable diseases. In spite of persistent signs of illness, or so of them went without treatment because they lacked wellness insurance or were unwilling to visit a doctor for disquietude of what they might discover. Members of underserved communities, such as Mendota, require more than a well-trained mendelevium if they are to receive the wellness care they need. They need a medical student who is also trustworthy, affable, and understanding of their plight a friend. I yearn to be that person serving in Mendota.   After brunch, I go to the gym, although straight off I do not plan to work out. Winston, a wheelchair-bound 45 year old who suffers from cerebellar myoclonus, awaits me to assist him with his workout and shower, as he has for the past four years. Winstons neurological disease, since its onset during his college years, has prevented him from prope rly coordinating his movements and to the full contracting his voluntary muscles. Over time, the disease has progressively robbed him of the physiological functions which most people take for granted in daily life--such as the big businessman to see clearly, pronounce words accurately, and walk. Seeing Winstons favorite blue plaid shirt invokes my recollection of our first encounter. I was working out when I saw Winston slip from one of the weight machines.Admissions Essay - Yo Soy El Chinito Medicine College Admissions Essays Admissions Essay - Yo Soy El Chinito   The following is an account of a day in my life. It begins with a dream Andale, es todo, I say (All right, thats it). The medication is bringing your blood pressure back to normal. Youll be fine. By the way, how are the kids? I pat my patient Pancho, a farm laborer, on his brawny shoulder and escort him down the hallway of the Mendota Clinic.   I stir up up. Lying in bed, I contemplate how vividly my dream depicts the succeeding(a) I aspire to administering primary care in Mendota, a atrophied farming community in central California where I grew up. Mendota is inhabit mostly by Hispanics. I remember how everyone called me el chinito (the little Chinese), and knew my family because we were the and Chinese family in town. In high school, I observed many medicos come and go at the Mendota Clinic where I volunteered those departed did not spill Spanish or have extensive exposure to Hispanic culture. Moreover, I was saddened because I saw many people, particularly migrant farm workers, render to preventable diseases. In spite of persistent signs of illness, most of them went without treatment because they lacked health insurance or were unwilling to visit a doctor for consternation of what they might discover. Members of underserved communities, such as Mendota, require more than a well-trained physician if they are to receive the health care they need. They need a physician who i s also trustworthy, affable, and understanding of their plight a friend. I yearn to be that person serving in Mendota.   After brunch, I go to the gym, although nowadays I do not plan to work out. Winston, a wheelchair-bound 45 year old who suffers from cerebellar myoclonus, awaits me to assist him with his workout and shower, as he has for the past four years. Winstons neurological disease, since its onset during his college years, has prevented him from properly coordinating his movements and to the full contracting his voluntary muscles. Over time, the disease has progressively robbed him of the physiological functions which most people take for granted in daily life--such as the king to see clearly, pronounce words accurately, and walk. Seeing Winstons favorite blue plaid shirt invokes my recollection of our first encounter. I was working out when I saw Winston slip from one of the weight machines.