"Every time you turn on news, it’s someone you know that’s been shot,” Ms. T. says. She sits in the same exam room where I’ve seen her for 26 years, first as a patient in my pediatric practice and now as a mother. Philadelphia’s row homes stretch for miles outside the plateglass window, and I try to imagine each shooting striking one of my friends or relatives or neighbors. “My faith gets me by, Dr. Novick,” she says, pulling 4-year-old L. onto her lap. “But. . . you go through each day never knowing who’s next.” I can still see Ms. T. from the time she was born. I was early in residency — each of us new to our worlds — and overcome with wonder and responsibility. I remember her as a toddler, so proud to become a big sister. And on her fifth birthday, twirling and giggling as her silver tiara slipped over her eyes. And in middle school, saying dance was her escape from the violence on her block. And at 16, sobbing and frantic because her little brother had been shot in, the head. The mother before me has the same natural beauty that she had as a child, but her face is more downcast now, and her movements are noticeably slower.
NSTL
Massachusetts Medical Soc
