My prayers and my medical practice
“Help!” I yelled out of our open apartment door.
I was seven years old, and my family had recently emigrated from Egypt to the U.S. We’d been feeling elated that week because, after months of interviews, my father had matched into a pediatric residency.
That morning, he’d awoke feeling nauseated. My mother and sister went to buy some soothing food. I noticed that he’d vomited in the bathroom; now he was feeling …
