The Immigrant Patient (and doctor)
Week Two
You are reading Ask The Patient by Dr. Zed Zha, a doctor’s love letter that gives patients their voices back. If you enjoy it, please comment, like, share, and/or subscribe!
My name is Zed Zha, and I am an immigrant physician serving immigrant patients. This July, to offset the chaos and heartbreak in the world, I am writing a love note each day, true stories of resilience, courage, and connection from inside the clinic. These are small moments with big hearts. These are immigrant stories in America.
If you missed last week’s stories, please find them here.
Here are this week’s stories.
Day 8: The Grocery Run
I was 20 when I came to the United States on a student visa. I arrived alone with two giant suitcases and zero idea what I was doing.
Luckily, there was a tradition: the more senior Chinese international students would show up at orientation to welcome us, the newcomers.
“Do you have any food yet?” one of them asked kindly. “I’ll take you grocery shopping.”
That afternoon, they drove me to the store, helped me choose basic kitchen supplies and groceries, then hauled five heavy bags up three flights of stairs to my dorm room in the sticky summer heat. I stood in the doorway, watching them catch their breath, and thought: How will I ever repay this?
From the moment I arrived, I had a single-minded goal: get into medical school. But no one around me knew any international student who had done it. Some med schools didn’t even accept applications on a visa. Still, I started volunteering at the hospital on weekends to get clinical exposure, which meant getting there by 5:00 a.m.
But I didn’t have a car. Or a driver’s license. Or a clue.
So I typed a message into the Chinese student group chat: “Would anyone be willing to give me a ride at 4:30 a.m. this Saturday… in the snow?”
I expected silence. Instead, multiple people replied.
That Saturday, I sat quietly in the back seat of an acquaintance’s car as we pulled out into the icy dark. I watched them rub their sleepy eyes and sip a thermos of lukewarm tea. Then they turned and asked:
“Did you have breakfast? I brought you a granola bar.”
My eyes watered. I took the granola bar and whispered thank you. I promised myself I’d return the favor, somehow.
But no matter how hard I tried, I could never pay back the people who made sure I never felt alone. Until one day, a year later, after many more helped me get a driver’s license and get my own car, someone in the group chat said:
“Hey, it’s new student orientation. Let’s go help take the new international students grocery shopping!”
And suddenly, I understood. This is how we repay the people who helped us: We become them.
Now, I was the one asking: “Have you had lunch yet?” “Do you need a ride to the DMV?” “I can help you practice driving.” “Of course I can take you to the airport!”
This is how immigrants help each other survive in a land far away from home, speaking a language not yet familiar: with our unrelenting, unwavering presence.
And this is our unspoken motto:
If you’re lucky enough to be standing on your own feet now, offer someone a ride. Help carry their grocery bags. Show them where the rice aisle is. Ask if they’ve eaten.
Because someone once did that for you. And you have never forgotten. And because without reaching back, no one gets ahead.
Day 9: I love you!
Today, I had planned to write a longer story. But a recent encounter completely filled my heart. And you must hear about it.
She has Down syndrome. I’ve been lucky enough to care for her for over a year. In that time, she had slowly begun to warm up to me: shy glances at first, then quiet smiles, then longer chats about her favorite people and the things she’d been up to. We were making real progress.
Then came the day I had to perform a procedure. I worried it might undo all the trust we’d built. And when I saw tears in her eyes, my heart sank. I stopped immediately, checked her comfort, numbed her a little more, and worked closely with her mom to make sure I truly understood what she needed.
Just as I was bracing for her to shut down or pull away, she looked straight at me and said:
“I love you.”
At first, I thought I’d misheard. Maybe it was a Spanish phrase I didn’t catch. I turned to my medical assistant, wide-eyed. “What did she say?”
“She said… she loves you.”
I looked at her mom, who was smiling now, too.
“I love you, too!” I said, hoping I’d replied quickly enough.
Then I watched her tear-streaked face bloom into a wide, radiant grin, and I thought I could be watching a sunflower turn toward the sun.
“You are so nice,” she added.
Reader, I nearly lost it.
I thought I was the one doing the healing that day. But when someone who had every reason not to trust chooses to love instead, the calloused corners in your soul have no choice but to soften.
And the world suddenly feels a whole lot brighter.
Day 10: Don’t laugh yet!
Imagine if Wonder Woman delivered your baby. Yup, that’s today’s story.
I took care of her throughout her entire first pregnancy. It was always the three of us in the room: her, her mother, and me, laughing and joking like old friends at every prenatal visit.
“Will you be there when I give birth?” she asked as her due date approached.
“I’ll try my absolute darnedest,” I promised.
**
As a country doctor, I was on-call 24/7 for any patient over 36 weeks pregnant. When a nurse called, I dropped everything, mid-bite, mid-nap, mid-anything, and ran to the hospital. My friends and family were used to saying only half of their sentences to me, then switching to “good luck!” as I disappeared out the door.
It was no different the day she went into labor.
Well, maybe just one small difference: it was Halloween. And I had dressed up as Wonder Woman.
I had a feeling I might catch a baby or two that day, so I wore my costume over my scrubs. It was… not my best look.
“She’s ready to push,” the nurse said on the phone.
“I’m on my way!” I shouted, setting down my untouched coffee. Tiara on, lasso bouncing at my hip, I FLEW to the hospital.
***
When I arrived, there were three women in the room:
– My patient, legs propped up and ready to push
– Her mother, standing at her side, hand firmly in hers
– The bedside nurse, gently pressing a cool cloth to her forehead
All three turned to look at me at once when I burst into the room in full superhero regalia. Their serious faces lit up when they saw I’d made it. And then immediately cracked up at the sight of me.
They were laughing so hard that everyone forgotthe baby was crowning. As she giggled on the bed, the baby’s head edged closer.
“Wait, hold on!” I said, lunging for gloves. “Don’t laugh yet!”
Which, of course, made everyone laugh harder.
Seconds later, with gloves barely on, I caught her baby, right there between strength and silliness, between contractions and comedy.
****
Even in the middle of one of the most intense human experiences, there are moments like this: A mother, a daughter, a nurse, and a doctor all laughing together to welcome a new life born into joy.
May your life be filled with that same kind of laughter, little one. And may you always draw your strength from it.
Day 11: How’s your family?
He’s a new immigrant who spent the first six decades of his life in China. He never had the chance to attend much school, never learned the alphabet. But now, in a foreign country, he is determined to fit in. So every day, he learns one new English phrase.
He carries a little stack of note cards with him. On each card, in his careful handwriting, is a new phrase he’s trying to master.
“Have a nice day!” he told the man swimming in the next lane at the Y.
“You are so nice!” he said to the woman hosting a garage sale in the neighborhood.
**
One day, I caught him practicing something new.
“How’s your famee… going ta-day?”
“How’s your famileeee doing too-day?”
“How…”
It turned out he’d heard, somehow, that the wife of the man who worked the seafood counter at our grocery store, an immigrant himself who mostly spoke Spanish, had fallen sick.
“How’s your family doing today?” I said, peeking at his note card and helping him sound out the words.
He practiced all evening.
***
The next morning, he asked, “Can you take me to the grocery store?”
“I can just go,” I offered. “What do we need?”
“Oh, nothing…” he said, almost sheepishly, which wasn’t like him.
Suspicious, I thought. But I took him anyway. In the car, he rehearsed the phrase a few more times.
At the store, I watched him walk straight to the seafood counter and softly say, with perfect clarity:
“How’s your family doing today?”
The man behind the counter looked stunned for a moment. Then, he reached for his hands. Finally, with misty eyes, the two started talking. One in Spanish, the other in Chinese. Both were speaking from the heart, but neither could understand each other’s words.
****
That day, in a small corner of a grocery store, two immigrant men who shared no common language reached through barriers to connect with each other.
I thought about jumping in to interpret. But there was no need.
Because kindness transcends words, and humanity knows no borders.
*****
The man with the note cards is my dad.
And I’ve never been prouder.
Day 12: Dumpling Run
My mother’s love language is food.
The first Christmas she ever spent in the U.S., a neighbor’s family came caroling. She opened the door to find a group of people standing in the cold, singing joyfully.
Her eyes widened. Then she ran to the kitchen in a panic.
“Do they need food?” she asked, genuinely concerned. She thought they were hungry.
**
A few months ago, my mother made her first American friend all on her own: a woman named Betty, who volunteers at the local thrift store. Betty noticed that my mother loved shoes and started putting aside cute pairs in her size whenever they came in.
Then one day, my mother came home looking forlorn.
“Betty’s retiring,” she said. “Tomorrow is her last day. I’m going to make her a big plate of dumplings.”
I had never met Betty, but I had a strong suspicion that she was already retired. And also that you don’t technically “retire” from a volunteer position. But I wasn’t sure.
So the next day, my mother packed a big pot of dumplings and walked a mile to the thrift store. When she arrived, she served dumplings to the entire volunteer crew. The shop closed down for a homemade Chinese food picnic, right then and there.
The ladies laughed, shared stories through translation apps, and took dozens of selfies.
***
A week later, I came home to find my mother all happy.
“Betty came back!” she announced. “And she brought me a gift!” She held up a handmade wind chime.
Turned out, Betty hadn’t retired. She’d just gone on vacation for a week. I wrote Betty a thank-you card and invited her and her husband over for dinner.
When they came, I said, “Thank you for making my mother feel welcome here.”
“Are you kidding me?” Betty replied. “No one’s ever made me homemade dumplings before. I’m the one who’s honored!”
And guess what we had for dinner that night? Made by my mother, served with laughter, and stuffed with a kind of neighborly love that needed no translation.
Day 13: When can I go back to work?
He is a young migrant field worker who came to America to work. And work, he did. Seven days a week, from dawn until dusk.
When he collapsed, he was halfway up a ladder, reaching for an apple on a tall branch. When he woke up, he was in the ICU with a breathing tube in his throat and a wound vacuum on his chest. He had contracted tuberculosis, TB, which filled his lungs with pus and inflammation.
That’s how he lost half a lung.
**
Before he could be discharged, the public health department needed to ensure he had a doctor for follow-up. That’s when I got the call.
I wasn’t sure I could do it. My only hands-on experience with TB came from a six-week medical school rotation in Tanzania. But in a rural town with few specialists, that made me the most qualified person available.
And so began my worrying about him day and night.
***
He didn’t speak English. His Spanish was limited. His main language was a rare Indigenous dialect that few people here knew. Each time he came to the clinic, he brought a friend who translated from his dialect to Spanish. Then a Spanish interpreter relayed it to English for our team.
Through layers of isolation gowns, N95 masks, the hum of his wound vacuum, and the suction of the negative pressure room, conversations often blurred into confusion. Sometimes we missed things. And a lot of times we had to try again.
It was an understatement to say that communication was difficult.
But one question came through, every single visit:
“When can I go back to work?”
He asked it while gasping for breath, unable to finish a sentence.
He asked through coughing fits, through fevers, through weeks when he weighed barely half of the weight he was before.
When… can I… go back to… work?
He was here for one purpose. He had a whole family back home relying on the meager pay he sent over. And work he must do.
Each time, I had to say no. Not yet. And each time, I saw frustration flicker across his face. Some days, I wasn’t sure we were connecting at all.
****
Despite our rocky relationship, he slowly recovered. And my heart slowly descended from my throat back into its suitable place.
Then one day, I heard shouting from the other end of the clinic.
“What’s going on?” I asked the nurse.
“It’s your patient,” she said, meaning him. “Your schedule was full today, and since he’s doing so well, we thought it would be okay to schedule him with someone else.”
They thought it would be fine. But he didn’t.
When a different clinician walked into the room, he shook his head fiercely.
“You are not my doctora! I want my doctora!” he shouted, almost like a child demanding pancakes instead of broccoli for dinner.
My immediate thought was that he took a turn for the worse, and now he needed immediate medical attention. But no. He wasn’t in crisis. He was thriving. In fact, the public health department had just cleared him to finally, finally go back to work.
He just wanted to tell me himself.
“I’ll see him,” I said, smiling. “Please double-book me.”
*****
Until that day, he hadn’t shown much emotion beyond irritation. But this time, when he saw me, he grabbed my hand and started to cry.
And then he laughed.
Then cried again.
And, well, so did I.
******
He came to this country to work.
I came to learn to be a healer.
We both showed up with something to give.
And give, we must.
Day 14: Happy Birthday!
Before his recent immigration, he had only mild acne. But with the stress of the move, it worsened into a severe form with large, painful pustules that bled and stung. It hurt to chew. Some days, he couldn’t even open his eyes.
The way he avoided eye contact with me during our first visit could only be explained by shame, trauma, and pain.
No child should have to look away because they’re afraid of being seen.
**
We wrote him a note excusing him from school until he improved. We helped him sign up for medical insurance and scheduled frequent follow-ups. His face healed rapidly with the right treatment. And he slowly opened up to us. Every visit, there was more eye contact. A less brief smile. And even a few more English phrases.
***
“He’s coming on his birthday next month!” said my medical assistant. “Let’s get him something!”
We bought a birthday card and had planned to sing him Happy Birthday song when he came.
But he never returned.
We called multiple times, no answer. These days, cancellations and no-shows for clinic visits are not uncommon, given the growing fear around immigration. And it doesn’t take much for us to develop a bad feeling about our patients.
Are they surviving? Are safe? Then, are they healthy?
We sat looking at the unopened card that read “Happy Birthday!” in bold, bright letters and let out defeated sighs.
****
I work alongside bilingual staff, nearly all of whom are immigrants or children of immigrants. Many could take higher-paying jobs elsewhere. But they choose to be here. Because this is whose hands they choose to hold.
Together, we will keep calling.
We will keep trying.
We will keep our hearts open for the ones too afraid to look up.
We will never punish fear.
We will honor silence.
And we will celebrate the small victories, even the ones we never get to see.
That is our promise.
******
Happy birthday, kiddo, wherever you are. We’re still singing for you.
You can find stories from Week One here.
Stay tuned for next week’s stories.
With love,
Zed🩵
Thank you for these stories, they are so needed now-tears in my eyes.
I wish I had a doctor like you...
The story about the two immigrant men reminds me of the workers at a cafe my grandmother used to frequent when I was small. The ladies who worked there spoke mostly Yiddish and Poh Poh spoke Cantonese. Somehow, with their broken English, they were able to have a conversation beyond my grandma ordering her coffee and muffin and juice and hotdog or cookie for me!