Callouses at the base of each finger on his palms. Dirt in the tips of his nails, too deep to clean. Skin rough as sandpaper as I brushed my hands across to appreciate the texture. How many heavy pots has he lifted at work? How many times a day does he pour hot broth from a ladle to fill bowls of pho? As I looked at my patient, an older Vietnamese male who had been reporting wrist pain, I thought about how his work as a line cook could have contributed to his symptoms. His job was one that I knew all too familiar.

My parents, both boat people refugees from Vietnam, spent their whole lives chasing their dream of opening a pho restaurant. Moving to cities with the next best opportunity, working right after school or through vacation breaks, and parents missing out on school events were regular things growing up. I spent my entire childhood surrounded by smells of oily fried spring rolls and roasted star anise until it seeped into my clothes and hair. By age 13, I became a stable employee in the front - programming and running the cashier, mixing beverages like a seasoned waitress, and knowing the cost of different menu combinations off the top of my head. The hours I spent at the shop allowed me to meet people of all ages and from all walks of life. There was one kid whose head didn’t even reach the cashier stand whenever he ran up and asked for a balloon to take home. Years later, we watched him bring in his girlfriend for lunch dates as a grown teenager. There was another boy who enjoyed pho even before he was born - his mom would come every week for #15 while he was still in her womb. When he became a toddler, he was notorious for the massive mess of noodles he’d leave behind from trying to feed himself. I also remember the woman who always came with her family on Sundays after church. I mourned when one day her family showed up all in black without her, eating out at her favorite restaurant after her funeral. Reflecting on these experiences, my aptitude for school, and passion for serving the community, I was drawn to a career in medicine where I could treat patients throughout their entire life - a career in family medicine.

During my residency training, our clinic was in the middle of San Jose, CA, which houses the largest Vietnamese population within a single city outside of Vietnam itself. For the past three years, my continuity clinic had a growing number of Vietnamese patients as they began referring their network of friends and family to me. By being bilingual and growing up in an environment where I witnessed the hard work of immigrants firsthand, I developed strong relationships with my Vietnamese patients as we partnered together to improve their health. While I helped manage their diabetes, arthritis, and coping with a worldwide pandemic, they taught me how to apply clinical medicine, empathy, and compassion. My experience these past years has brought fulfillment to my role as a physician more than I could ever imagine, and one of the hardest parts of graduating residency was saying goodbye to my patients. While this chapter ends, I cannot wait to see what the next part of Bác Sĩ Hà’s journey will bring.