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matchmaking

Surviving the Frustrating Matchmaking Process as a Female Doctor

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by Rabia Toor

Brace yourselves. I have a bone to pick.

I’m at the beautiful, tender age of 25, an age where, as a Pakistani female, I’m at my prime. I’m at my ripest, waiting to be picked like a succulent peach at the height of summer. If you reach for it too early, it’s young and immature, but wait too long, you risk its spoil and it won’t be worth a second look let alone a single dime. It’ll be passed over because it’s past its expiration date. But there’s only one problem with that analogy. I’m not a fruit. I’m a human being.

Recently Mom has been on the lookout for potential husbands for me. I’m not for marriage (totally different story), but I let her do her thing, trying to scope out the fish in the sea. She started looking the week I left for medical school, initially not compromising the fact that she wanted a physician husband, my educational equivalent as my match. Slowly but surely over the last few years, she has eventually… had to compromise.

Now, why is that?

Here we go.

Desi men and their mothers want a ‘beautiful, fair, skinny, soft-spoken’ woman to enter their homes. Now, of course, this isn’t to generalize every desi man and their mothers, however, the vast majority of them do.

The idea that women should exemplify beauty, look a certain way, never question their husbands, be submissive towards their mother in laws and put education and work on the back burner is a theme running rampant in our community. You would think that since it’s 2017, some ideals would have changed. Alas, we’re still in the dark ages.

See, my parents emigrated from Pakistan and worked very hard, between my father’s health issues to my mother learning a completely new language, learning how to drive, and working to support my sisters and I, they still managed to put me through medical school with dreams of becoming the first physician in their family. And I worked HARD. I battled depression and anxiety, I cried, I had panic attacks—it was literally all blood, sweat, tears, and more. But that doesn’t seem to matter to a lot of desi men.

I’ve had men in my own graduating medical school class explicitly say that they want a ‘pretty, virginal, housewife to stay at home.’ There is nothing wrong with being a stay at home mom. However, my issue is with men who believe that because they had the opportunity to be educated and become ‘breadwinners,’ they should get to choose their prize in the form of an attractive wife who is well versed only in the art of cooking, keeping the house clean, and looking pretty while doing.  Not only that, but their mothers chime in and state the similar ideals.

What in God’s name is wrong with a woman who goes to work, is independent, can speak her own mind, and won’t take a back seat, but rather be your equal?

The fact that I’ve received proposals from aunties saying, “we want a girl who is a doctor, but we don’t want her to work after marriage,” truly boils my blood. The fact that nearly every marriage profile I’ve seen from a desi guy says, ‘looking for a fair, slim, pretty girl’ truly boils my blood. The fact that my mother has to be the first to send pictures of me so you can do the choosing or rejecting truly boils my blood. And the fact that none of my accomplishments matter—but a gorgeous, brightened, filtered picture of me does, truly boils my blood.

The desi community is so utterly engrossed in a certain standard of beauty and a certain view of women in a marriage. I’m not wasting my blood, sweat, and tears over the last four years of my life just to sit there, look pretty and cook you perfectly round rotis since no one ever bothered to teach you how to fend for yourself. I go on interviews for residency. Not as a candidate for you to look me up and down and deem me fit for marriage or reject me based on some standard of women you think you deserve as a graduation present.

My curly hair, less-than-fair complexion, fierce opinions, hilariously loud laugh, and advocacy and educational background are what 25 years worth of sacrifice and challenges look like. If they don’t fit your standards, maybe it’s time to raise them.

In the words of Princess Jasmine, “I am NOT a prize to be won.”

physician

Recognizing the Challenge of being a Female Physician in the Medical Field

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by Hala Sabry al Nagar

“What do you want to be when you grow up?” It’s a common question we ask our youth, and I remember as a young child sharing my aspirations with family members. When I answered “I want to be a doctor when I grow up,” I received positive feedback and praise. As an innocent little girl, I had no idea that there were people in the world who wouldn’t be as supportive of a woman in medicine.

Later in life, I questioned my decision to be a physician but was always rerouted back to medicine. I truly couldn’t think of a better way to serve my community. I completed all the necessary classes, training, and board exams and through it all, I felt that I could accomplish anything I put my mind to. This is what we teach our children – if you work hard, you can achieve anything you want.

Then I learned from the female physicians in my family that the experience of women in medicine was often fraught with unique challenges including gender discrimination. After 12 years of training, when I believed I had complete control over the direction of my career, I experienced the discrimination I had heard my family speak of.

I was passed over for a leadership position while pregnant. With all of the scientific progress in medicine, it was shocking to me how far behind the advancement of women in medicine was.

I am acutely aware that my experience entering medicine does not represent the barriers many women face even before becoming physicians. After all, I was simply following in the footsteps of the women before me. How many women doubted whether they could achieve what they wanted? How many could not find women role models who overcame the discrimination and barriers imposed by society? I remember feeling hopeless when I finally realized the “status quo” in medicine, that intangible opponent whom I instinctively wanted to ignore. A woman would have to choose between her career and her family if she wanted to succeed as a physician.

I celebrated the birth of my children and simultaneously mourned the death of my career because of the ultimatum medicine has traditionally demanded. It wasn’t until I reached out to others that I realized I wasn’t alone in my frustration. Men and women alike felt the same pressure and it wasn’t just about starting a family because even women without children were being held back.

When I think of the first female physician, Dr. Elizabeth Blackwell who was accepted into medical school as a practical joke, I am grateful for how far we’ve come. But I know we still have a long way to go. The fact that women are entering the medical field in increasing numbers is a tribute to those pioneers before us who fought the bitter and aggressive discrimination of a culture that believed the woman’s place was in her home. It is not enough to appreciate how much has changed. We must continue to fight for equality and dedicate our struggle to the women behind us who are still young girls being asked what they want to be when they grow up.

This is what National Women Physicians Day 2017 means to me. This is a day for all physicians, women and men, to work towards building a workforce that represents the patients we care for. Academic research must focus on identifying not only the gaps in gender representation but also on creating solutions for our future generations. Our patients deserve to have physicians who are fulfilled in every aspect of their lives because that makes us better doctors.

medicine

Betrothed to Medicine: Learning to Embrace My Profession

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by Rabia Toor

It’s been three weeks since I graduated from medical school. I’m officially an M.D.! But the 25 years leading up to me becoming the first physician in my family was a long and difficult road, to say the least.

I remember when I was in the second grade and had an assignment where I had to draw what I wanted to be when I grew up. I was obsessed with Britney Spears at the time so naturally, I drew a singer with a bedazzled microphone in her hand singing in front of a huge audience. My mother, who had recently emigrated from Pakistan a few years prior, saw the drawing and asked me, “What is this? Draw a doctor.” And so, at the tender age of seven, the journey to medical school began.

My mother and father emigrated from Pakistan to Canada with my sisters and me in 1998. They’re pretty typical in terms of first generation parents. My father was an engineer, who rightfully so, never let us forget his struggles of studying under a street lamp for his exams in his village, and my mother was a stay at home mom, dedicated to maintaining a happy family with full bellies.

As long as I can remember, my father used to tell us stories of their struggles of coming to a better country for the sake of their kids. He wanted to be a doctor back in Pakistan; he even received admission to a Military Medical School but failed the physical exam because his eyesight was too weak due to his diabetes. My mother, on the other hand, felt like she had to prove something to her family back home. She bore three girls compared to all her siblings and relatives who had at least one son. This did build some sort of insecurity within her because she wanted us to ‘do something with our lives’ and by ‘doing something’ I mean becoming a doctor, engineer or lawyer.

I always knew in the back of my mind that I would have to become a doctor. This profession, at least back in the day, meant financial stability and true intellect. So, not only were you the brightest person in the room, but also the wealthiest. And with these two factors being mixed in with cultural norms, meant pride, reputation, and status. I know, I know, it sounds pretty archaic. That’s because it is.

And the more I thought about it, the more I realized that I didn’t want to pursue medicine as a career. I was an incredibly creative person; I knit and crochet, scrapbook, and bake! So my plan after graduating university was to take a culinary course in patisserie and open up the bakery of my dreams. But, whenever I plead my case to my parents, it would always be met with, “Sure, you can become a pastry chef. After you become a doctor.” There was simply no way I could change my betrothed profession. I reluctantly applied to medical school, but at the same time applied to culinary school in Ottawa. And a week before receiving my acceptance from medical school, I got my acceptance to the George Brown School of Culinary Arts. I didn’t tell my parents about my acceptance to chef school. And the next month, I was on a flight to the Caribbeans to start my first semester of medical school.

I hated it. I hated it so much because I felt so much pressure from my parents. I hated the fact that it was all for status, money, and pride. I struggled with major depression and anxiety because I became extremely unhappy with where my life was headed. I was drinking; I was smoking and deteriorating as a person. And my sisters took notice. They tried to tell my mother that I was struggling but all she had to say was, “Do what you have to do. But you can’t quit. You have to finish medical school.”

I was in complete shock. My mother was completely fine with me going against my religion, simply so I would have an M.D. degree. Every few phone calls; I would beg to quit medical school. But it was never an option.

It wasn’t until the end of my third year of medical school where I made a complete 180. I finally ended up having a breakthrough with my parents and got treated for my depression (despite the cultural taboo…but that’s a different story for another time). And shortly after, I began my psychiatry rotation. I saw individuals like me and I felt like I could give them something that I couldn’t before. I had been in their shoes. And I wanted to help. I finally had that feeling of wanting to be of service to others, that feeling I saw everyone around me having since my first semester of medical school classes. I FINALLY wasn’t pursuing medicine for my parents. I found my passion! I found my own niche and it opened up a whole new world for me.

I used to think that a lot of things, from my personality to all of my interests had to be mutually exclusive. I thought that if I became a doctor, there is no way I could still like baking. It’s just NOT what doctors do. If I became a doctor, I had to become the stereotyped professional, graceful, classy individual that doctors are known to be. I couldn’t be my hilarious, laughs-way-too-much goofy self, and that lead to increasing my self-doubt, fear, and anxiety. But once I figured out how to integrate my passions INTO medicine, that is where I found my true happiness.

Going through my own depression as a Pakistani Muslim female medical student, it helped me understand the need for psychiatric services for minorities, for Muslims, for Pakistanis, for females and also for physicians. I fit all four of those minorities and in each of these categories, talking about depression or psychiatric illness is still a taboo. And seeking treatment for it, well forget about that. It’s just not going to happen. However, through my own journey, I became an advocate for the treatment of mental illness and medicine has been a direct path to me being able to help others in that position.

Initially, my career path was chosen for me. But now, I am the one that chooses to continue working in the field of medicine, in my own, unique way. I was able to find my own happiness, myself.