Why we need more young women with hearing loss to become doctors
“I had not seen, read or even heard about a doctor with disabilities so I (mistakenly) believed that medicine wasn’t an option for me,” shares 24-year-old doctor Mahrukh Zaidi. (Courtesy of Mahrukh Zaidi)
“I had not seen, read or even heard about a doctor with disabilities so I (mistakenly) believed that medicine wasn’t an option for me,” shares 24-year-old doctor Mahrukh Zaidi.
Unlike many children who dream of becoming a doctor from a young age, I never saw myself studying medicine simply because I never thought it possible.
I was born with profound hearing loss in both ears and could hear the world only with the help of machines. I had not seen, read or even heard about a doctor with disabilities so I (mistakenly) believed that medicine wasn’t an option for me. I thought that my career opportunities in life were limited to jobs with minimal people interaction.
The first time I realized that I could become a doctor occurred when my mother returned from a parent-teacher meeting with my science teacher. She shared that my science teacher had suggested I consider a career in the field as my critical thinking skills combined well with my sensitive personality. “Do you want to become a doctor?” she asked me.
It was then that medicine started to seem like a conceivable career path to someone with hearing loss like me. I felt like I could finally be the change I wished to see in the world and leave a legacy of kindness behind — especially kindness towards the people who society most often overlooks.
“The first time I realized that I could become a doctor occurred when my mother returned from a parent-teacher meeting with my science teacher,” shares Mahrukh. (Courtesy of Mahrukh Zaidi)
My hearing loss was detected at the age of 1 years old when a medical test confirmed that I was deaf. My parents then immediately started me on wearing hearing aids in order to reintegrate me back into hearing society. After extensive speech and listening exercises which continued throughout early childhood, I was admitted in a mainstream school right from class one on par with my peers.
I received my cochlear implants at the age of 7 and 10 years old, which made spoken communication much easier. Since childhood, I only spoke English after the doctor told my parents to bring me up on one language because two or more would interfere with my development. Subsequent research has proven this to be a myth and many young cochlear implantees have been multilingual since childhood — but I was not taught to speak my mother tongue, Hindi. Growing up in Dubai, I often remained oblivious in my own fantasy world at the family dinner table while everyone chatted away in Hindi. This disconnection from my country and culture deepened with time.
In school, however, I thrived. At my international school, I used to sit in the front of the class and give my teachers an FM microphone to ensure that I heard each instruction clearly. I was a high achiever and often took part in extracurricular activities like Model U.N. I eventually graduated from the International Baccalaureate Diploma Programme with a total of 41/45 points (one of the highest scores possible) even after taking a difficult combination of three sciences and a compulsory second language (Spanish).
“At my international school, I used to sit in the front of the class and gave my teachers an FM microphone to ensure that I heard each instruction clearly,” says Mahrukh. (Courtesy of Mahrukh Zaid)
Instead of choosing to pursue higher education in the U.S. or U.K. like most of my peers, I decided to travel back to my motherland to study medicine. Despite the detachment I experienced from not speaking Hindi, I strongly believe that everyone has a duty to serve their country. However, moving to India and learning to speak the language while balancing a grueling academic schedule was difficult. Listening fatigue left me extremely exhausted at the end of the day, having spent the entire time trying to decode conversations. I constantly struggled with subtle pronunciations of words and most of the time felt unheard, misunderstood or voiceless.
When the pandemic hit and masking became commonplace, it felt like I had to contend with yet another obstacle on my path to becoming a doctor. For someone like me who has relied on facial cues and lip reading — especially while learning Hindi — communication during the COVID-19 crisis was a challenge. Voices were muffled by face masks and asking someone to remove their mask was not viable, so I either overworked my ears or withdrew into myself. When the frustration grew unbearable, I used poetry to cope with the emotions boiling inside of me. I shared my poems on social media to raise awareness about the issues that deaf and hard-of-hearing individuals experience.
At this point in time, I came across HearBuds, a group of fellow cochlear implantees and hearing aid users who wear their hearing loss identity proudly like a badge of honor. Their social media page is filled with relatable videos and posts that depicted our struggles and frustrations due to the general lack of understanding of disability. Instead of helping me conform, they encouraged me to remain unique and advocate for myself and others. From them, I learnt the importance of having a community of like-minded people to support me even during the darkest of days.
“Doctors with disabilities bring a unique understanding of and perspective on their patients’ needs and priorities. By demanding access and accommodation in medical colleges, we not only represent ourselves and our hearing loss identity, but we can also encourage patients to advocate for themselves.”
With their support and my own determination, I graduated from medical school in 2020 with decent fluency in Hindi. This year I will begin my doctor of medicine and master of science (MD/MS) in obstetrics and gynaecology at Lady Hardinge Medical College, one of the top medical colleges in India. I also plan to set up a community to support doctors in India with disabilities and advocate for our rights. Doctors with disabilities bring a unique understanding of and perspective on their patients’ needs and priorities. By demanding access and accommodation in medical colleges, we not only represent ourselves and our hearing loss identity, but we can also encourage patients to advocate for themselves.
When I was growing up, I didn’t see any doctors with disabilities. Through self-advocacy and confidence, I’m changing the narrative so that every girl with hearing loss can see medicine as a career path for her.
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