Allison Wang
California, United States

I was working the afternoon shift when, after three hours of walking under the sun, I was finally assigned to the blood sugar testing station. The days were long—eight-hour shifts that began at five in the morning as we drove into rural villages of Vietnam. I felt a quiet sense of pride watching my older teammates work with confidence. As one of the youngest volunteers on the mission, I was surrounded by aspiring doctors and college students. I tried to help wherever I could, determined to learn as much as possible.

Before we began, a nurse quickly demonstrated how to measure blood sugar using a glucose monitor and lancets, instructing us to record each reading. We practiced on pieces of cardboard until my trembling hands gradually steadied.

Then the patients arrived.

With each person who stepped forward, my nervousness grew. What if I hurt someone? Would they trust a fourteen-year-old? I could not even speak Vietnamese. But once we began working, something shifted. My movements became more automatic—clean, prick, measure, record. Each successful test brought a quiet sense of accomplishment, and slowly, my earlier fears faded into the background.

A couple of hours later, a man approached my station. He looked to be in his early sixties, his skin tanned and weathered from years of working outdoors. I gestured for him to hold out his hand and pointed to my fingers, asking which one he preferred.

He extended his left hand.

That’s when I noticed—only one finger remained. Where the others should have been were four scarred stumps.

For a moment, I froze. I wanted to call someone more experienced, to step away from a situation I did not feel prepared for. But instead, something in me steadied. I focused.

As I cleaned his finger, I noticed how rough and calloused his skin was, marked by layers of healed scars. I carefully prepared the lancet, gently pressing it against his finger. A small drop of bright red blood formed. My stomach tightened, but I stayed composed, completing the test and recording his blood sugar level.

When I finished, I wrapped his finger and guided him to the next station. Only after he left did I feel my shoulders finally relax.

That moment stayed with me. Asking which finger the patient preferred for glucose checks had become routine, so I was unprepared when he replied that he had only one finger. He had no choice, despite my asking; I suddenly realized how fortunate I am to have many options in life. For him, there was only one option. It was one of the most humbling and fulfilling experiences of the trip—not because the task was difficult, but because I had to overcome my own embarrassment and follow through. The encounter taught me that there is no single rule for caring: each person is unique, and we must remember to listen, observe, and adapt.

Throughout my time in Vietnam, I met many people living with far less than I had ever known—disabled orphans, families struggling to afford basic necessities, children taking on responsibilities far beyond their age. Seeing their realities firsthand shifted my perspective in a way words alone never could.

I have often been told how privileged I am. But it was only when I stood beside people living entirely different lives that I began to truly understand what that means.

When I returned to the United States, I carried that awareness with me—not as guilt, but as motivation. I wanted to do more, to contribute in a way that mattered. And for the first time, I began to see a future in medicine not just as a goal, but as a responsibility.