I had always dreamed of becoming a biomedical engineer — or maybe “dreamed” isn’t the right word. I had always planned to become a biomedical engineer because of my obsession with futuristic limbs. From my preschool best friend’s parents to my fifth-grade teacher, everyone sat through my elementary school version of a TED talk, in which I presented detailed plans for replacing people’s “faulty” natural limbs with my superior flying-rocket feet.
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Also, I was probably the only eight-year-old to request and receive a tour of Stryker’s New Jersey facility to see for myself the factory production of prosthetic devices worn by hundreds of thousands of people. I knew what I wanted to do, the future was bright, and I was ready for it.
Fast forward to me smack in the middle of getting an undergraduate biomedical engineering degree, contributing to the restoration of proprioceptive feedback for a neural-enabled myoelectric arm (a.k.a. adding “touch” sensation to arms controlled by nerves in the body). I felt certain that my great-uncle — I’d been reliably assured he is listed on the patent for the first artificial heart valve — was smiling down on me as I forged my scientific legacy. And my mom was thrilled that I was smashing the patriarchy by doing calculus and wearing lip gloss at the same time. My life was going to plan.
At least I thought it was.
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At the beginning of experiments with a highly advanced prosthetic arm, I started interacting with the people I had dreamed for so long of helping. In the quiet moments at the research lab, as the patients and their families filled out consent forms, they presented me with questions — not only about the prosthetic arms, but about living a life that requires a prosthetic arm. “Can we take this one home? How much will it cost?” “What do I do if my insurance doesn’t cover arms anymore? How am I supposed to keep a job?”
Initially, I didn’t know the answers. Then I did. But I didn’t know how to tell patients the truth: The American medical system makes no real accommodations for the vast majority of amputees. Prosthetic arms and legs, unless they are truly rudimentary, typically cost more than $60,000. They require replacement parts every year that can cost thousands more, and only a small fraction of the cost of limbs and spare parts is covered by insurance.
This new knowledge dampened my enthusiasm for engineering. While many of my friends aimed for graduate degrees or high-profile jobs in the field, working on new devices and prosthetic parts, I felt haunted by a feeling that I was knowingly walking down the wrong path.
One day in my senior year of college, I attended a conference at a university hospital for clinicians treating patients with limb loss. Four hours into the conference, the discussion had only focused on a review of state regulations. I was ready to go back to my thermodynamics homework, but the promise of getting to try the featured myoelectric arms kept me in my seat.
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