Alexandra Adams – UK’s First Deafblind Medical Student

Meet Alexandra Adams, the UK’s first deafblind medical student, as part of our series “Inspirational You, Awesome Sisters United”.

IYASU is incredibly proud to share the powerful and moving personal story of Alexandra Adams, the UK’s first deafblind medical student.

Now in her final year at Cardiff University Medical School, Alexandra is on track to become a doctor in Summer 2024. She has overcome extreme adversity, achieving far beyond anyone’s expectations of her, anyone that is, except herself!

“Not everyone believes in the impossible being possible”

I have always said that I want to see the world before it goes blind. Yet, there is so much irony in this small ambition. Society remains so narrow-minded at times, too cautious to broaden its peripheries, too fixated on the mundane, the ‘impossible’, to hear the other side of the story. In other words, not everyone believes in the impossible being possible.

My name is Alexandra Adams, and I am currently the UK’s first deafblind person training to be a Doctor. As I enter my final year of medical school, I am on track to qualify as a Doctor in Summer 2024. That dream is nearing ever closer. At last.

“I strongly believe that if you can dream it, you can achieve it”

But it hasn’t been an easy ride getting here. I don’t think anybody’s career journey is easy or straightforward, not when there is so much at stake, and certainly not when it involves Medicine (in every form you could imagine).

Yet, I seem to have taken on a lot more than I bargained for, in what feels like a lifetime of my Medicine journey. My only hope is that, by sharing the hurdles, the adversity, the pitfalls and setbacks along the way, I can help to inspire and motivate other women, and ‘people like me’, to pursue their Doctor journey too.

I strongly believe that if you can dream it, you can achieve it. And that, the impossible really is possible.

It wasn’t always my dream to become a Doctor. I actually began this rollercoaster of a journey as an athlete – I often refer to this period as my ‘previous life’.

I was a swimmer on the GB Team, training towards the London 2012 Paralympics. Later on, I would also spend time as a deafblind ski racer on the GB Parasnowsport Team. But a major stomach surgery in the summer of 2010 ended my sports career.

The surgery went wrong, I had three revisions of it within one week, and by that point, I was unable to eat, losing weight, and bedridden in hospital for a whole year. In this time, I had many more surgeries on my abdomen.

But that year cost me so much – my schooling, education, fitness, friendships, and quality of life. I missed out on family so much too, my younger sister having only just started secondary school, visiting me each evening on the ward.

It would also be the start of my rare disease journey, something that would only become apparent in the next five years.

“I witnessed how clinical science intertwined with the beauty of people, social interaction, and art”

Yet, it was in this time that I was inspired to embark on the Medicine path for the first time. From the hospital bed, I witnessed how clinical science intertwined with the beauty of people, social interaction, and art; two things I always thought were mutually exclusive.

I fondly remember the words of one particular doctor, who has strongly influenced my Doctor journey ever since. Whilst large teams of doctors on the ward round visited the bedside each day, nobody, not one, would lift their head to look at me, tell me what was going on, ask me what my fears or worries were.

Every single ward round, I would be left no more knowledgeable as to what was happening to my 16 year old body, scared for the future, and alone. Dr H was the only female doctor on the team. She crossed that invisible line at the end of my bed, and asked me the three most important words anybody in Medicine can ask: “Are you okay?”

Of course, I wasn’t. And I cried, telling her of my fears, my worries, my unanswered questions. But Dr H simply smiled, and said, “I know how you feel”. I later came to learn that Dr H had been a patient in her teenage years too – that same lost, frightened patient in the hospital bed.

It was Dr H who taught me that my experiences and adversities would later be the greatest gift and asset. Empathy is the best medicine we can give to our patients.

“As women, being stubborn is often sadly frowned upon.”

I went back to education after rehabilitation. I bought myself textbooks and requested to be put on the exam board lists for my A levels. The residential school I went to, which catered for blind and visually impaired students, sadly didn’t believe becoming a doctor as a deafblind person was possible. So I had to work it out for myself.

And I had to be very stubborn. As women, being stubborn is often sadly frowned upon. But stubbornness, in my case, would be my greatest gift, and the driving force in getting me into medical school.

Even then, I experienced my biggest brick wall, discrimination, before even starting medical school. I was accepted by a medical school up north, achieved higher grades than in the conditional offer, and visited them in person five times between receiving my offer of place, and results, to reconfirm time and time again that they were happy to accept and support a disabled medical student ‘like me’.

I was reassured throughout and was excited to begin my new exciting chapter. But, just a week before moving into university accommodation, the medical school called me one evening; “We can no longer have you because you’re disabled”. And that was it. After that phone call, I heard nothing more. All that hard work, building up of hope, and dreams, were all lost, within that moment.

In that time, it was those who were closest and most cared about me that said, “Maybe this is a sign that it isn’t going to work. Maybe this is a sign for you to look elsewhere”. And I could’ve so easily done that. (It certainly would’ve made life easier). But the stubbornness within me felt otherwise. I wanted to give it one more shot.

I spent another year submitting applications and attending medical school interviews, plus occupational health appointments with top consultants in the country. I wanted this all so badly, but I also knew I had to keep my head screwed on tighter than my heart and to make sure this was all still realistic, doable – in ‘Alexandra’-style, anyway.

It was in that same year that I commenced my Medicine degree, at Cardiff University…

“Being a disabled medical student, and the first deafblind medical student, has felt impossible at times – not because of the disabilities themselves, but because of other people’s reactions, and the walls that people and systems put up, just because it hasn’t been done before.”

I can’t say that I have happy memories of medical school. I often still feel resentful of the far-from-ideal experiences I have had over the years. Being a disabled medical student, and the first deafblind medical student has felt impossible at times.

Not because of the disabilities themselves, but because of other people’s reactions, and the walls that people and systems put up, just because it hasn’t been done before.

The first, (and last) time I used the university’s support service, I had run down the stairs after a meeting. The corridor was quite dark so I struggled to find the door handle, subtly feeling my hand across the door for it. The staff member I had just had a meeting with was standing watching me from the top of the stairs and commented:

“If you can’t find the door handle, how do you think you can be a Doctor?” I never went back, and instead, I kept my struggles tucked away internally for the next many years.

But, despite the isolation, frustration, bullying, and inequality, these experiences have also shaped me, grown me, and opened up doors of opportunities that I never thought I’d dream of – and for that, I am eternally grateful.

Perhaps the worst discrimination I experienced was when I was ‘let loose’ as a medical student on full-time clinical placements. I remember on my first day, a senior consultant approached me and said:

“Imagine you’re a patient. Would you want a disabled doctor treating you? Absolutely not!” They then sent me home.

This later became the opening storyline to many national and international talks I’d give, hoping that it would at least open up the much-needed topic of conversation on needing to change our workplace culture, and improve equality, diversity, and inclusivity in the NHS.

I began blogging, sharing my story on television and radio outlets, and podcast series. My biggest public speaking events so far include giving a TED talk at TEDxNHS 2019, where I shared the story of my ‘Faces of the NHS’ campaign, an ongoing photography project which celebrates diversity amongst NHS staff.

Just before the start of the COVID-19 pandemic, I gave my biggest talk at Wembley Arena, in front of 16,000 people, alongside stars such as Idris Elba, Jamie Oliver, Leona Lewis, and Gwendoline Christie, to name just a few.

It appeared I had finally found my niche, where I became comfortable and proud of my imperfections, and comforted by the fact that I was helping others, through a simple message I was sharing from my own personal experiences. Then, our worlds crashed, again.

In many ways, the next three years became another ‘life’ in itself, much like my sporting past in my ‘previous life’ had been. I went from being that confident, strong, and ambitious medical student, to a bedbound and very sick patient, on the other side of the bed, once more.

I had ended up on a ventilator in the Intensive Care Unit, this being my 23^rd time in these last few years. It brought back old traumas of my worst ICU admission – in a coma for a month out in Italy back in 2018, delirious, my parents being caught up in the Genoa bridge collapse as they travelled over from the UK to see me, only narrowly missing that fate by two hours.

Doctors told my family I would return home “in a box”. Still, I somehow managed to ‘bounce back’. I always did. But my undiagnosed, rare genetic disorder, was only becoming more profound and debilitating.

When I caught COVID-19, it would change me forever. I had been illegally evicted from the house I had lived in for three years, during the first lockdown, due to the landlord’s fear of COVID-19 being passed on; I was sick and nearing hospitalisation at this time, but did not have COVID-19 then.

I was made temporarily homeless, and as a disabled person, too vulnerable to go to my medical school placements, I had nowhere to go.

“I had contracted sepsis eight times in those 17 months… I couldn’t walk, and relied on TPN, a suprapubic catheter, oxygen…and, the hospital piano”

My 17-month hospital admission is perhaps a chapter of this long, wild story for another time. But it meant I had to relearn everything, restart from the beginning, yet again. And at times, I really did feel like giving up.

I had contracted sepsis eight times in those 17 months and was transferred to another hospital in London, four hours away, plus more trips to the Intensive Care Unit in between.

I couldn’t walk, and relied on TPN, a suprapubic catheter, oxygen…and, a little less medical, the hospital piano, which became my own piece of sanctuary when I was so far from home for so long.

I’d later do a fundraiser raising money to get as many pianos into NHS hospitals as possible. I felt personally, and very deeply, on how healing music could be to patients and staff in their darkest times.

Whilst I met some of the most selfless and kindest people through this ordeal, I also fell onto the receiving end of some awful neglect and devastation, when the NHS became so strained by lack of resources and staffing in its worst fight yet.

I am still trying to deal with the traumas of these last three years. Whilst I met some of the most selfless and kindest people through this ordeal, I also fell onto the receiving end of some awful neglect and devastation, when the NHS became so strained by lack of resources and staffing in its worst fight yet.

It became so horrendous that I was watching patients die to the left and right of me, without having any power or ability to do anything about it. I thought that seeing this NHS, the NHS at its very worst, would deter me from ever returning to my Medicine journey, for good. Somehow though, it didn’t.

I am back at medical school now and have recently completed what was, without a doubt, my most challenging year of medical school yet. I have had to step back up after 2.5 years away from Medicine, with no social circle, no permanent base, and no guarantee that my health will remain reliable or stable throughout.

I manage my clinical placements whilst on 24-hour oxygen and wearing a drainage bag. In many ways, these health needs have become more prominent than being a hearing-aid or white-cane user as a deafblind person.

As it happened, I ended up having to take my recent medical school finals this summer, whilst an inpatient back in hospital, this time with ketoacidosis. Still, I managed to pass, and I am now very much embracing the period of reflection (and somewhat disbelief!) on how far I have come, and what now lies ahead.

We have had time to celebrate too – in particular, my younger sister, who, twelve years ago visited me each night on that hospital ward…now starting her own journey as an FY1 doctor, her first rotation being on the very ward she spent a year visiting me on. I’m excited to join her, as both a colleague and a sister, next year.

“It is better to try, and fail, than fail to try.”

My old school Principal said to me, on the last day of secondary education, as I walked out as their first student going to medical school, that “it is better to try, and fail than fail to try”.

I have certainly lived by these words, but more so, become repeatedly obsessed with them, in that, even if I fail the first, second, or third time round, I will still try again. After all, there is no rule as to how many times a person needs to fall and get back up before giving up entirely.

As a woman in Medicine, the challenges are often bigger, longer, and grittier. But the rewards and the viewpoints at the top of those hurdles and brick walls are even more beautiful.

“I have also found in this journey that, for women in Medicine, sexism and ableism sadly often come hand in hand. And we are still tackling this day to day.”

And, whilst on the note of challenges, breakthroughs, career pathways, and life vulnerabilities, whether that be on health, disability, or discrimination, I have also found in this journey that, for women in Medicine, sexism and ableism sadly often come hand in hand. And we are still tackling this day-to-day.

That same week I was sent home from placement because I am deafblind, I was stood, scrubbed in, in theatre, when the two male surgeons looked up at me, to say:

“Surely you ladies wouldn’t want to be here in surgery – it’s too hard graft”, and they all sneered, including, to my disappointment, the male medical student, who remained silently standing in the corner of the room.

My response was to politely tell them that I was off to the theatre next door, to observe Mrs. X, the female surgeon. As I made my way out of that theatre, I whipped out my long white cane and headed towards the exit. I can distinctly recall the theatre falling completely silent. I never looked back.

Surgery has never really appealed to me as a speciality. What I truly love, and hope to specialise in someday, is Palliative Medicine, and supporting other young patients and families with rare diseases.

I might not have as much eyesight as most people, but I have more insight than many, and, as a woman in Medicine, a disabled woman in Medicine, and a female patient in Medicine, this is my proudest asset and the greatest gift of which I hope will shape me into a better, more empathic, and open-minded Doctor, for all my patients in the future.