Beyond the Exam Room: An Osteopathic Commitment to Patient Rights

This was my focus in the early spring of 2025. In truth, much of my second year of medical school revolved around re-establishing a connection between PCOM’s chapter of the Latino Medical Student Association and the Hispanic Health Promoter Program (HHPP) at Saint Joseph’s University. What started as a few executive board members attending HHPP clinics at various consulates across Philadelphia has grown into a well-oiled partnership that continues to this day. And for that alone, I am thankful. Thankful that there are people, both in and out of medical institutions, who see the need for accessible healthcare and are doing their part to bring their services into the community.

As the spring progressed, however, a new uncertainty began to take shape. I began to notice fewer and fewer people at the consulates. And I knew why, in my bones, I could feel the apprehension. People were afraid to leave their homes, even to places that remained inviolable. In the past, there were people who came to the consulate not for its formal services, but because they knew they could receive care, have their blood sugar checked, their children’s teeth examined, their blood pressure taken, or speak about concerns they had never been able to bring to a physician. They came because they knew we would be there. And then, they stopped coming.

So I adapted.

Together with peers who refused to sit idly by, I helped organize the creation and distribution of over 400 “Know Your Rights” Red Cards. We cut them by hand, one by one, in the dimly lit study room of our apartment complex's basement. These walls had seen us at our worst. They had shielded us from the frigid winter temperatures at 2 am, the night before quizzes and final exams; they had been the support we needed when balancing on the back legs of chairs while reading over lectures. Now they bore witness to the application of everything we had been learning—not in preparation for an exam, but in service of the people we were training to care for.

These cards were placed directly into the hands of those who continued to show up, with a clear message: share this with everyone you know. It was a message I knew well–one I had grown up with in a household built on the sacrifices of my immigrant parents: in our community, we protect our own. What followed were small, quiet confirmations of that truth.

“No sabía que tenía derechos,” one woman said softly. “I didn’t know I had any rights.”

I found her near the elevators, crouched low as she waited for her number to be called. A blanket was draped over her shoulders as she breastfed her baby. She looked up as I approached and smiled, having heard the announcement I had made about the cards moments before. She thanked me as I placed the card in her free hand, and asked quietly if I could spare two more.

“Para mi mamá y mi hermanito que están en la casa.”

“For my mom and my little brother at home.”

Some accepted them quietly, their eyes and subtle nods a silent confirmation of shared understanding. Others paused, reading carefully, asking questions. A few expressed gratitude in ways that stayed with me; reminders that even small acts of advocacy can restore a sense of agency in moments where so much feels out of one’s control.

As future physicians, osteopathic students are taught to advocate for the well-being of all individuals, especially vulnerable populations. Upholding the rights of individuals and ensuring they have the knowledge to protect themselves and their health is part of the osteopathic commitment to humanity and justice.

And for that, we took an oath.