It is terrifying to receive a call out of the blue that a family friend is unexplainably ill in the hospital. It is heartbreaking to hear at school that the classmate you had known for years passed out in the middle of a church service and got taken to the emergency room. It is gut-wrenching to worry daily that your best friend will not last another day because of her heart condition. Experiencing moments of pure panic and fear for someone you care about opens your eyes to the importance of technology in healthcare. It has inspired me to pursue biomedical engineering, to pursue a way to make the world a better place through medical technology. I could use statistics to prove the importance of wearable medical technology. In 81.1% of patients with diabetes, an insulin pump decreased the frequency of hypoglycemic episodes in which their blood sugar level was lower than the standard range. Diabetic people with an insulin pump generally have a better quality of life. I could also use personal anecdotes. I have had diabetic friends with insulin pumps, and I have had diabetic friends without insulin pumps. From personal experience, I have noticed that my friends with an insulin pump are less likely to have medical issues. They attend class more often. They get sick less frequently. Of course, one of the major problems with insulin pumps is their price. Diabetes is already expensive, from the cost of insulin to doctor visits, and buying a machine that costs thousands of dollars can be unaffordable. Wearable medical technology needs to become cheaper, which is why, in my future research, I want to try to make the world a better place by making wearable medical technology cheaper.

I remember the feeling of when my friend told me the story of how he almost died. It was a random Tuesday morning at seven in our before-school class. He had been diagnosed with diabetes four years prior and had been reliant on an insulin pump since his diagnosis. However, in the middle of the night, his pump malfunctioned, and it continuously pumped insulin into his body during the night to a dangerous level. Luckily, he was fine; however, I thought about what might have happened if he was not fine. His story about his almost death resonated with me, reminding me of the importance of medical devices functioning perfectly. A simple malfunction in a medical device could have tragic consequences on the health and safety of the people who rely on the medical devices. During Career Day at school, I talked to a man who sells medical devices, and he told me about how life-changing working with medical devices is. When I held a small pacemaker for the first time, I knew I wanted to be involved in creating small life-saving devices. I want to innovate better solutions so that no one has to worry about their device malfunctioning. I want to improve the devices to improve the lives of those who rely on them. Holding the pacemaker in a random classroom on the first floor, I decided biomedical engineering was for me. My friend's story and many others have encouraged me to enter the field of biomedical engineering. So many people rely on medical devices to live, and if the devices malfunction, it can cause devastating consequences. Therefore, I plan to go to college for biomedical engineering, and I will use my degree to work to improve the lives of people who rely on medical devices to live. I want to create a better tomorrow where people do not have to panic about their devices. I envision a world soon where getting a medical device does not need to be stressful. Not only would the devices be improved, but the cost would not be financially stressful for those who cannot afford it. Another friend with diabetes told me about the financial hardships of having diabetes, and I want to make sure that no one struggles to attain the necessities that keep them alive by innovating the devices to become more affordable. Therefore, with my biomedical degree, my education will shape a future without worry about malfunctioning medical devices and the costs associated with medical devices.

I wake up to the sound of sizzling bacon and the smell of maple syrup that enters my room through the crack of the door, signifying the last day of school for the week. Since my mom left when I was five, my dad and I have had a tradition of eating breakfast together every Friday morning. Every Friday, he makes me two golden, fluffy pancakes drenched in maple syrup and three pieces of bacon made the exact way we like it, slightly crispy. I quickly hop to my feet, my body suddenly invigorated by the sound and smell. I slip on my bunny slippers for warmth and rush out of my room, down the hall, and into the kitchen. The silver fridge door is open, concealing the appearance of the chef. The door closes, and the sight saddens me. "Good morning, Sport," the robot greets me, using the nickname my dad gave me when I was six. The robot was about a foot taller than me. It had large dead eyes, a painted smile, and a satellite dish on its head. I don't respond to the thing before me. While I knew that my dad had been sent to war earlier in the week and the robot had taken my dad's place as my guardian, I had held onto the hope that my dad would return on Friday for our tradition. Friday had always been my beacon of hope in dark times, but today, Friday had failed me. My dad is still gone, and I live with an impersonal machine. I sit at my usual spot at the table, which is set for one rather than two. “One stack of two pancakes with syrup and three pieces of slightly crisp bacon,” says the robotic voice as the metallic hand places a plate of steaming pancakes and sizzling bacon before me. I glare at the ‘Kiss the Chef’ apron wrapped around the robot. It is my dad's favorite apron, the one that I got him for Father's Day three years ago. “You’re not my dad,” I state angrily, pushing the plate to the center of the table. My stomach growls, and upon further inspection, the pancakes are fluffy and golden, and the bacon is made just like my dad used to cook it. "Eat up," the robot commands as it places a glass of orange juice before me. I check the glass for critiques, but as if reading my mind, the machine points out, "No pulp." "Whatever," I mutter with a scoff, running to my room to prepare for the last day of this awful week. When I storm out of the house after getting ready with my stomach still growling, I throw my backpack over my right shoulder. I stare at the sky as I walk down the driveway, wishing on the invisible stars that my dad will return and kick the impersonal robot wearing his apron in our kitchen out of the house. As I turn to walk down the sidewalk, I hear yells and horrible screeching noises until darkness. Pitch darkness. Loud sounds. Then silence. When I wake up, my head throbs, and my left leg tingles. I move my right hand to clutch my painful head, but my hand doesn’t obey my brain. I try moving my left hand, but my limbs refuse to cooperate again. I grunt as my eyes flutter, taking in the bright surroundings. I’m in a white room on a white hospital bed. Large, horrifying medical devices surround me. A heavy white sheet covers the lower half of my body, and my wrists are fettered to the sides of the hospital bed. I try to move my fingers, but my whole body feels numb as it refuses to obey the signal from my brain. A door opens, and a middle-aged woman in a white lab coat walks in with two young women in blue scrubs behind her with clipboards, who are already taking notes. "How are you?" the older woman in the lab coat asks as she sits next to me on a chair and begins reading charts on a screen. "What happened?" I reply, my voice shaky. My lips feel numb. I close my eyes, finding the room too blinding for my headache. "Five years ago, you were hit by a car on your way to school," the woman answers bluntly. "You were taken to our labs for," she pauses and continues, "experimental treatments." "Five years ago?" I repeat, opening my eyes to stare at the woman. I try to move my body slightly, and my fingers wiggle. My lower body refuses to move. "Where's my dad?" I ask. The woman frowns, her eyes suddenly solemn. "I'm afraid your father is still at war," she tells me softly. "But your robot has stayed in the waiting room since you were first admitted." "What?" The woman nods to one of the women in blue scrubs. The woman in blue scrubs on the left nods and walks to the door. She leaves for a few minutes and returns with a worn-down robot that rolls slowly behind her. The robot's eyes, which I once found emotionless, come to life as the robot sees me. "Sport!" the robot exclaims, wheeling toward me and throwing its metallic arms in the air. "Hi," I say shyly. "What's the prognosis, Doc?" the robot asks the woman in the lab coat. "We had to replace her left leg with a prosthetic leg," the woman replies, removing the white sheet to reveal my new metallic leg. "She has wires running through her blood vessels that lead to her heart." My heart beats rapidly as I stare at my new appendage. "It's incredible," the robot's voice responds, its eyes looking at me. "What do you think, Sport?" I examine the robot's metallic body. It had changed from years of waiting in the hospital for me to wake up. "Now I'm just like you," I reply positively.