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When dangerously high temperatures become an inescapable part of life in Phoenix every year, people bring out a tired old joke: “It’s a dry heat.” Sure, there’s some truth to that, but when the high temperature is well over 100 degrees for days on end, as it is now, low humidity doesn’t mean much: Each day is just brutally, menacingly hot. And, in any case, the line is amusing only if you’re privileged enough to confine your existence to a finely air-conditioned home, car and workplace, with the occasional dip in the pool. (Fernanda Santos, 6/16)

At the Nyarugusu refugee camp in western Tanzania, a 39-year-old Congolese refugee and mother of nine came into our lives at what was almost the end of hers. She was bleeding to death from complications of childbirth. We met this patient in April as part of a collaboration with the Tanzania Red Cross Society. As trainees in medicine and public health at Johns Hopkins University, we were visiting the camp to understand and improve the quality of its health care and surgical services. (Alexander Blum and Zachary Enumah, 6/15)

If you’ve spent any time in a hospital, you know just how anxiety-provoking the experience can be. Medical devices are constantly sounding off in long whines and staccato beeps, all competing for attention. Yet despite the distress these blaring alarms seem to convey, you’ll hardly ever see doctors and nurses running toward them. That’s because up to 99 percent of these sounds in hospitals aren’t really “alarms” in the way you might think. They’re more like notifications, providing useful updates about everything from a patient’s blood pressure to how much liquid is left in an IV bag. It’s only the very rare sound that serves as an all-hands-on-deck alarm, indicating a serious event like cardiac arrest. (Michael Schutz, 6/16)

I’m from a small town in south central Kansas, and I wasn’t a voter until I had to move out of state to receive emergency, lifesaving health care. Now — as if my life and yours depends on it — I’ve launched a nonprofit to encourage other people to start voting and change the future of my home state. I wasn’t a voter because I didn’t think my vote mattered. I felt that I didn’t understand everything about rather polarizing issues, and that I shouldn’t insert myself into outcomes that voting decides through elections. Until I had to leave Kansas to get the health care I needed. (Peyton Browning, 6/17)

Like so many Americans, we watched in horror the news reports about the mass shootings in Buffalo and Uvalde, and the heartbreaking aftermath of families grieving their losses. As medical students, we are being trained to one day manage the consequences of gun violence: people dead on arrival in the emergency department or those wounded so badly there is little that can be done; bodies torn apart by bullets and shrapnel that will never be the same again; the lingering pain or post-traumatic stress disorder; and more. What we aren’t being taught is what matters most: how to prevent gun violence in the first place. (David Velasquez and Jesper Ke, 6/17)

It’s OK to say that you’re not OK, but it’s hard.More Americans than ever now receive treatment for mental health conditions such as anxiety, depression and PTSD. The solutions we currently have revolve around either therapy or medication and have mixed results.For years, we have been overlooking what could prove to be a highly effective treatment: music. (Bill Protzmann, 6/15)

I spent my early 20s eyeing bridges, subways, high-rise windows and busy-traffic corridors, assessing which one would provide the most assured escape from my mental pain. Although inpatient treatment for my severe depression helped save my life, two decades later, I know I’m not “fine.” Depression has crept back as I’ve shouldered pandemic fatigue, grief from my father’s death, and accumulated work and caregiver burnout. The smallest tasks require courage and tremendous energy. (Stacy Torres, 6/16)