Simran Shamith

I love you, I love you not

My passion I find it sometimes falters

It ebbs and flows with the changing seasons

But don’t question my loyalty, don’t even bother

I’d follow you to the ends of the earth for a million reasons

One.

You break me down but somehow build me back up

You’ve given me purpose, courage, determination, and love

While sometimes taking my sanity, my time, and my hopes all wrapped up

But everything fades when I put on that first glove

Two.

The things you have taught me

About this world, about failure, even about myself

You’ve shown me in times of need how much I can be

It means so much more than just a diploma on the shelf

I feel empowered and capable with the knowledge I’ve gained

To improve “quality of life” and “perceptions of pain”

Three.

I think back to how long I’ve worked for this

Ever since I learned what a doctor could do

How I could impact someone’s life on a daily basis

And work through some of the most challenging cases

The list could go on but really in the end

I love you for the person you have made me

No longer the nervous shy girl needing to pretend

Because being a surgeon was all I could ever see

I quickly realized that medicine was my true love

It’s arduous and meaningful and all of the above

So even if I complain, you’re the only one I admire

A life of loving you medicine, is to one I aspire

David Daniely

The eyes close.

To invite not tell,

remember they may have been told before.

The words wrap around deep and tight.

There is a way to do this, to show it clean,

and good,

and pretty.

I ask them to follow me inside.

The breath is felt,

The ears.

The chest.

–i'm doing it wrong–

I feel the lobes, the right has more.

The chest again

–I find an ocean under this,

some mysterious plate, the binding bone

and blood that keeps the dust inside.

I know its clockwork now,

yet moving unlike

The still unmoving

Human forms I saw just hours before–

And now again to bring this group down just lower,

the moving awareness shifts beneath the ribs

still moving.

I ask them to know if tension is felt.

If pain,

If warmth.

Or bight and dark.

The breath felt near and far

The ribs.

The belly.

The groove of hip.

– it seems so different when I watch–

– if only I had always watched –

– time is lost, my best is silt –

This quiet torrent rages loud, it

separates the voice of out and in

“ now bring your attention just a little lower”.

The thigh.

The knee.

The place between.

– I see my mother—

Its cold, I feel its cold.

The press is cold.

The foot is warm.

The room is loud.

The busy mind is here.

– the children have left the school. –

My leg is cold.

The room is loud.

– this is my dog –

“Now just a bit lower”.

The breaths come.

The breath comes.

The feet.

The floor.

The spine.

The chair.

The quiet starts an immeasurable space

that attention goes to fill.

The space between breaks vast, and vast, and close.

“Come back to the room if you are ready”.

I want so badly to be ready.

Sophie Geagan

I watch life go by like it’s already gone

Waves curling around my bare feet

You’re a happy little dot on the horizon

Far from me, and far from Monday

I’ve only known you for a moment but

I stare until I know you by heart

I open my scissors

Cut out a place for you in my timeline

Look back like I’m saying goodbye

I won’t return

My hands are too busy hiding in sweatshirts and wrapping around hot coffees

To splash salt water in your direction

I won’t be going back but it’s only now

I realize

I was never there

Lana Al Doori

Clementine and sweet date loaded trees 

Your still leaves

Shaken by a blissful breeze

Your citrus blossom 

Cool a hot summer day 

And day by day

The sun lays gently on your horizon 

Calling time for evening tea

Serenity.

David Marulanda

She was visibly excited to be volunteering at the hospital. Some felt they had to volunteer to check a box on their medical school application, but not her. You could see it in her body language. She was all smiles and looking around here and there, up and down, side to side. She had a little red frilled bow on her head, and everyone commented on just how adorable it was. She constantly turned as she walked down the hall taking in every sight and sound and smell. There were some interesting aromas here for sure. Nothing she had encountered before. It was so great that she was here, said the nurses and medical students when she walked by them. Patients loved her. Even the grouchiest attendant was disarmed by seeing her, and it took them a second to get back to their grouch. Some folks patted her on the head. After asking, of course. Her tail never stopped wagging.

Davin Evanson

In life's grand tapestry, I weave,

Anticipation and nerves tightly cleave.

A momentous threshold, a child's birth,

Yet, a looming deadline, conflict unearth’d.

Balancing roles, a puzzle intricate,

Familial love, academic dictate.

Whiplash of choices, consequences sown,

In compartments, my essence is known.

Schoolwork amid a birthing hour,

Conflict's grip, an ominous power.

The child's call, a plea so deep,

Amidst the rush, a promise to keep.

First steps witnessed through a screen,

A parental struggle, a scene unseen.

Medical studies, demanding and vast,

A constant tug-of-war, roles steadfast.

No balance found, only compartments clear,

In totality of presence, equilibrium near.

Advice to immerse, each role's domain,

Precision and discipline, the tug to restrain.

In lectures and textbooks, I dive,

Ignoring reminders, focused, alive.

Study sessions maximized, guilt set aside,

An unwavering focus, a professional guide.

At home, children's laughter resounds,

A sanctuary from academic bounds.

In childhood play, burdens released,

A guardian role, stress momentarily ceased.

Family's importance profound and clear,

A foundation, a lifeline, always near.

The grand journey, relentless and vast,

Compartmentalization, a guide steadfast.

In hospital rooms, sterile and cold,

A familiar aroma, stories untold.

Career decisions looming, uncertainty cast,

A hopeful journey for family, a future vast

David Marulanda

The wind whipped around him, blowing his favorite hat beyond his reach. He didn’t bother to retrieve it. He stared at the river below, the sound of its movement barely discernible over the roar of the cars behind him. His hat swayed in and out of visibility as it floated down.

It was a beautiful night. The moon and the stars were bright overhead, even near the city lights. It was also one of those rare times of the year when Mars was highly visible in the heavens. He remembered lying in a field with her staring up at the same sky, pointing out the constellations to her and explaining the names of the stars. He had once believed she had actually been interested in what he was saying. But that had been years ago.

He only remembered her because the stars were with him at this moment as they had been then. The stars looked down on him and on the rest of humanity from their celestial perches anchored in the past – millions of years in the past, before humanity showed up with dreams and desires. Polaris and Arcturus were always there for him, but people are selfish creatures. If he had felt as if his friends loved him, he wouldn’t have been out there alone with only his twinkling guardians to notice him.

He now sat by the edge wondering if the water was cold. It was a strange thought to have at that moment; the temperature would make no difference. He took off his shoes and socks and listened for the splash as they fell in the water. A faint plop. He stood, flexed his body and jumped. Seconds felt like a lifetime and the stars smiled above the world. Everything went dark when he broke through the surface below. Above it nothing had changed.

Margaux Games

I hold no objection to you,

You must know this by now

No desire feeds on a heart as ravenous,

Unless emerging from the winter wood

We have acquainted ourselves with disagreement,

Become tolerable of hate

But even in my proudest moment,

I have never claimed distaste

If I have portrayed such sentiment,

I apologize profusely,

For no one has tempted me,

With such unassuming fervency

Please take your time,

You may take mine as well,

But ensure the words you speak,

Are drawn with truth and love

Lauren Weaver

thirsty for knowledge

desperate to keep up I

drown myself again.

Josette Graves

Propelled by the inertia of responsibility

We find ourselves at the brink of insanity.

Once requiring complete consciousness,

Our jobs become muscle memory.

Beware.

I catch a glimpse of the cog 

I refuse to become. 

Barely oiled, mustering to fit within the confines of 

An apparatus that was not built for the likes of me.

The other gears turn

And if I don’t move with them, 

We are behind. 

God forbid I spend more time.

How we live 

Should not be

How we die.

Sophie Geagan

I still have crushes

See spinning bottles in my kaleidoscope eyes

My late-bloomer petals still reach for the sun

Twisting through spreadsheets and folded laundry for snatches of fresh air

I still have notes left to pass

Secrets left to whisper

Gallons of spilled milk to cry over before I learn

How to shed a tear at a three-hour cinematic masterpiece

I still have tunnel vision

Lose track of time

I still let my curiosity get the better of me

Fall starry-eyed down rabbit holes and drink potions and shrink myself down to fit into little worlds you’ve long since forgotten

I still have butterflies in my stomach, except

You only get caterpillars for me

Josette Graves

A sting swells in my eyes,

Fully soaked, then dried.

Hiccupped breaths and choked sentences,

My pillow hears my cries.

Decidedly, my curled vessel turns

And finds a cold patch.

An empty cup, 

Ready to be filled again.

Hours later welcomes sunshine,

A shower, fresh scrubs,

And a smile in the mirror

Until I feel it inside.

Gulps of cold brew,

A chocolate granola bar to-go,

I put my shoes on

And stub my left pinky toe.

A laugh finds its way

Out of my caffeinated gut.

Bellowed over too soon,

Acid reflux meets my right lung.

Hysterically coughing to rid this aspirate,

My hands reflexively reach for the second-shelf glasses.

Missing it by a hair, I jump - too short.

This is a job for the tongs.

One-handed and still hacking a lung,

My tongs grasp a rounded glass.

Surgical precision brings it down safely,

And I waterfall water as quick as the coffee.

Only up from here and down the stairs,

Air flows calmly again.

Before opening the door,

I declared today triumphant.

Andrew Brown

Life is full of destinations, people coming and people going

For all these fast-paced people, life keeps on flowing

We look ahead to the end and hope that we can get to our place

We are worried that we may never get there, constantly we chase

We tend to focus on the place to go, not looking around us

Then when the journey gets rough, we put up quite a fuss

Life has many difficulties that we come across

The sea we ride our life on is not flat – it can churn and toss

We tend to try and avoid the bad, focusing on the destination

We tell ourselves "everything will be okay," as long as the train makes it to the station

Yet, no matter how hard we try, we can never escape the rough seas

What shall we do when the ocean makes us not at ease

But the journey is not alone; there are people always with us

We travel this lifelong journey together, and through it we discuss

All the things we've been through together

Suddenly, it seems there are improvements in the weather

For in life there are many awful times to be had

They can seem bad and even make you quite sad

However, having that awful time together – sharing in the sad –

Can make even the worst moments not that bad

Nothing in life goes exactly as planned; something always seems to go wrong

And in these moments we may experience things that are not quite fond

However, it's these sharing of experiences, this journey through the ups and downs –

With people we care about – that really secures our bonds and gets rid of our frowns

These moments we will look back on, with our friends in years' time,

And laugh in tender memory, even if in these moments we weren't in our prime

But that is the beauty of life – it is not the destination, but the course –

For along the way we have our friends, to help us withstand any force

So, do not focus on the destination, do not look only at the end

Do not think because something is bad now, that those wounds will never mend

Time heals all wounds, especially with friends

Go out and live your life, be sure to peek around every bend

Live your life to the fullest, make sure you have no regrets

Make sure that you enjoy the journey and do not create self-debts

Like telling yourself "I will do it tomorrow" and constantly putting things off ‘til later

For in life we are always busy, it seems that there is always something greater:

A job, school, or just not feeling up to the task

Constantly we hide behind our mask

Yet soon there will be no more time to do the things we wanted

Will we look back at our journey feeling haunted

Remember when times are bad, they will always be better later

Do not focus on the sadness, think of something greater

This journey we call life, we are all trying to get to a destination somewhere

In the lifelong journey all we really need is to slow down and take a breath of fresh air

Life is a journey

David Marulanda

It was the nicest day since winter had started. It was unnaturally splendid out and as you stopped and stared out the window you could feel the birds chirping, the squirrels frolicking, and the sun warming your skin. You could almost taste it. The barren trees outside hid the day’s secret well, but your weather app knew the truth. If only you could enjoy this miracle of global warming.

You shivered. It was colder in the hospital on this January day than it was outside. A sterile 60 degrees or whatever temperature was good for you or bacteria or the electric bill. It seemed like no one truly knew why it was always cold in there.

A red blur raced across the clear blue sky and stopped to perch on one of the barren trees across the street. Then another. Even the birds that only came around once or twice a year were enjoying the day. And they even got to hang out together.

The line for the cafeteria inched forward. You had to buy lunch and rush to your mandatory wellness lecture in the musky windowless auditorium. You had two minutes to get halfway across the hospital. It was necessary that an old man read verbatim from a PowerPoint about the importance of finding time for yourself during your lunch.

Forget about the birds, the cloudless, sunny day, and the things you used to enjoy. It was time to get back to providing free labor. The line inched some more and the small window was behind you.

Brett Mitchell

Where are they?

I’m trying to figure it out

I see them in the streets

Walking about

But not in places where I will be around

Where are they?

Abundant in youth

But their dreams don’t flee

They’re shattered

When I’m in need, the white knight will save the day on their noble steed

Taking the credit for my physical and mental needs

When I bleed, I suffer

What they bleed is green

When I bleed, I can’t afford it

“Black man bleeds to death”, it reads

The white knight in the castle praised for their might

Where are they to look out for me

Before I fade into the night?

“Where are they!” I say

This isn’t right

I shouldn’t be the only Black male whose coat is white

Where are they?

They come in with a pain tolerance historically too high

They come in hearing jokes about their parents, like who and why

They come in seeking help like any other life

But here to save the day, comes the white knight

Residency complexions blind me with light

Where are they, I ask?

I am overwhelmed with fright

Will anyone ever get my plight?

Lana Al Door

ask me how it feels
remembering mother run
into the smoke, the fire,
the bomb that explodes.
I watch you run into the crowd.
I stand there scared to follow.
what if another goes off,
is this my last sight of you?
I wait there, scare
afraid, and I wait

Yasmine Azzi

We find a smooth rock and you make funny faces as laughter envelopes us
Looking up at the perfect night’s sky
Constellations illuminate the pupils of our eyes, envious of the supernovas we contain.
I come up with fake stories about made-up stars and tell you I learned them in an astronomy class
That I never took.
Fig and olive trees canopy around us
Cradling our bodies close to the earth, lest we float away in the lightness of our youth and warm
breeze.
I think about how much we appreciate the warmth after a cold rainy weekend
Only to be annoyed by it a few months later in the scorching summer heat.
I think illness works the same way.
We don’t acknowledge the tangibility of our bodies until they start to fail us
Until something breaks, we often don’t notice it existed at all.
How different life would be if we recognized the screen before it’s cracked,
appreciating it for all it shows us.
How different would medicine be?
Our bodies are in constant dialectical opposition with entropy.
Pull me towards chaos.
Let me be an atom expanding through time and space.
Maybe then I’ll discover the secrets of the universe—
If there are any to be discovered at all

David Marulanda

His next patient had an extremely rare presentation
of an already rare disease. He would need to tell the
front desk to clear his afternoon. He was going to
have a triad or a pentad with his name on it. That
was medical Mt. Olympia. He’d sit next to Fallot,
Virchow, Reynolds, Charcot, Beck, Cushing, and the
others. He couldn’t wait to tell his family and friends
when he got home. He could see the ballroom at the
hotel hosting the next conference. A banner with his
name on it hung over the podium. There was talk
there would be a new medical school named in his
honor. There was a rapid response with his name on
it too. Rapid response to room 89. He almost fell out
of his chair as the third call for a rapid response went
off. He had dozed off after rounds while reading the
most recent guidelines on something or other about
the kidney. Third year of medical school was a long
way away from being able to clear an afternoon.

David Marulanda

He arrived earlier than his usual early. There was no traffic that morning and all the lights were
green. The ground was wet from an early morning rain, though now the clouds were dispersing to
let hints of a sunrise peak through. The parking spot he found was also too good to be true. Maybe
there is such a thing as fate, or maybe we live in a simulation.
As he made his way from the elevator to his team’s room, he saw them all headed into his patient’s
room. He got closer and saw the crash cart and the monitor. Asystole.
“Corneal reflex negative,” he heard someone say.
“How do I fill out the death certificate,” asked another voice.
He walked into the room and found the patient staring right at him as he squeezed through a hole
in the crowd to have a look

David Marulanda

It was the last day of the fourth week of the first rotation of Third Year. He was scheduled
to spend the day at a specialty clinic to get a taste of something out of the ordinary routine.
The instructions had an address and nothing else.
He arrived as the August sun rose over the hospital, ominously silhouetting the building.
The department name he was given did not exactly match the branded signs hanging on the
ceiling, but close enough. The informatory emails were probably years old and recycled. He
stood in front of the opaque reception window, unsure if life was on the other side.
“Do you have an appointment,” asked the aging receptionist in her best this-has-been-along-day-voice.
“Good morning! I’m a medical student. I was told to be here,” he responded, gesturing to
his white coat in self-defense.
“We weren’t expecting you.”
“Uhh, do you wanna see the email I got?”
“What doctor are you with?”
“It doesn’t say.”
“Come around.”
Her journey to the door was a long and hard one as he found himself waiting by the only
door for what seemed like the whole morning. The door clicked open and she was already
headed back on the long way to her chair when he walked through.
“Where am I going,” he called out to her across.
“Down the hall, make a right, doctor’s lounge,” and with that she disappeared from his life.
He made his way down the empty, white, and brightly lit hall to an empty windowless
room where the physicians spend most of their lives. No one was around, so like every good
medical student, he conjured his laptop preloaded with UWorld, and went to work on the
inevitable 40% score, when a physician’s assistant strolled in and ignored his existence. He
turned to ask her what the plan was, though she didn’t know much about what to do with
medical students either.
“She’ll be in soon,” was the PA’s response without clarifying the “she.”
Half an hour and three roomed patients later a woman popped her head in the doorway
and beckoned them both.
“C’mon,” the woman said and he became a tuition paying shadow

Yasmine Azzi

It’s easy to forget, with my hands hard at work,

my brain visualizing the beautifully complex intricacies of nerves and arteries and veins,

that this body belonged to someone who was once alive.

Someone who was loved, someone who loved.

As I touch him, I think about all the lives he must have touched,

the regrets and mistakes he made, the people he made smile, the tears he once shed.

What were his dreams? Was he able to fulfill them? 

Never have I felt so intimately present with another’s body.

But how could I feel so connected to someone who has died?

If ghosts exist, is he peering over my shoulder?

Does he know my name?

Is it painful to watch the integrity of your body be torn apart by strangers?

I wish I could thank him.

I also wish I could apologize.

Isn’t it cruel that in order to prevent death, we must intimately confront it?

Isn’t it sort of beautiful too?

Kathleen Oakes 

It’s early morning in the emergency department
But time doesn’t matter here
Harsh fluorescent lights glow and machines beep beep beep
Relentlessly
Neatly tucked in, he looks up as we pull back the curtain
A&O x1, he states his name and smiles
He sips water, praises the artwork on the wall
Slowly he falls back asleep, snoring softly
The doctors turn to the computer
I’m left watching him
A string of beeps stands out from the din
But it can’t be real
Falling, falling, falling
55, 27, 0
I speak up
No words come out
I try again
A whispered plea emerges
The doctors turn to him
I hold my breath
His face turns pale, the blood falls out of his veins
I am floating above the room
The beeping fades, the lights dim
Now I am falling, falling, falling
I crash back to the ground
The doctor leans over, rubs his chest, says “sir?”
He grunts grumbles coughs
His face flushes
He blinks, blinks, opens his eyes
Looks around at our startled expressions
As if thinking “why did you wake me?”
I exhale

Margaux Games

With such wanting, I can’t fathom a world devoid of you
Your presence instills a feeling inside,
Without resignation, I would follow
But sadly, I dwell in weariness, and it festers within this plagued war
Such a pestilence kills hesitation
My heart holds my tongue, yet you hold my heart
Oh, how I wish you saw how my eyes speak the truth
I owe you a debt, the most debts I owe anyone, yet I am a poor fool
My words echo and scatter, ricocheting to the platonic loves
But to you, static drowns the deafening silence
If this is kindness, then I wish to feel love
In this condition, I forfeit the right
Ditch my body and pride so you can tether the bond of souls
I’d rather live a life of loneliness than abuse the purse you hold

Yasmine Azzi

A caterpillar falls from the sky
Landing near my feet.
Still nestled in its cocoon of flesh and blood
Life and death at my feet.
What is a symbol, if not a tool for understanding the world?
Perhaps the caterpillar is a symbol for my own existence.
Guarded by my own privilege, academia,
I’m housed by a cocoon of entitlement
and a white-passing upper middle class veil that I wrap myself in before
taking the next leap.
Perhaps my culture is a symbol.
My mother tongue a symbol of ancestry fraught with violence and colonization
that somehow clung to the lips of those before me.
Passed on to my own, in a single
Breath.

Gersham Rainone

I can remember it, as clear as day
The first time he ever walked my way.
A smile, a story, and some really good jokes—
Happiness that only true friendship evokes.
We talked about dreams, our lives and wishes
His were the big leagues, hitting fast pitches.
Mine were of science, the helm of discovery.
He told me how amazing of a doctor I could be.
He was someone that would light up a room,
Would make you smile, no matter your mood.
Caring and kind, he’d give the shirt off his back
For nothing in return, not even a snack

I can remember it, clear as day
He came back from the doctor with something to say.
He was tired and weak, always getting sick
And just kept bleeding from the slightest knick.
He was courageous, much braver than I
He took this head on, no word of a lie.
He beat it back, all the way to remission,
Just the way we had all envisioned
He fought so hard, he knew he could beat it.
He stood high on a mountain and said “I won’t be defeated.”
I was inspired, and from then on I knew,
That becoming a doctor is what I would do.

I can remember it, clear as day
The sky was lifeless, the darkest gray.
I sat in my white coat feeling so helpless
And the pain in my heart was truly endless.
The way that he said “my friend, it’s back”
Brought me to tears, it was a lot to unpack.
He told me this time it did not look so good
And he wanted me there, that I understood.
I sat there in sadness, as breath became air
He looked at me with a smile and said “have nothing to fear.”
On that fateful day, praises of life were sung
It’s true what they say—
Only the good die young

Rishabh Matta

Whether low buzz or drumming triumphant,
Even macabre mourning abundant,
A divine song dances on these winds,
Especially in the confession of sins.
Rattling leaves or upset shareholders,
Music just is, with or without beholder.
But my ears are so fragile! They wince at decibel.
Which is worth it I guess, since your voice is caramel.
It’s crazy how much you sound like the tide,
When all that’s here are cars passing by.
How do you make that voice fractal and ripple?
Such that the joy of you still cripples?

Gersham Rainone

The paths of life are vast and plenty
From living homeless to driving a Bently,
But it's all the same once we reach the end,
So why not try to be a good friend?
Enjoy all the moments that make you smile.
Sit down with your loved ones and stay for a while.
Cheers to the moments of life and love,
Overcome adversity, continually rising above.
Make the most out of all that you can
If you have fallen, now be proud that you stand.
Be the person that you want to be
Do this for you, this isn’t about me!
Love in a way that no one forgets.
Love in a way that has no regrets.
Make people feel the way you’ve always wanted,
Be a good person, one who’s kind-hearted.

Christopher Yam

During the first winter of the COVID-19 pandemic, I decided to invest in a Digital Audio Workstation
(a music production software). Since then, I have been teaching myself how to make beats and have
recently released my debut album, “Sometimes,” and single, “Gem,” under the artist name, Yam Beats.
Sometimes is a collection of beats that I produced while working as a COVID-19 Contact Tracer in
Northern Virginia and as a first-year medical student at Drexel University College of Medicine. My
approach to producing music places emphasis on the emotions and thoughts I am experiencing in the
moment. In a sense, this album is a musical reflection of my experiences during those phases of my
life. You could say it is my sonic diary.

Listening to each track brings back memories of how I felt at the time of making the beat, what
thoughts I might have been pondering, and any major or minor events that may have occurred at that
time. For example, I produced the track “Sunshine” one week into my first year of medical school. The
upbeat and positive atmosphere of the track reflected how excited I felt, rejuvenated, and motivated
to take the next big step toward becoming a physician. I also included a sample of Dr. Leon McCrea
II’s speech at our White Coat Ceremony from the week prior. This brings us to another dimension I
like to bring into producing beats: embedding live recordings of my experiences. Some examples include recording the waves crashing while I walked along the waterfront in San Francisco on the track
“On My Way” or water dripping off the fountain from the Monastery of Saint-Michel-de-Cuxa at the
Philadelphia Museum of Art on the track “Break.” Although these sounds are in the background, it enhances the track with a dynamic atmosphere, while also having special meaning to me.

I knew early on that producing music was more than just a hobby for me, but a means of expression
and decompression. There is a zone that I fall into while developing a chord progression, adding a melody, counter melody, then programming a drum pattern. Each added layer is a eureka moment of its own that eventually concludes with a finished beat. The process removes me from any stresses I may be feeling at the time. Moreover, this is a way for me to express any strong emotions or thoughts I may have in the form of music.

Upon further reflection on music production from the perspective of a future physician, I realize that this helps me practice empathy in different ways, such as thinking about how the listeners may perceive the music. During the mixing and mastering phase, I am constantly adjusting volume levels, filters, and effects to ensure the best mix and sound quality, regardless of the sound system the listener may be using. For example, the speakers on an iPhone emphasize mid to high frequencies while having weaker low frequencies, such as the bass or kick drum. Therefore, one challenge is boosting the low frequencies just the right amount to sound good on an iPhone without being overpowering on sound systems with an adequate expression of low frequencies.

As of right now, I love sharing my beats with my classmates, hoping it brings them joy and possibly even helps them destress. I see myself continuing to produce beats throughout my career for others and aim to become a part-time producer in addition to being a doctor. The incorporation of the humanities in medicine is what inspires me, and I hope that I can inspire fellow future physicians to delve into their own creative avenues.

To listen to Christopher Yam’s work, please visit the media tab at www.tincturemagazines.com

David Marulanda

Outside, the leaves sailed carelessly along and the trees cast long shadows over the last few cars. On the other side of the window overlooking the parking lot, a young woman sat alone in the overly air conditioned room hoping that her fourth cup of coffee that day would keep her warm. And awake. In front of her, a computer, another device, a notebook, and even real physical books made of paper fought for her attention. She ignored them all as she held her coffee and gazed at the hypnotic dance of the leaves in the red and gold light of the setting sun.

Suddenly, she awoke with a fright and cold coffee running down her arm. The street lights outside let her know only one car remained. The leaves continued floating across the lot, although shadowless now in the dim light. She sighed as she packed her physiology textbooks and other belongings. Studying in medical school was draining.

Brett Mitchell

I can now go outside to socialize indoors

But I see a large mammal standing on the floor

With big ears, tusks, and a trunk that reaches the door

But despite the outlandish decor

It doesn’t shake others to their core

I ask, how is it now not talked about?

The stampede is loud in towns with disease galore

And uses its trumpet to announce its tour

It pillaged populations, I’m sure it can do more

The naysayers somehow unbothered by its wrath

Despite the fact their town is covered in its tracks

Fights over where and how to have your face wrapped

To those who didn’t, not many made it back

This animal was large and gray, yet can be ignored

Unless of course, you are sick or poor

A privilege to only have this creature in the corner

I’d rather not worry about this ivory beast anymore

Drew Davis

An illustrious life he was said to have lived.

I believed them, and still do.

But the John Davis I’ve known this past year or two

Is a different version than those that came before.

“You age like a fine wine” they say,

They love to say,

but at the end he most certainly

aged more like a banana.

Bruises on his skin that seemed

To appear from the slightest breeze.

He was always gentle but now he was softer,

Standing much less tall.

Around his family and home,

Much less effective at his primary purpose:

Being loving, or at the least,

Functional to some degree.

The morning before grandad’s funeral,

I began reading “House of God” by Samuel Shem

And learned the term ‘Gomer,’

Short for Get Out of My Emergency Room.

At least grandad was never a gomer to anyone.

How could he have been?

Anyone could have seen the human in him.

Unless, of course, they met him near the end.

Were denied contact with the soul I knew,

The soul that verified his humanity,

The soul that excluded gomerity from the diagnostic list.

Otherwise, one has only secondary,

or god forbid, tertiary, sources to work with

to find the human in him,

And not all that much time.

Farhan Sahawneh

They said your heart wasn’t strong enough.

You went under and never returned.

I think of you as a casualty of war,

How different and yet the same

In ways lost when saying fallen soldier

And found when saying the light dimmed in your eyes.

Or maybe the sky enfolded a single rose.

He watched, humbled, the wind combing the trees,

His last sigh finding its way into

The multitudes of your eyes.

Now it is you who reenters the world from whence you came,

Not once your heart stopped

But as it was being decided that it would, a point

Hung in the infinite limits of time,

Lost even in the sea of a nanosecond.

You couldn’t splice the time enough to find it.

Gersham Rainone

It calls to you, to I, and to all

Donning the white coat, standing proud and tall.

It calls to you, to I, and the ones

Who brave through dusk to the rising sun.

It calls us to stray far away from home,

And keeps us in touch with the great unknowns.

It calls us to stray far from power and greed,

And directs us exactly to what the world needs.

It calls us to care for all that have not,

The ones that society has simply forgot.

It calls us to care for all that endure

The realities of the world for which there is no cure.

It calls us to watch with such careful eyes

Beautiful babies, with whom time flies.

It calls us to watch with tears down our faces

As patients are lowered to their final resting places.

It calls us to laugh, to love and serve,

Trying to give others the lives they deserve.

It calls us to laugh, to love and be grateful

So there is no room to ever be hateful.

It calls us to honor, we need no glory

Just a coffee break and an occasional story.

It calls us to honor, through which we seek peace

It is a fight against death, one we shall not cease

Rishabh Matta

Why am I thinking so much about the changing seasons when the sun has already been murdered and we’ll never see him again? Ah yes! Because a car alarm in the distance sounded like a cicada, and so this cold night in February pretended to be one of those warm, balmy nights at the zenith of summer. But let's be honest -- this evening’s air isn’t thickened with good cooking and the laughs of one’s cousins, nor is it split by the trajectories of frisbees or by the shrieks of somebody’s baby. No, this night’s air is thin and it sits a little strangely. So it couldn’t pose as a July night even if it sold its soul to Mephistophales. And yet, sad boi hours can make you feel -- for just a moment-- that perhaps it is summer. Perhaps there is actually a valid reason to run around outside. Perhaps there is a time when barefootedness is acceptable. But for now, here we sit. In February, living nonetheless.

Dakota Meredith

The call woke me from an uneasy slumber at 4:33am, just a few short hours after I’d fallen into bed filled with Christmas wine and bated breath. Our celebrations were somber this year. We’d cooked the usual holiday fare to keep ourselves busy, although none of us had the appetite to eat it. A screen with my mother’s face as she slept in her hospital bed remained a central fixture that our subdued activities revolved around.

The doctor’s voice was kind as he confirmed my name, somehow understanding my sleep-slurred response as consciousness slowly seeped back in. His tone was gentle as he asked my age; when I answered “twenty-five” in a small voice, he paused for a moment, internally assessing how old was old enough to hear the news I knew he had to deliver.

He asked what I knew about the current condition of my mother’s health, another box ticked on the checklist we were taught in breaking bad news. I reassured him that I’d understood she was close to passing, that her veins were fed a steady stream of morphine to ease her journey. His relief at my answer was palpable; his message, while unwelcome, was not unexpected.

His technique was flawless. He was sympathetic yet strong, sorrowful without straying toward maudlin, and throughout it all exceedingly kind. His skill did not prevent the visceral resentment I felt toward my loss, and by extension him as its messenger. Still, I was gracious in my replies, as the small, detached part of me which remained analytic recognized that his practiced protocol was making the experience as painless as it could possibly be. The cognitive dissonance between my head and my heart provided its own kind of anesthetic as the call continued. Once it had drawn to a close and the questions it hurt to ask about her body answered, the sound of his well-rehearsed script was replaced with hollow silence. I wasn’t sure which was worse.

In just a few short years, I will be on the other end of that conversation. I will be the one to call a patient’s family in the early morning hours, bearing news that will shatter their world - no matter how much time they’ve spent bracing for its impact.

I don’t remember the name of the doctor who called me that night. But I will never forget his voice. And I know that my own words will echo his when it is my turn to break bad news.

Andrew Chiu

Tuesday 10/27/2020

I can’t believe October is almost over already. Somehow it seems like both last week and last year when I was calling Dad to wish him a happy birthday at the beginning of the month. Time flies when you’re having fun, so what does time do when you’re in medical school? Seems to me it behaves like the event horizon of a black hole - you are simultaneously speeding through months while every day feels like an eternity. I even feel my brain spaghetifying. Sometimes I wonder how the physicians we interact with have mastered such a staggering amount of information. Are these nerves which seem so daunting now going to become common knowledge by the time I graduate? How do I get to that point? Even the information I learned for past exams feels nebulous as soon as the next week’s ILs begin. Hell, I barely knew it well enough to pass a multiple choice exam to begin with. Is this what imposter syndrome feels like? I’m sure once I learn everything there is to know about the entire human body I’ll feel like myself again. Until then, I better work on memorizing the cranial nerves. Oh Oh Oh To Touch And Feel Very Greasy Veal And Ham.

Wednesday 11/11/2020

Sometimes I wonder what my life would be like if I hadn’t gone to medical school. Would I be happier? There are so many other career paths out there. I could have continued bartending, worked my way up, and opened my own restaurant or bar. I guess Covid probably would have put a damper on that idea. I could have become a dog breeder and played with puppies all day. Lots of people got dogs during Covid. I could have been a salesperson at a small regional paper company in northeast Pennsylvania. People still need paper during Covid. I could have gone with a different branch of medicine - paramedic, nursing, anesthesia assistant, PA - having to do less intensive training sounds especially good right now with another exam looming. Will it even all be worth it in the end? I want to say yes, even though it can be hard to visualize right now.

Thursday 12/17/2020

I wouldn’t say I had an “a-ha!” moment - it was more of a “hey, maybe I won’t fail this exam so hard I have to remediate this entire course” type deals. Turns out repeatedly doing the neuro image-based questions was pretty helpful, and so was spending time memorizing all the inputs and outputs of the Thalamus. And the cortical areas and their Brodmann areas. I still think Brodmann picked a very nonsensical way to number his spots. It would be one thing to start area one in the post-central gyrus if that was the only part of the brain he knew existed. But to start there and then jitterbug his way across the cerebrum was just cruel. I bet he was laughing to himself the entire time he was numbering them, beside himself with glee at how much extra confusion neuro would now present to future medical students.

Tuesday 1/26/2021

I wonder what I will think of this time in my life when I reflect back on it five years from now, or even in a year. Right now, my days are full of drudgery, scraping myself from one IL to the next in solitude. When I was applying to schools, someone told me that getting into medical school is the hardest part of becoming a doctor. I’m starting to suspect I was bamboozled. Because at least right now, this feels way harder than the application cycle. I guess it’s a different kind of challenge. Waiting around to hear back from schools was mentally and emotionally draining, never knowing whether the next day or hour would crush your spirit or bring a tidal wave of relief. But even now, looking back at it, I mostly remember the better things, like going to my first interview, and the day I got admitted. So if the bulk of my specific memories are positive, maybe focusing on those things in the present will help combat the maelstrom swirling around me. I’ve met and made friends with more of my classmates than last semester. We’re starting to do more things in school that make it feel like we’re actually physicians in training. The COVID vaccine is filtering through our class. Hopefully these will be things I remember, and not the forty page microanatomy of the respiratory system IL. Although it probably wouldn’t hurt to remember some of that, either.

Friday 4/30/2021

If I had to pick a food to describe Foundations of Disease so far it would be alphabet soup. The Infinite Monkey Theorem states that if you put enough monkeys in a room with typewriters they will eventually come up with Shakespeare. I think reality would probably look more like the complement cascade or the list of cytokines and interleukins we got. C3bBb3b. C4b2a3b. Or was it C4b2b3b? Apparently there was some sort of disagreement among immunologists about whether it is 2a or 2b. Suddenly, reading a sixteenth century play about two hormonal teenagers is starting to look like a not so terrible alternative. Then again if I earned an English degree without ever actually reading a single work by Shakespeare maybe I can become a licensed physician without understanding the complement pathway.

Thursday 5/6/2021

Whoever came up with the names for all the monoclonal antibody drugs must have been some sort of sadist.

Drew Davis

A few vertebrae lay on the table before me,

scattered like dice.

Though this is my first anatomy lab, I’ve seen them before,

felt their strange protrusions and

appreciated their sickly color,

yellowed like the pages of an old book.

Years ago, I used to find whole skeletons

in the quiet woods behind my house,

a bleached skull peeking out

from beneath rust-colored leaves.

I’d go looking for them,

all that remained of a deer or fox

who’d roamed those trees like I had

until they encountered a fateful bacteria or hunter’s bullet.

I’d collect them, bring them home—

two femurs, a skull on a particularly fortunate day.

My mom asking, honey, please not on the table.

They found a home in my room, my amateur forensic lab.

Today, I pick up human skulls for the first time.

Much easier to find, sitting labeled on the table,

yet they still say to me now what they did before.

Calcified reminders that we borrow these bodies,

build them up, wear them out, return them

like an overdue library book.

While we have them, what better to do than

mine secrets in the depths of bones.

Farhan Sahawneh

Could these wasted chances

to live in the present

have slowed earth’s orbit,

shrunk the universe

into the palm of my hand?

What sort of life is it, though,

to be given the punishment of Atlas?

The pull toward unmindfulness

is too strong, too liberating.

Though it hurries time, it lightens

the burden of simply being.

We just observed the New Year.

Now it’s July.

If I start to count what remains of

my life in these vaporous half-years

I can almost begin to feel my frail

bones struggling to carry me,

see through cataractous eyes.

I close my eyes and see glistening

the sweat of dead presidents,

as if with a persuasive grin,

I could have changed the course of time.

When does a thing change?

I try to fathom the changes between

the 11th of September 2001 and now.

I have seen these twenty years go by

and nothing change

in the steady awareness of myself.

Though genomes are sequenced now,

a frail man somewhere

remembers the Great Hunger.

Another trembles at memories

of the Eastern Front.

We sign with prehistoric carbon

on the remains of ancient trees.

The past and present

are always colliding.

Hard though it is to conceive

this wall, here, will crumble

if it is not torn down first.

A last breath seems close,

but I still hear my voice calling,

my mother approaching.

I am four. I have fallen,

the imprint of gravel still on my palms,

the playground, now in a gentle ruin,

remembers my echoing laughter.

Gersham Rainone

In love, and life, there are tough choices

Influenced by inside and outside voices.

So here I lay, in this yellow wood

With two paths: one bad, one good.

But here I am, and I’ve come to see

That I don’t know which path is best for me.

One path I know, have traveled before

So I already know what it has in store.

The second path, so bright and fair

It looked so grassy, it wanted wear.

But I had fear, so long I looked

Between the lines, as reading a book.

The path that I had already been

Had hurt me time and time again.

That path has turned my heart to black

I doubted if I should ever go back.

But this path anew was not for certain,

I did not want to be a burden.

Something about it felt so right,

I walked away, blindly, into the night.

As I sit here and look back at my life

The path I chose was absolutely right

Looking back on ages and ages hence,

That has made all the difference

Drew Davis

Med school flows by,

days of inspecting anatomical artwork

punctuated by visions of meeting your future self.

If you’re an expert at anything by now,

It’s waiting, preparing, getting ready

For the moment you’ll finally come into being.

Until then, you’ve refined the craft of looking ahead,

preparing to metamorphosize from who you are now,

through this daunting chrysalis of medical training,

into the most beautiful you.

Shining colors in the light, the blue of your scrubs brighter than the sky

Dazzling passerby on the street.

Look at him, they’ll say, bringing people back from the precipice

Balancing the scales,

look at him go.

You’ve mastered the art of imagining late nights at the hospital,

Passing time with machines that wink and beep through the morning.

Waiting until you’re ready to emerge like the first firefly of the summer

Blinking a soft, comforting light, guiding those in the darkness,

Maybe even saving a bit of glow for yourself.

Clear as day, you picture how tall you’ll suddenly be,

When at long last you bud up through the soil

As sturdy and secure as the oak tree,

Shading the weary, protecting the fevered

From the burn of the sun.

A quiet voice reminds, though,

As these visions wash over,

That while you might soak in the sun and drink in the rain,

You’re unlikely to grow another 30 feet.

Waking from these daydreams,

Your eyes remind you that these two legs

and opposable thumbs, handy as they may be

Make it difficult to pass for a bug.

Don’t hold your breath for dazzling wings

or a warm cocoon.

Take a deep breath of today’s air.

Notice how clean and clear you can see yourself, if you just look.

The closest reflection of your future that’s ever existed.

No less inspiring than any version that’s come before,

Just as worthy of admiration as you’ll ever be.

David Marulanda

He stared blankly into the fluorescent lights overhead as the group of people around him dispersed slowly. They seemed tired, and some were definitely confused. They had been asking each other questions. Thankfully no one had asked him anything because he surely would not have known the answers. Even without the ability to address the group’s concerns, he was still able to help, and that’s what had motivated him in the first place. Over the last few years, he had begun to feel less and less useful, and he searched for a way to make the most out of his limited time. He found it here, staring peacefully at the artificial glow above. The next group of tired, but eager students walked in and picked up scalpels.

Marcus Junus

The summer after my first year of medical school, I had the pleasure of working with Philadelphia FIGHT as an intern in their “C a Difference” program. The program tackles one of the greatest public health issues in Philadelphia: Hepatitis C (HCV), opioid abuse, and housing insecurity. Thousands of Philadelphia residents experiencing homelessness and substance use disorder may be unaware of their HCV infection due to its asymptomatic nature. HCV treatment has improved tremendously over time and now has a cure rate of 95%. However, simply having the cure is not enough; patients face barriers such as poverty, lack of insurance, lack of transportation, and low health literacy. People who are among the most socially vulnerable have also experienced stigmatization by the healthcare system and have become further alienated. C a Difference provides counseling, screening, and various ways to link patients to care. 

In Philadelphia, there is one particular neighborhood, called the “Walmart of Heroin” by the New York Times: Kensington. Kensington Avenue is a stretch of road under “The El” (also known as the Market-Frankford line).  Most Philadelphians know about this place, though many avoid it. Many more sees it as a blemish in the city. People don’t like to think about Kensington Avenue, let alone drive past it. Regardless of what people think or know about it, it is still home to many Philadelphians, especially those experiencing homelessness and substance-use disorder. These are the most vulnerable people in the city. 

Early in the second week of my internship at Philadelphia FIGHT, my fellow interns and I took the trip to Kensington Avenue with Nabori and Ricardo, who work as community educators and testers at C a Difference. They wanted to show us the community who we would be serving. We walked toward the subway entrance on 11thstreet and took the El. As the train passed each station, going farther away from Center City, I watched the shift of people entering and exiting the train car. There is no denying the difference in demographics of people living in Center City and people living in North Philadelphia. It’s one of those observations that could be uncomfortable to verbalize, but important to acknowledge. I saw less and less people dressed in neatly-pressed suits and smelling like expensive cologne, and more and more people wearing ripped and dirty t-shirts. I saw less and less white people, and more and more Black and Hispanic people. It was almost as if there is an imaginary line where Center City ends, and North Philadelphia begins. Sadly, anyone who has spent more than five minutes in Philadelphia knows these imaginary lines are all over the city. 

We got off the train at Huntingdon Station, and started walking what turned out to be one of the most difficult half-mile walk of my life. To say that I was stunned was an understatement. We walked under a bridge that once housed one of the largest homeless encampments in the area, until the city evicted everyone under the bridge. I couldn’t help but wonder where those people had to go and where they even could. For the sake of the city looking neater and tidier, their community was broken up and now many are scattered to smaller sites in the neighborhood. As we walked on, I started seeing used syringes on the ground. There were so many that you could hear the crunching of the ones we could not avoid stepping on. I was wondering why no one else was mentioning the syringes until I looked up. My team was quiet, facing an empty lot to our right filled with a yellowing patch of grass. I followed their gaze and found a man lying on the ground, with someone standing next to him. There was a fire department SUV parked a few feet away from them, I assumed the man standing was a paramedic. The man on the ground had most likely overdosed, and the paramedic was getting ready to administer Naloxone. I tapped my pocket and felt the packet of Naloxone I received a few days before. Until then, the possibility that I would one day have to use it never fully dawned on me. I sensed the absurdity of the reality we were experiencing. There we were, less than two miles from Fishtown’s ultra-hip, gentrified neighborhood, packed with restaurants serving imported sashimi and stores selling hundred-dollar-pairs of yoga pants. I was having trouble making sense of it all. 

A few steps later, I saw some people swaying around, trying to balance themselves. Their heads down as if too heavy for their necks to support. Soon later I realized that most people were doing the same. I had never seen such a large number of people under the influence of heroin, in one place. In fact, I wasn’t even sure if I had even seen one person high on heroin. Next to me, a woman with golden blonde hair was looking at herself in the rearview mirror of a parked car, fixing her makeup. Just above the crease of her knee, a syringe stuck out of her thigh. It took every ounce of me to not tap her and say “Excuse me, do you know that there is a syringe sticking out of the back of your thigh?” but in the end I couldn’t form the words that would not have come out as casually as saying “Hey miss, there’s gum on your shoe.” 

We handed out plastic bags we filled with hygiene products. We couldn’t snap our fingers and heal everyone from heroin addiction, but the least we could do was help reduce harm through preventing further spread of infectious diseases in an already vulnerable population. We rode the train back to Center City. Our program coordinator, Lora, knew exactly what we had just experienced as she had felt it many times before. She sent us home early that day to reflect and recharge. I walked towards my bus stop and decided to walk home instead. Taking the bus felt too much of a privilege that day. 

Special thanks to: Lora Magaldi, Ricardo Rivera, Nabori Brown at C a Difference. Laura Mullin, Elissa Goldberg, Dr. Steven Rosenzweig at Drexel University College of Medicine. 

Gersham Rainone

When did they cheer, or laugh, or smile?

Or tell a loved one to sit and stay for a while?

When did they anger, or sulk or cry?

Yet they are still right here, once they have died.

Did they love to sing, or fish, or cook?

Or were they like me, content with a book?

In what did they succeed, what new things did they try?

Yet they are still right here, once they have died.

I look at the faces, gentle hands, I feel cold skin

I can’t help but feel something well up from within

Who was there with them, who stayed at their side?

Yet, they are still right here, once they have died.

Their courage and bravery simply unparalleled

We sit here and celebrate our hero’s farewell.

So grateful are we for this knowledge they’ve supplied,

Their greatness carries on, within us they thrive, they’re alive. 

Gersham Rainone

As you sat there cold, weak and brittle

I took my scalpel and cut your back straight down the middle.

You lay there still and unresponsive

Generous with knowledge, beyond your conscious.

We found one another, there was no choice

You cannot tell your story but I am here as your voice.

A butterfly sits, resting on my steady hand

A bond of unknowing trust, one I promise not to disband.

I am no thief, as I only take from you

It was a marriage to knowledge, and you said “I do.”

Tom Truglio

“C-A-G

O-M-G.

How do three

small letters

define me?

The anticipation

is killing me.

Perhaps literally,

through the expansion

of this small codon.

I may get aggression,

paired with depression

and not to mention

how I’ve become irate

thinking about my caudate

losing all of its GABA and ACH.

This dominant trait

still dictates

how my life abides

by this trinucleotide.

I’ve got to put it all to rest

with one small test.

Explain to me why

You don’t think that I

deserve to know

If I’ll live or die”

“I appreciate your anxiety.

Trust me, I can relate.

I’ve got the same stuff inside of me

I know death may await.

You’re young and frustrated,

You think you know what you want

But son it’s more complicated

than you want to confront.

They say knowledge is power

that old adage is true

but it may cause you to cower,

a fulfilled life you could lose.

You’re still just sixteen,

please trust me and wait.

I know you think that I’m mean

but I don’t want to tempt fate.

I know none of that’s fair

But I want the best for you son.

The truth is I’m scared

That soon we’ll be gone.”

“I understand, I’m not mad

I know you want the best for me dad

But times are changing these days

I can’t risk more delays.

To begin a career

I need to know I’ll be here.

Cause if I have this disease

I’d rather finish life free.

I can’t spend my last day

Worrying about a 401K.

I respect what you say

but on my 18t h birthday

I’ll take the test

and put this to rest.

I know you think that it’s dumb,

so know I won’t come

to you to consult

when I get my result.”

Malia Voytik

I hold her hand as the screen comes into focus. Her eyes welled with tears as her fears were confirmed by a structure no bigger than her painted thumbnail digging into my palm. For the past week she had been feeling nauseated, but she thought it was due to the stress of finals week. She was in her first year of law school. I tried unsuccessfully to imagine what it would be like to find myself pregnant during my first year of medical school. Would it have been my thumb nail digging into the medical student’s palm? I handed her a tissue and she wiped the mascara from under her eyes. We were the same age. Although I had given up on nail polish and makeup during my first year of medical school, I respected her dedication to self-care. The resident told her to get dressed and that we would be back in to discuss her options.

We spend our whole lives waiting. For the clouds to pass. For the water to boil. For the first kick. For the contractions to start. When I was in college my father used to tell me I was majoring in delayed gratification when I decided I wanted to be a physician. He thought it was so strange that he had helped create a child who could wait for so long. Medical school. Residency. Fellowship. Years and years without a proper paycheck. Without a reward.

Our patient was sitting on the exam table as my resident explained the three options, and the final option was chosen. She couldn’t carry a baby, and we understood, but her body was political now. Even though science and history told us otherwise, there were rules we had to follow. She would have to return in 48 hours to have the procedure, despite her unwavering decision to terminate the pregnancy. She would have to wait.

Good things come to those who wait. There is honor in self-control, in waiting. Patience is a virtue, but isn’t patience just waiting? Waiting for your turn to speak. Waiting for the doctor to enter the room. We are thanked for being patient. We are heroes of patience. Since I decided that I wanted to be a doctor I have been picturing my future, vague in its detail but great in its reward. I imagine myself running through the halls of a hospital, white coat flapping behind me. I’m looking for a laboring woman, a baby that is too close to the outside world for me to not be in the room. I make it just in time to deliver the baby. Tears well in the mother’s eyes as she breathes in her reward. She’s waited 9 months to see her baby’s face.

Waiting is dull. It can silently diminish your joy, not so that you don’t feel it, but just enough so that you know you’re not feeling the whole thing. Waiting is monotonous. Days turn into weeks, months into years. There is anticipation in waiting; hoping for a better life, a taller body, an empty womb. Waiting is a hum in the back of your head that waxes and wanes with your thoughts. Sometimes the hum is so loud that it deafens you, filling you with anxiety and demanding your attention. At other times you can barely remember what the hum sounded like at all.

Forty-eight hours of noise can be torture. When I saw our patient two days later, she somehow looked different. She had aged in two days. She moved more slowly. Her eyes were sunken. I felt like I hadn’t seen her in weeks. Suspended in a 48-hour decision, she was unable to sleep, and could barely eat. The hum had grown so loud that the rest of her life had faded. She was relieved to see me and to hold my hand. This time, the paint on her thumb nail had chipped. I spent a moment considering whether it had fallen off or had it been an unintended casualty of the waiting period. I knew what the answer would be, had it been me. She laid back on the exam table as I explained the procedure. It wouldn’t be comfortable and there would be various times when we’d have to pause.

She would have to be patient. Virtuous.

I held the heating pack to her belly with one hand and her hand with the other. We breathed together as we waited. For the cervical block to numb her cervix. For the fetal parts to be counted. For the hum in her head to slowly diminish, releasing her as a final reward.  

Ariya Mobaraki

Nature vs. nurture has always sparked my curiosity. Some of my traits, such as creativity, were never shared by my parents. Other traits, such as tolerance and the ability to make my tongue into a 3-leaf clover, have inevitably rubbed off on me. My dad is a stubborn man – he refuses to change himself but expects others to change for him. Despite this, he always makes an effort to be the first to wake in the morning and the first ready to leave. This quality of his would eventually lead to much frustration, as my mother is the exact opposite: she chooses to take her time, and allows others to take their time as well. If I hadn’t been blessed with my mother’s characteristics, I probably would not be sitting here as an upcoming 4th year medical student. 

            Have you ever been walking with a group of friends, and you suddenly realize you have to tie your shoe? And have you ever noticed the one or two people in the group who always wait for you, and how grateful you feel towards them? I’d proudly like to announce that I have always been one of those people. This is one, simple moment where waiting brings upon good feelings for me. In this simple gesture, you have not only shown your friend that you will be there for them, but also how you are just a little bit more of a friend to them than you were before. This type of waiting doesn’t feel like a lifetime, but its effects last a lifetime. 

Everyone always mentions that patience is a virtue. Although I agree with this statement, it is always brought up in conversation as a form of coping rather than a day-to-day compliment. I have never seen it used more often with any other groups than to describe graduate learners and young singles. Prior to entering medical school, I had undergraduate pre-medical advisors who loved to mention anything and everything bad about medical school to repel students who they felt were not going to make it far in the medicine career path. One thing they would occasionally mention, but fail to accurately characterize was how long of a process it truly would be. Sure, this is implied. But what does it mean, exactly?

For me, someone who is interested in a 4-year residency program with a possible 3-year fellowship after that, the waiting process is probably one of the most torturous adversaries to face - even more than any exam or toxic co-worker. During my years of medical school, I feel as if I have seen many faces of friends and family go by: those I have lost from lack of keeping in touch, and those I have lost from long-distance job offers. I’ve watched couples get married, babies get born, and even lives passing on. Throughout this all, I empathize with Rapunzel, as I look down at the bustling world in front of me from a window in our medicine-centered tower – aching to curl and stretch my toes out in the wet grass once again.  

No one had told me that waiting would imply saying no to wedding invitations, holidays, camping trips, week-long vacations, or the nights spent out in the city without a care in the world. No one mentioned the new wrinkles, liver spots, and pains that would begin to appear in my parents as they shot up past 60 years old. Absolutely nowhere in my application to medical school was it mentioned that I would also be forcing my same, aging parents to wait for their baby boy to get married one day, so they can see their grandchildren before they expire. But yet, I choose to wait.

It really goes to show that to have patients, you must have patience. I wait not because of the bad, but because of the good that will come from it. I wait because of the patients whose lives I will touch someday. I wait because I want to help couples strengthen their relationships and help deliver their babies. I wait to prevent lives from passing on.  I wait to see if I can help others feel the very same wet grass whereas before, they would have never been able to do so. I wait because my parents immigrated here, grew old, and chose to wait for me. I wait because everyone is rooting for me, and I want to see myself get to the finish line. I wait because slow and steady will win the race. 

Matthew Eiman

Disarticulate

Professor’s euphemism

Decapitated!

Formaldehyde reeks

Runny eyes, stinging nostrils

Why am I hungry?

Tools for dissecting

Professors swear by this one

Bluntly with fingers

Thin and shiny nerves

Arteries have small squiggles

Flat, bloody, blue veins

“Can you find the nerve?”

“No, too much fat and fluid.”

“Let’s call Doctor Smith.”

Tortuous vessels 

Twisted splenic artery

Tortured med student

Why is it like this?

Anatomist prized reply

Joyce Zhang

The United States has famously struggled with creating an efficient and effective healthcare system that sees successful outcomes proportional to the amount of money and resources that the country invests. When COVID-19 arrived at our shores, to say that we were ill-prepared would be a gross understatement. While the crisis demanded strong leadership and a concerted effort at every level, the U.S. did too little too late, and the outcomes have been disastrous. The lack of foresight, politicization of public safety, and disparities in healthcare that have been enforced and reinforced for decades have each contributed markedly to the failure of the country to respond and protect its people from a pandemic that continues to spread without abatement, months after the rest of the world has gained control.

For years, the issue of the cost of healthcare in America has been a topic of hot debate. With 30 million uninsured as of September 2020, 44 million underinsured with high deductibles and out-of-pocket costs, and another 33 million newly unemployed Americans and counting, access to medical care is limited by exorbitant and unpredictable bills. Time and time again, studies have shown that Americans are more likely to forgo necessary care than residents of every other developed country. At the start of the pandemic domestically, more than 2/3 of American adults reported that their potential out-of-pocket costs would figure prominently into their decision to seek care if they developed coronavirus symptoms. Federal and state legislation, as well as many private insurance companies, have rolled out expanded COVID-19 related service coverage, yet personal costs remain unclear and limit timely testing and treatment on a population level.

Even those who are able to pay for care are met with shortages in the system itself. The U.S. health system’s capacity is limited by the number of acute care beds and physicians per capita. And while the usual acute care occupancy rate is lower than that in other countries, suggesting greater hospital capacity to take on patients during a pandemic, this ability is severely limited by regional disparities in their distribution. The system’s supply of hospital beds has been declining for the past two decades due to hospital closures and mergers, something we at Drexel have unfortunately dealt with first hand. As a result, much of the country lacks access to community hospitals and critical care physicians, much less ICU beds and facilities designed for higher levels of acute care. This is a simple consequence of a private health system in which development planning occurs from the perspective of hospital management rather than of public health needs.

Shortages were further exacerbated during this crisis due to the collapse of supply chains providing essential medical supplies. The 2009 H1N1 swine flu outbreak saw mask shortages and served as a warning for our unpreparedness in a major pandemic. Yet little change came from it. In order to save money and increase profit, hospitals, chronic care centers and national stockpiles continue to brazenly fail to consistently stockpile emergency supplies, hoping instead to rely on the market in the event of shortages. But after U.S. manufacturers of essential masks, ventilators, test kits and medications saw major losses when the 2009 outbreak ended earlier than initially projected, they subsequently ignored calls to build back emergency capacity, and struggled to engineer flexible production capability without promised governmental support. This ceded much of the normal operations, as well as the majority of the supply chain, to overseas producers. The global crisis then caused major production countries including China, Germany, and India to halt resource exports, causing the massive shortage of personal protective equipment (PPE), hospital ventilators and supplies, and testing supplies that forced American hospitals to resort to bidding and requesting community donations to serve and protect its patients and staff. While every other developed country around the world – Germany, South Korea, Italy and Canada to name a few – swiftly scaled up testing and treatment capacity domestically, the U.S. lagged months behind without government action or direction.

Perhaps most important to the country’s response, or lack thereof, has been government mismanagement. The amount of federal funding given to state and local officials to prepare for health emergencies has been cut in more than half over the past couple of decades, and the Strategic National Stockpile has been understocked for more than a decade. The Trust for America’s Health estimated public health efforts are some $4.5 billion underfunded in normal times. After the 2009 outbreak, concrete plans were put in place to fund mask and ventilator stocks, track national PPE use, and encourage the engineering of domestic manufacturing capacity flexibility. Unfortunately, a change in Health and Human Services leadership in 2017 under President Trump saw wartime biodefense become a higher priority than uncontrolled pandemic, and all planned funding and reorganization was cut and cancelled yet again. Not only that, while the rest of the world moved to enforce lockdowns and quarantines, control international travel, and begin emergency investment in healthcare, inappropriate messaging from a White House in denial has further allowed the number of preventable cases to soar.

As of September, almost 6 million confirmed cases and 200,000 deaths later, the awkward and certainly uncoordinated healthcare system continues to struggle with bringing the virus under control in America. As authorities continue to grapple with how deadly the virus actually is and how to reopen the country to restart a severely slowed economy, Americans are losing their lives and loved ones unnecessarily. If there is a silver lining to this pandemic, it’s that it has given anyone who’s paying attention a clear picture of how lacking our system really is. 

Brett Mitchell

Oh, like seasons, people do change on me

Friendships blossom, just like spring leaves on trees

Colorful, a ray of light that I need

And those April showers don’t seem as bleak

Summer will swing by and I see them more

But when I get older, there’s less in store

Working so much, the leaves will forget me

Autumn comes around and friendships will fall

Leaving, like I didn’t know them at all

Brittle is my soul like leaves on the ground

Crushed as I walk, loneliness is that sound

Winter then arrives, with no leaves found

For me, sometimes, I miss hearing birds sing

Stuck in winter while others are in spring

Buffy Dekmar

           “What do you think of this one?” she asked her husband. Spring morning daylight streamed through the windows. After three years of marriage, they had decided to conceive a child, and she was shopping online for an antique bassinet. She journaled potential baby names and daydreamed about the beautiful changes that lie ahead. Waiting felt like spotting two tiny blue robin eggs in the nest outside her kitchen window.

          Months and years passed in the usual way. Summer weekend getaways came and went, bringing time for reflection and resetting expectations. The pair’s “what ifs” bounced between them like the solstice sun on the water. “I’m afraid to look,” she motioned to the plastic dipstick lying on the bathroom counter. He shook his head and gently reported, “still just one pink line, Babe.” Waiting felt like a warm, strong embrace, on a cold tile floor.

          A fragrant, freshly cut evergreen in the living room temporarily enlivened the mood, along with the strands of warm flickering lights that they passed back and forth to wrap around its branches. She feigned a smile, commented on her immense gratitude for their life together, and resisted being consumed by her swelling desire for a baby. Their young nephews joyfully scurried around the dinner table as the adults enjoyed prime rib and Yorkshire pudding. “When are you going to have another grandbaby for us?” her mother-in-law asked her, cheerily ignorant. Waiting felt like the wretched failure of her ovaries and uterus being inappropriately exposed as the topic of lighthearted holiday dinner conversation.

          A new year brought a promotion at work--fewer hours for higher pay. They moved out of their townhouse in the city, in favor of a cape cod in the suburbs. Two pink lines appeared on the dipstick. The overhead fluorescent lights in the gynecology clinic seemed much colder than she felt in spirit. She squeezed her partner’s hand a little tighter than usual, as the swoosh of the doppler signaled new life. Waiting felt like tears of overwhelming joy in a bookstore section named “Pregnancy.”

          For the nursery wall color they agreed on a warm white called “Chantilly lace.” A 20-week anatomy scan revealed a male fetus, healthy and normal, and they celebrated the news by revealing to family and friends that they were expecting a child. They would keep the name a secret until delivery day. The most lovely antique bassinet eventually arrived on their front porch. With the nursery finally complete, they rested together on the sofa, knowing that these quiet moments would soon become less frequent. Waiting felt like swollen ankles and a compressed urinary bladder.

          The sun rose progressively lower in the southern sky, filtering through yellow ginkgo leaves, until the time had come at last. Her hospital bag had been packed by the door for weeks; he loaded it into the trunk. A resident physician explained that there was indeed “ferning” under the microscope, which meant this was not a false alarm. Her cervix was dilated to 3 centimeters. A nurse guided them to a delivery room to anticipate the continuing process. Waiting felt like chewing ice chips in a slow-motion matrix.

          In the mother and baby unit, they sat in the glow of a bedside lamp, just the three of them. She nursed her infant for the first time and promised to love and take care of him always. The name they had chosen for him seemed to fit perfectly: Charlie. Suddenly, she noticed that something was not right. Her husband pressed the nursing call button. Whatever was happening appeared to be an emergency. There were neonatologists, nurses, surgeons, and a radiology technician present within moments. Imaging revealed a problem with the baby’s digestive system, and Charlie needed emergency surgery. She handed him over. Waiting felt like a dream of powerlessness--the one where the world crumbles around her.

          A nurse moved them to a room with a larger bed, but without windows. Still loaded with pain medications, she nodded to sleep, just before the surgeon emerged from the dark hallway to wake her. She listened fuzzily, as the surgeon explained four ways in which an intestinal malrotation can occur during fetal development. Charlie’s small bowel happened to be shaped like a tight corkscrew instead of the usual straight and floppy tubing, and part of it had completely closed itself off in the twisting. She wondered why she had never taken an anatomy class. A medical student assisting the surgeon found diagrams on her phone to illustrate the issue as the explanation lengthened. Waiting felt like a technical definition of the word “mesentery” in the middle of the most terrifying night of her life.

          Charlie was in the NICU now, recovering. This was the only bit of information she really wanted tonight, but the surgeon continued her monologue. She predicted that their newborn son would likely have a normal life, except that at any moment during infancy, childhood, adolescence, or adulthood, his gut might rotate inside of him, choking itself once more, which would (again) be a surgical emergency. (Apparently, intestines can die.) She worried about her child’s safety, prayed for his health and happiness, and pondered his potential place in society. She leaned dutifully into the list of warning signs and symptoms that would signal her to take action if (or when) the need arose. She nodded in understanding, determined to protect the most important entity in her life, as best she could, for as long as she lived. Waiting felt like motherhood.

Abigail Mudd

A White Woman on May 25, 2020

Before May 25, 2020, I did not think I was a racist. I thought of myself as an ally, although aware of so much more that I could be doing. After all, I was a burnt out medical student who barely had the bandwidth to remember to eat breakfast let alone address an old systemic issue.  The COVID quarantine turned my apartment into a gulag.  It was easy to see the injustice, recognize it, and yet still be far away, hiding behind my white window drapes and white privilege.

On May 25, after George Floyd’s death, protests broke out three miles from my home. The feeling of unrest did not hit me until they boarded up the nearby Target and the pet store where I get dog food. Suddenly it was much closer. It was here.

It has always here but I never noticed.

May 25, when I opened my Facebook that evening, alongside the horrendous videos of police brutality documented via a camera phone now gone viral, there was an explosion of notifications from the Women for Tri group. The group has members from all over the world and at all stages of triathlon from first-timers to Kona Ironman World Champs. In the two days since I had been on Facebook last, the group had lost thirty thousand members due to discourse on the topic of “Black lives matter” versus “all lives matter.” A Black woman posted about how unsafe she felt running outside, a point made poignant by the murder of Ahmaud Arbery. While many members voiced support for her, it quickly devolved into a “debate,” really a lot of name calling and the like. If you have ever read the comments to a political article, then you know what I am talking about. The admin for the page deleted the whole post, instead of just the problem comments. Her actions, at best lazy and at worst racist, sparked outrage and catalyzed a revolt: Black athletes speaking up and allies supporting them against women who want to look the other way. The group has since been frozen, meaning you cannot post anything on it but can still look at past posts, to take “a moment of serenity.”

85% of triathletes are White, 1% are Black.

Is the endeavor of triathlons racist? What about police on the racecourse? All races have police on the course to direct traffic and “keep people safe.” Never did it occur to me that this could be a barrier to athletes of color who cannot even go for a run without fear, let alone participate in a race with a course crowded by officers who might profile any black person.

The boarded windows of my neighborhood stores finally shocked me out of my apathy. I participated in the White Coats for Black Lives march. There I was reunited with friends I had not seen since we all crawled into our dedicated STEP 1 (a national standardized monster of an exam that all medical students take around 3rd year) studying caves, only to have our social hibernation be extended by COVID. We surrounded Hahnemann Hospital block and kneeled for 8 minutes and 45 seconds, the amount of time the officer kneeled on George Floyd’s neck. It hurts to kneel for that long. My knee started to bother me by 4 minutes in, but I refused to switch knees or sit down.

I would like to say this was for George Floyd and all the unnamed victims of police brutality and racism in our flawed country. But it was really that I wanted to punish myself for being complacent. I wanted my knee to hurt. I wanted to limp down Broad street shouting Black Lives Matter through my West African patterned fabric mask. Ironically, we had a police escort. I was wary of them, all those videos on Facebook coming to mind including a Philadelphia cop pulling down a protestor’s mask to tear gas them more efficiently.

But I was not as apprehensive as a friend of mine. They dodged up and down the march line, eyes alert. They wore a heavy jacket even though I had my white coat sleeves rolled past my elbows and could still feel the sweat drip down my back. I asked them about this odd behavior. They explained to me that they were working on an anonymous EMT group. Cities are supposed to deploy EMT resources when large crowds gather. Philadelphia did this for the Eagles parade when they won the Superbowl and they had less than a week to prepare for thousands of people.

I was there at the art museum that day. Never had I been so closely packed with people into such a suddenly seemingly small space. Yet, Philadelphia has not deployed any EMT resources for protests. This small group of vigilante med students, pharmacy students, ED residents, and nurses filled that gap. They raised their own money to buy first aid supplies. While they did not have to respond to anything too awful (yet), mostly dehydration and heat exhaustion, they supplied basic public health measures the city refused to do. They carried goggles with them in case of tear gas. And the heavy jacket? In case of kinetic bullets.

I asked my friend what made them take up this mantle. They responded that once Amnesty International condemned the US for abusing human rights, it was clear to them that this is what their role would be: providing support for protests. In a way, I am jealous of my friend for having found a way to participate in this movement passionately. I always thought that I would fight injustice knowing that I cannot fight every injustice I see. That I would have to choose the battle I would throw my life and career into. I looked in the mirror and asked myself, “Is this that battle?”

Race percolates into every cranny of our society, including COVID19 response. When my husband and I broke quarantine to go grocery shopping, often the only time we would leave the apartment other than to walk the dogs, I was driven to madness by my neighbors who wore their masks wrong. It needs to go over your lips, both lips, and nose. The infection preventionist in me raged. I was driven to such incomprehensible anger when those who wore surgical masks or worse N95 masks wore them wrong. I knew that my colleagues in hospitals didn’t have the supplies to protect themselves while seeing to their patients. I knew they would see to their patients regardless of having to use the same N95 as they had the week before and the week before that.

I now feel such shame that I did not even think that a person of color might insist on wearing an obviously medical mask, because for them to wear a makeshift mask would mean they might be profiled as dangerous or a thief - a life-threatening accusation. Someone had to point it out to me!

I reached out to a close friend who is a person of color asking how she was doing with everything that had been going on. I asked her what I should be doing to be a better ally. She told me that everyone resists in their own ways. Whether that be by protesting, signing petitions, voting, challenging your sport to be safer for athletes of color, or donating to organizations that strive to address systemic racism, all are forms of resistance.

Resist. Do something.

Saranya Khurana

My grandmother was a brilliant woman who wore many hats. She attended and graduated medical school in India in a time when not many women – neither in
America, nor in India – were able to. She went on to teach biochemistry to an all women’s medical college in Delhi for years; the impact she had on her students as palpable, as they continued to visit her every year in India and in the US. She
was a true life-long learner and scholar, and in addition to her medical degree, obtained master’s degrees in Music and Russian. Her singing was even featured on All India Radio. In her death, she wanted to continue teaching young bright minds, which is why she donated her body to the Humanity Gifts Registry after passing away following a brief illness on Thanksgiving weekend last year. This offers me an unusual perspective: to witness the beginning of the cadaver donation process and then take part in a dissection less than a year later. 

I was fine, I kept telling myself – I had grieved with my family, and was coping well, until the week before Anatomy when I opened the dissector link. There, it told us exactly how to cut so as to best view the back muscles. I was suddenly keenly aware that
whatever we were doing to our cadavers here, someone would be doing to her body over at Philadelphia College of Osteopathic Medicine. While my classmates were anxious about the dissection itself, my anxiety was mostly rooted in thinking about the cadaver’s family he left behind. I didn’t know anything about my cadaver, other than he was willing to give his body – and subsequently, forgo a funeral and a burial – to further my education. Could my anatomy group comprehend the gravity of his choice, and what this means for his
family? They couldn’t possibly understand what it is like to grieve without the closure of a funeral – could they? Would they try to make jokes about his body shape and size?
Would someone do that to my grandmother’s body?

The night of our first Gross Anatomy lab, I called my mother in a panic, as I often do in times of personal crises. She reminded me that this was my grandmother’s last wish – to continue teaching medical students, and to help create the next generation of teachers. My mother reminded me that every body in the Gross Anatomy room was someone who died wishing to further their legacy by giving us the gift of knowledge. And she reminded me of the Celebration of Remembrance held by the Humanity Gifts Registry last May; how we looked back to see a sea of white coats sitting together in solidarity, and how the medical students expressed how much their cadaver meant to them through song and speech and poetry. She reminded me how much it meant to the medical students that we – the families of the deceased – supported our loved ones’ decision in their sacrifice. The generosity of my grandmother and my family will continue to guide me as I navigate accepting this gift from someone else’s loss.

Safiye Unlu

Shattered.

She was in pieces small enough to pierce a painless hole into a heart, silently killing the person.

She was in pieces smaller than the glass of the windshield that you broke through that night.

Thousands of scattered pieces.

That night you went through the window, that night she fell on her knees.

Her palms tightly gripping her face as she prayed, she begged, she screamed...

You were in a sleep of agonizing pain.

Your sight was unbearable, but your touch, your warmth made it better.

There you were, the love of her life, hanging by what seemed like a thread thinner than the delicate silk woven by a worm.

Her tears weren't drying with the passing days like they said it would.

It felt like the tears were getting heavier, the weight of each passing day emotionally stripping her.

You'd squeeze her hand,

she'd scream in tears of joy.

You'd jolt uncontrollably,

she'd scream in tears of fear.

It wasn't like the movies, it wasn't like the books, it wasn't like the past...

Her kisses weren't making him better.

Her lips would lay on his, she'd wait for his arms to rise and wrap tightly around her.

Instead she'd back away, leaving only her tears to dry.

Down his neck were the traces of dried salt.

Whether it was her tears or his, it was unknown.

She waited day and night, hours on end.

Her life was at a halt.

Only he mattered.

She hoped with every cell in her body that he would just wake up...

And one day he did.

The happiness in her eyes at that very moment was immeasurable.

But something was off...

The happiness in his eyes, it ceased to exist.

He was blank.

He was empty.

Where was he?

Where was he?!?!

"Who are you?"

"I don't know you."

"I don't want her."

"Stop touching me."

He didn't remember her.

And it was at that moment she became worse than him.

She was killed, silently,

Whilst he was salvaged.

Sravya Koduri 

A subdural hematoma can take weeks to be found.

Maybe that’s why no neural effects came around

That morning that I hit my head on the bed frame.

I hadn’t slept much lately 

And med school had become the crutch

Upon which I based all my enrichment.

Why just the other day

I studied something new

And spent an hour conveying

That I didn’t have this disease too.

What is wrong with me?

Only a few months into med school

A whirlpool of knowledge 

And yet, I contemplate 

Am I dying?

I learn a new symptom and begin applying

As if every medical ordeal

Could present itself in those who learn it.

Does hypochondria pick its chooser?

Is this how all med students feel?

Wearing white coats too big

And pretending that in four years,

We would grow into them.

I feel like a child

Holding a sword too massive.

A helmet too large, running wild

Anything but passive, into the battle.

We must accept our destiny

For nothing easy is worth having.

Robert Freund

The nine of diamonds would have been translucent if not for the lacquer of squames and grit polished into its surface. A not-quite-inconspicuously humming bulb glowed a few lumens short of a candelabrum. The little light cast accentuated the card’s jaundiced hue, identical in shade and sheen to antique ivory. Scattered lozenges had long since abrased to crimson smudges. A census would find six shapes, three likely rhombi, the other three just as likely hearts. The count was corroborated by a diminutive number six etched in the bottom right hand corner of the card, as deftly spotted by keen eyes behind multifocal lenses.  

Marcelle found sanctuary for her charlatan against lucky number seven. She drew another card; this time a face card. A nine may be a six. A king may be a knave. But a queen is always a queen. She swept her eyes across worn green felt again, knowing full well there was no place for lady trèfle. Her eyes stopped on mine, and she discarded the dame. She smiled.

Blake Horton 

Second grade. I am purposely making mistakes when I read aloud to my teacher so that she would assign me the book that I want, although nothing on her bookshelf would be “challenging” enough for me anyways.

Sixth grade. He is mumbling to me, barely audible as he reads the directions to his worksheet out loud to me. He mispronounces almost every single word on the page. Frustrated, he puts his head down, and starts to cry. What are you supposed to say to someone in that moment?

Eleventh grade. I am touring colleges with my parents over spring break, all of them boasting their near 100% acceptance rate to medical schools upon graduation.

Fifth grade. Tonight, I am helping him with his math homework, adding decimals. During the session, he looks up to me and tells me that I am really smart and asks me what I want to be “when I grow up”. I tell him I am in school to become a doctor. He responds with “wow”, as if the possibility had never crossed his mind. As if no one has ever told him he could be one too someday.

Third grade. I am on vacation with my family in Cape Cod. We’ve been going every summer since I was a baby. Going out to dinner every night and ordering lobster seems normal and routine rather than a delicacy.

Second grade. Two of the boys come barreling out of the back of the car, beaming because the owner of Dalessandro’s gave them each a cheesesteak, chips, and soda to take home with them as thanks for delivering her a thank you card from all the kids at the center.

Tenth grade. One day, this girl who I always thought was beautiful enough to be a model with her short wavy brown hair, hazel eyes, and vibrant smile, but I was always too shy to talk to, stopped coming to Spanish class. I overheard that she dropped out. I only realized that dropping out was an even an option a few years before then.

Fifth grade. I overhear a boy across the room complaining to his tutor that he doesn’t understand why he must do his homework if he already knows he’s destined to drop out of school anyways.

I still can’t wrap my head around why coming from two different zip codes made our experiences so different, but I am grateful for the time we had together living in the same one.

Suddenly, time is up for this tutoring session. “Was I good today?” one of the second graders ask me. I proudly beam at him and say “yes”, and he grins right back at me.

I have no way of knowing what goes on once he gets picked up by his parents for the night, but I hope with all my heart that this is not the only time he has heard that he was good recently. Deep down, I truly believe that these kids can be doctors, lawyers, teachers, nurses, or whatever they desire; I just wish they were afforded the same opportunities as me along the way.

Hamid Hassanzadeh

Silent and cold,

As pale as a ghost

A life’s story untold

From the skull to the toes

Absent the rhythm and sparks

That once coursed these veins

Inanimate and sterile

Flesh and bones are all that remain

Yet, without any motion

An utterance or sound

The wisdom passed on

Is simply profound

Nerves shake with excitement

As I call for a scalpel

In search of the levator labii superioris alaeque nasi

It’s all such a mouthful

Big bang or magic

How you see life after death

Eternal or finite

To this experience I’ll be, forever in debt

Ariya Mobaraki

Millions of them,

The little bugs,

Chasing each other into

Mazes of holes,

Arches, and veins.

The feeling of their

Antennae writhing

And twitching throughout.

Flashes of red -

And white, of course.

I lie there,

Oozing and festering.

Almost like a tomato

Left out in the

Sun to rot away.

Flinching while maggots,

Squirmy as worms,

Eat away.

My left eye -

Rolling,

As the mice had

Found a way

Into the central headquarters

Of my thoughts.

Christopher Torres

To find each piece’s mate 

They used to be elementary 

Their pieces numbered eight

By the time we reached our secondary. 

They began to complicate 

And intercalate in ways far more ornate. 

No longer simply primary.

Perhaps most extraordinary 

Was the finding that no unit was duplicate. 

With numbers that made you suddenly weary 

Each item impossible to replicate 

They were infinite yet linked

Into a harmonious syndicate

Yet in his hand he held an isolate 

A piece whose place he can’t seem to locate 

He looks about because all should fit, in theory. 

No success; The lack of results begins to feel eerie. 

In frustration he applies increasing force. 

Repeatedly. Tirelessly. Until at last, an end becomes divorced.

An irreversible state. 

Its front and ends deformed and bent into a form so dreary. 

Soaked in tears of a man whose cries have left his voice hoarse.

Christopher Torres

How long ago did he fall to the pitch black sea floor?

At first, it seemed so easy to make it back...

He would just help a few people to shore.

His light would unveil the track,

For them once more...

What kind of fool forgets that he too needs air?

That his light, while bright, was also finite...

With every person he had less to share.

Until he also became lost in night,

No spare for his own despair...

Still, he was besieged

From all sides...

By their cries of need

Lost in tides...

In choking,

Dark.

I...

Anonymous

Round the treetop the monkey sprang

Grabbed the telephone once it rang

Said, “Hello” and “How do you do?”

To a stranger hidden from view

“Well, and you?” echoed the reply

In a gruff, deep voice – not so high

They cheeped of secrets and past loves

Darwin’s survival not thought of

Their calls took tradition and form

And so emerged a feeling warm…

The monkey and the kind stranger

Grew close without fear or danger

One phase of his daytime travel

The phone slipped and hit the gravel

Breaking to pieces end to end

Monkey cried, having lost his friend

Flowing through dull routine contrite

Monkey schemed long into the night

Riding the mind’s winding stream bend

Assembling plans to find his friend

Friends and Family all waited

Soon, their spirits eased and faded

So monkey stepped onto the grass

Decided not to let time pass

Past the willow trees monkey swung

On high-tipped vines to branches strung

Thinking of his friend all the while

As days passed days blurred in line file

At rest, he splashed into a marsh

Hearing a voice grainy and harsh

He knew, then, his friend was not far

And saw the source – near, a Jaguar

Monkey knew he would be the prey

When Jaguar saw him o’er the bay

But his ears sensed a hardy laugh

Prompting his own at his other half

They stood and stared till their cores shook

Past which, they shared a certain look

Now he knew he had found the friend

He would love to the very end.

Hamid Hassanzadeh, 2015

Wisdom seeped from pain

Distilled in thought

Still, the leaves remain

From the ill-ridden flower

Virgin lips turn blue

Deceived by its saccharine taste

Silver, lined the petals

of its toxic fate

The poison, floods the streams

of your once still mind

Enshroud, every thought

shake your tender spine

Confusion won’t last forever,

but may linger in its wake

And if, after all of this,

You somehow still stand

When time has healed the bruises,

Scars and cursed wounds

View this experience

as your sacred gift

Something no one has,

shapes a new golden path

Given a leg up

from that which handicapped

A helping hand

from that which few understand

From that fruit that shook you bitter

Now grows something sweet

Wisdom seeped from pain

Despite the innocence lost, look at the gift that’s gained

Sayedatun Nessa

I slipped through the hospital bed

Into a land I’ve never seen

There it was

Death

And it was green

I walked upon a man in a field

Silently digging holes

Thirty-six by eight

Rows upon rows

One of these was for me

Of this I was sure

I stood at the foot of it

ready for what may be

but froze

When a stranger reached out her hand

And told me something only she knows

“Don’t go in”

She whispered “walk that way

Toward that bright light

Right there

Before the fall of the night”

I walked along that quiet road

Tree after tree

Green upon green watched me

As I made my way in their company

I came out through the light

Slipped into the hospital bed

Into a land I knew

Strangers in white

A familiar face by my bedside

I was back again

This was life

But I have seen

death and what’s in between

I walked through it

And I know it to be green

Jared Weiss

Over the course of the year

I have grown angry 

at a system of medical education

that spends two years

failing to prepare its students

to be good clinicians

in favor of attempting to turn us

into encyclopedias,

draining us of our vigor and passion

So by the time we are asked

to function clinically

we are both useless

and burnt out.

Then

after stumbling through six months

of rotations that fade into

sleep-deprived blurs

of dozens of review videos

and hundreds of faces

and thousands of practice questions,

we are asked to start making

decisions about our futures

as if these could be well-informed

despite our staggering inexperience

and incomplete sampling

of what medicine has to offer

But I suppose it's a good thing

that we spent our precious time learning

the life cycles of all of those worms

and every individual muscle of the forearm

and the nine virulence factors of N. gonorrhoeae

and all of the regulatory steps for all of those biochemical pathways

and all of the stains for different kinds of microscopy.

Because filling our lives

with unfulfilling crap

is preparation for

our careers dedicated to

fighting with EMRs

fighting against insurances

fighting against the gross inefficiencies

of our behemoth of a healthcare system

where everyone is too overwhelmed

to make time to communicate with each other

or with our patients

in order to provide the best care we can -

somewhere in the passage of time

we lost the focus on fighting for our patients

because we were preoccupied

with the fight for ourselves

to feel sane, healthy,

engaged, human.

I have been lucky to know

many good physicians, good people

and I think I still want to be

one of them one day

but I've grown to have doubts

in the face of a broken system

that seems insurmountable to fix.

I hope to try,

and I tell myself I will,

just as soon as I find

the energy and the time.

Maria Perez

It was a dry, uncomfortably hot day, and the sun was beaming down on me as I stepped out of the Crystal Eye Care van wearing my baggy cargo pants and hoodie. It was my first day volunteering in a small village on the Eastern border of Ghana, and I was all nerves. I had come to Ghana as a medical student to volunteer for an organization called Unite for Sight. This organization works in many different areas in the world providing first rate eye care to underprivileged areas and in many cases preventing blindness. My first few days in Ghana had not gone very well. My flight had gotten in around 3am, after which I couldn’t find my luggage. Then I spent the next day alone in my hotel room in Accra, unsure of when I was to begin my volunteer work. The next day consisted of an eight-hour ride in a van with seven strangers through a world that was completely foreign to me.

On my third day, as I stepped out of the van, I felt unprepared, as I didn’t know what I was supposed to be doing and how I was going to do it – I just knew I was to help perform eye exams in some way. The van had stopped at a small church off the side of a dusty dirt road, and my volunteer partner and I sat on a tree stump as the head coordinators of our team went inside the church to speak to a large group of people who had already gathered in anticipation of our arrival. The church didn’t have windows, so I could hear our coordinators as they explained the clinic’s mission to our soon-to-be patients, but I couldn’t understand a word of what they were saying. They were speaking the language of Twi, of which I had only learned a few phrases and mastered none of those. As we sat on the tree trunk waiting, more people came trickling into the church, and schoolchildren in beautiful bright uniforms passed us on their way to the school nearby. Everyone smiled and waved at us as they passed by, and I was struck by how warm and inviting everyone seemed to be. The heaviness in my chest seemed to lighten a little as I saw all of their smiling faces go by, but the anxiety of all the uncertainty was still pretty overwhelming.

Our coordinators called me and my partner, Acadia, into the church, where we awkwardly introduced ourselves, as our coordinator, Jerome, translated for us. After our introductions, another one of our coordinators, John, finally showed us what we would be doing. Acadia and I would be the first people our patients would come to. We would be performing eye exams and calculating each person’s eyesight. Then, our patients would be going to the nurse, the optometrist, and finally a table filled with glasses, where they would be getting a pair that was prescribed to them by the optometrist. John quickly ran through the art of performing and calculating an eye exam with us. We were going to use an eye chart with the letter “E” written in different sizes and different orientations on it. We were to ask the patients to show us with their hands which direction each “E” was written as we pointed to them. After his explanation, I began to feel even more anxious. I assumed we would be assisting the eye exams, not performing them ourselves!

Since the church was small, not all of our volunteer stations could fit inside. We taped the eye charts on the outside wall of the church and set up folding chairs for our patients. The folding chairs quickly began to fill up. As I stood there, waiting for my first few patients, my anxiety started to stab into my stomach, as if someone had placed a knife there and had started to twist it. My first patient took his seat, and I tried to stay calm. He was a tall, thin man, in his mid-forties who smiled at me as I took the sheet of paper with his information on it. I nervously fumbled through the exam, taking much too long to calculate his eyesight, yet he sat in the chair patient and smiling the whole time. I was so grateful for his kindness. I similarly struggled through the next few patients, nervously looking at the never-ending line of new patients waiting. Around my fourth or fifth patient, I was still nervous. That’s when an elderly woman came to sit down in my examination chair. She wore a bright colorful striped dress and walked hunched over with a cane. A friend helped her up to the chair, and she smiled at me as she sat down. I took her paper and walked through the exam with her. I’m not sure what it was, but she had a peaceful calmness about her that made me feel at ease. As I handed her paper back to her, I said my best,

“Medaase,” which means “thank you.” To my surprise, she gently took my hand into hers, looked me directly in the eye, and with a warm tenderness said, “Medaase.” It was in that moment that my anxieties really began to melt away. It’s not that the other patients had not thanked me or I had not thanked them, but something in her voice and the way she looked at me told me that helping these wonderful people in any small way I could was worth way more than any anxiety or fear I was feeling. It made me proud of the fact that I was there and thankful to be so kindly welcomed by a people full of so much love.

After that encounter, my next hundred exams that day seemed to fly by, as I felt confident in what I was doing and eager to provide these people with the best medical care I could with my limited knowledge. I smiled to myself as I thought about the fact that this is what I have chosen to do with my life – not necessarily give eye exams - but giving to people what I can of myself to improve their lives in some shape or form. When you’re a first year medical student, you tend to focus on yourself – your grades, your performances, etc. But that is not what medical school is about. That’s not what being a doctor is about. In that moment with that sweet Ghanaian woman, I was able to step outside of myself and realize that going through medical school is not about me; it’s about the people I am going to treat. Everything I have done as a student is not about guaranteeing myself the best possible future; it’s about the future of others. After three days in Ghana, my lost luggage and the long ride with strangers all seemed worth it. Treating these beautiful people made me realize so much about myself and about the type of doctor I want to become, and I hope that I will always carry these lessons from a small village in Ghana with me as I practice my craft in whatever corner of the world my life takes me.

Ria Mulherkar

Patient is a 63-year-old woman with a history of systemic sclerosis, recently diagnosed with stage IV squamous cell lung carcinoma, presenting with worsening shortness of breath.

My patient is sitting in a hospital bed.  I can just barely make out her teary eyes as I don my gown and gloves in the doorway. She looks at me, and I imagine my image swimming in the water that streams down her face. I wonder how many white coats she’s seen this morning. 

“Hi there,” I say as brightly as possible, breaking the silence.  “I don’t know if you remember me, but I’m a third-year medical student, and I’m part of your medical team today.”

 “Hi sweetie,” she says, her voice strained from crying. “I remember you, you were in the emergency room yesterday. Come on in.” 

I feel confident as I enter her room, but she must sense some trepidation in my steps. 

“Come on, you can come closer. I know I’m crying but I actually feel better today. But I’m just crying ‘cause of my emotions.” 

Mechanically, my mind flips through the pages of her chart, and I recall a history of Depression and Anxiety. As if her current disposition warrants a psychiatric diagnosis. 

“I’m so sorry,” I tell her helplessly. “I wish you didn’t have to go through this. Do you want to talk about it?”

Her lips quiver, but she squares her shoulders. I can tell she is fortifying herself. “No, dear. My emotions get out of control if I think about it. But I actually do feel better today. Less cough. And the sputum is clear now.”

When she talks about her symptoms her tears subside. Until two years ago, she used to work as a nurse. She is accustomed to this kind of talk. And she knows exactly what the doctors want to hear. 

I am relieved by this line of conversation. I have become oddly comfortable discussing urine output and bowel habits. Her emotions, on the other hand, I’m not sure I’m in a position to handle. They are a daunting and murky abyss. Something foreign and unfamiliar, something that if I waded too far into I might never be able to return. 

“Sweetheart,” she finally asks me. “There’s been so many doctors, and I have no idea what’s happening. Can you tell me what they’re doing? How are they treating me?” 

I’m taken aback. It is her penultimate right to have this question answered, but why by me?  Of all the individuals who have visited her this morning, I must be the least qualified to answer her. And yet, for some reason, she has chosen me. 

My reply is cautious; I do not want to falsely raise her hopes. Her current condition represents a particularly steep decline from which I am praying she will recover. But unfortunately, medicine can only do so much to decelerate her downhill trajectory. 

“We think your worsened shortness of breath could have been caused by a few different things,” I explain. “The CT scan showed us that there might be a pneumonia in your lungs, so we’re treating that with some antibiotics.” I pause to see her nod. “That and the X-ray also showed us a lot of fluid in the lungs, so we’re giving you Lasix to help take off the fluid load. That should help with your leg swelling also.”

“Yeah,” she chimes in, with a half smile.“My legs already feel less boggy.”

“Good, that’s good. And then, our attending had this idea that the worsening lung function could also be because of one of the chemotherapy drugs that you got. So, we talked to the lung doctors, and they decided to give you steroids. That should help make the fibrosis better.”

“I just want to stop you there, baby,” she says, and she tightly holds my hand in both of hers. I hear another tide of tears coming on. “The steroids, they’re not going to make my fibrosis better.” I feel as if I can hear her soul breaking when she says that. “They’re just going to lower the inflammation. The fibrosis is permanent, and there’s nothing they can do about it.”

I want to kick myself. I should have known this. I probably did know this. In my fumbling attempt to raise her spirits, I’ve made her cry regardless. 

“I am so sorry,” I say earnestly. “You’re absolutely right, that was my mistake.” 

“No dear,” she cries harder. “I have to say it for myself too. I’m just not going to get better.” 

This time, I squeeze her hand and kneel beside her bed. “I’m so sorry. I really didn’t mean to make things worse.”  

She shakes her head. “No, sweetie, it’s okay. Eventually I have to face this.” She looks at me helplessly through her tears. “I’m just scared. Am I ever going to make it back home?” 

“We’re doing our best,” I say, “to help you go home soon. I know you’re not back to normal, but it does look like you’re already doing better than yesterday. So we’ll just take it one day at a time, okay?” 

She nods and gives me a warm hug. “Thank you, dear.” 

I am overwhelmed when I leave her room a little while later. I am overwhelmed by her tragic situation. I am overwhelmed by her devastating sadness. I am overwhelmed by her unfailing kindness. But most of all, I am overwhelmed by how much she has taught me in a matter of minutes. 

She is afraid of dying, afraid she will feel like she is suffocating at the end. But the breadth of knowledge that she has given me, in my eyes, makes her immortal.

Saranya Khurana

My grandmother was a brilliant woman who wore many hats. She attended and graduated medical school in India in a time when not many women – neither in
America, nor in India – were able to. She went on to teach biochemistry to an all women’s medical college in Delhi for years; the impact she had on her students as palpable, as they continued to visit her every year in India and in the US. Although she never lived to see my formal acceptance into Drexel College of Medicine, I think she would be proud of me attending a school that has a history of women’s education. She was a true life-long learner and scholar, and in addition to her medical degree, obtained master’s degrees in Music and Russian. Her singing was even featured on All India Radio. In her death, she wanted to continue teaching young bright minds, which is why she donated her body to the Humanity Gifts Registry after passing away following a brief illness on Thanksgiving weekend last year. This puts me in a unique situation, as not many first year medical students see the beginning of this cadaver process and then take part in it less than a year later.

I was fine, I kept telling myself – I had grieved with my family, and was coping well, until the week before Anatomy when I opened the dissector link. There, it told us exactly how to cut so as to best view the back muscles. I was suddenly keenly aware that
whatever we were doing to our cadavers here, someone would be doing to her body over at Philadelphia College of Osteopathic Medicine, less than 5 miles from where I stood
outside the Gross Anatomy lab dreading entering. I was less nervous for the dissection itself, and more anxious about the thought of crying in front of my lab group on the first
day. I didn’t know anything about my cadaver, other than he was willing to give his body – and subsequently, forgo a funeral and a burial – to further my education. Could my anatomy group comprehend the gravity of his choice, and what this means for his family? They couldn’t possibly understand what it is like to grieve without the closure of a funeral – could they? Would they try to make jokes about his body shape and size? Would someone do that to my grandmother’s body?

The night of our first Gross Anatomy lab, I called my mother in a panic as one often does in times of personal crises. She reminded me that this was my grandmother’s last wish – to continue teaching medical students, and to help create the next generation
of teachers. My mother reminded me that every body in the Gross Anatomy room was someone who died wishing to further their legacy by giving us the gift of knowledge. And she reminded me of the Celebration of Remembrance held by the Humanity Gifts Registry last May; how we looked back to see a sea of white coats sitting together in solidarity, and how the medical students expressed how much their cadaver meant to
them through song and speech and poetry. She reminded me how much it meant to the medical students that we – the families of the deceased – supported our loved ones’ decision in their sacrifice. As long as I keep these thoughts in mind, I think my apprehensions about dissection will soon subside.

Jared Weiss

Every medical student dreads the first time they get asked one of the impossible questions by a patient, one for which no coursework, no prior experience can truly prepare you:
“Am I going to die?”
“What would you do if you were me?”
“Is my loved one going to be okay?”
Mine ended up being something entirely different, and more of a statement than a question:
“I need a hug.”
It was my psychiatry rotation on a locked inpatient unit, and even by those standards, she was an odd case.  She had presented to emergency departments several dozen times over the preceding weeks, sometimes multiple times in the same day.  She usually had vague and unimpressive medical complaints, and once the ER docs moved to discharge her, she would complain of some problem with her supposedly dilapidated apartment.  She would say she did not feel safe there, that she was concerned there was some danger to her and her daughter.  But she could never clearly identify what the danger was, and as we later learned from her case manager – a very pleasant gentleman whom she’d recently attempted to assault – her apartment was in a nice neighborhood and had been inspected several times, with no problems found.  Her daughter also was no longer living with her, for reasons that never became clear.
In any case, many times she would be discharged from the ED anyway, and dissatisfied, would return soon after.  Occasionally she would be hospitalized.  Early notes from those hospitalizations suggested possible schizoaffective disorder.  Later notes questioned this diagnosis in favor of borderline personality disorder.  More unequivocal were the descriptions of her trying to strangle a staff member and trying to hang herself in her room with her hospital gown.  Now she was with us, a day after being found in a supermarket bathroom cutting herself with a butcher knife.  The day of admission, she threatened to drown herself to the case manager, and so she was brought in.  Staff notes reported incontinence since arrival, as well as difficulty getting her to wear undergarments.  They also noted her consistent requests for Ativan and hugs.

Despite knowing all of this in advance, I was taken aback when she entered the room for her initial interview with our attending and the team.  She had a textbook slow, shuffling gait as she tentatively made her way to the table, with notably rigid movements.  She sat in the chair offered to her, but within a minute or two requested another; this too proved unsatisfactory and she moved to a small couch, then insisted on relocating a third time despite the attending’s patient request to the contrary.  Though these symptoms fit the side effect profile for some antipsychotic drugs, we had no reason to believe she was actually on any such drugs.

Still, none of that was what affected me.  No, what truly got me was her affect.  Unless Ativan was being discussed, she had this low, lifeless, monotone voice, with markedly slow response time.  Her face was truly the blankest I had ever seen, and to look her in the eyes was to stare into a dark, cold nothingness the likes of which I had never seen before.

…well, except once before, in college.  She was once a dear friend of mine, but we suffered an extremely painful falling out, and I had not had contact with her for a few years.  She quite probably also had borderline personality disorder, and one night years ago she knocked on my dorm room door.  I opened up and she asked, “Can I have a hug?”  I obliged and invited her in.  I offered her a seat alongside me on the bed, or at my desk if she preferred.  Instead she chose to stand at the far end of the room, facing the wall, and I sat on my bed, body facing the opposite wall but with my eyes on her.  She stood there for a half hour, stock still, and spoke with that same low monotone voice as she recounted to me, for the first time, the childhood trauma she suffered at the hands of her uncle.

That was four years ago.  I’m not sure I’d had an experience that gave me such a chilling feeling since then, until now, watching my attending struggle to interview this patient.  I wish I could say I recall what was discussed, but I was considerably distracted by her physical presence, until suddenly she indicated that she needed to use the restroom.  As we started to help her out of the room she urinated on herself and the floor, something which seemed to phase her very little.  I offered to help her back to her room and get some of the staff to help her clean up, and so we ever so slowly shuffled on down the hall.

Twice she stopped me; the first was to ask with far greater intent than anything prior what dose of Ativan my attending said he’d prescribe (he hadn’t specified, and I think she knew that).  I told her I did not know but would clarify with him after I walked her back.  The second was to complain that she could not use the restroom in her room, and to ask if she could use another one.  I asked her what was wrong with hers, and she said she could not see the mirror in order to clean her nose.  (Her nurse later assured me nothing was wrong with her mirror, and she was offered reading glasses to see if they would help, to no avail.)  She also said that my attending had said she could use another bathroom, and when I said I did not recall him saying that, she claimed it was when he first walked her to the interview room.  I knew he would not do this, and knew no other restroom she could use anyway, but managed to persuade her to finish the walk with me.

Finally, we made it to her room.  I told her I would go get her nurse to help her, and asked her if there was anything else she needed.  That’s when she said it.
“I need a hug.”
Time suddenly slowed to a halt.  Thoughts raced through my head as I stood there paralyzed, helplessly trying to figure out what to do.  Nobody taught me about this situation.  I knew that this was a therapeutic boundary that likely should not be crossed.  But I also remembered her history with hospital gowns and strangling staff members.  And I remembered the night my friend made a similar request, and all of the pain I suffered through our relationship, and how pathetically small that pain was compared to the pain she disclosed to me that night.  I wondered about the untold pains of this woman, what horrors might have shaped this vacant shell of a person before me, awaiting my answer, my hug.

There was nobody else in the hallway.  We were alone.  I was alone.  And with great discomfort, I gave her the hug.

Emma Schanzenbach

I lay in the darkness with my forearm over my eyes. Our curtains block most of the sunlight, but the tiny bit coming through pierces the corner of my eye.  My partner’s soft breathing get louder the more I pay attention. I open one eye to make sure he’s asleep and I pull the covers over my head, exposing half of his body.

In my greedy cocoon, I block out the offending stimuli, but I’m forced into the heat of my own breath and the part of his body that remains underneath. At least I know he doesn’t need the covers. When we used to sleep like this in college I never paid attention to the way our bodies took up too much space on the mattress.

If only the doctors had been right, I think.

For most of my life, I had been small. Gym class in middle school was an absolute nightmare, as I was classified as “athletically challenged” due to my short stature. To my horror, they made us run around the gym and keep a heart rate of 180, measured by a thick black strap that stayed around our chests. Except for mine, of course. I had to stay afterschool and run around the gym alone because the strap would never register a heart rate; my chest was too small. Sometimes the absence of a heart rate still keeps me up at night.

Under the covers, I pull my hands into my chest. Still too small. Nothing had changed there, even though I had grown over a foot in high school. The warm air is starting to suffocate me and I throw the covers off my body, sighing loudly. My partner is still lying there unaware, my discarded cocoon bisecting his body. His arm hangs off the bed, swinging. Part of me wishes he would wake up and experience my discomfort, but he is tired too.

With no other option, I roll off the bed, landing on all fours. I narrowly avoid the tablet charging on the ground next to by bed. Pulling it from it’s charger, I hold it to my body. It’s still too dark to look at the screen and I don’t want to see how many emails I’ve missed.

My steps make no sound as I tiptoe around the clothes laying haphazardly on my side of the room. I shove my tablet under my right arm and fumble for the doorknob. Once I make it out, I turn on the lights in the hall and drag myself towards the loveseat. I’m too big for this, too. Sometimes I can maneuver myself so that I can lay on it in fetal position, but the top of my head touches the back cushions and I get a headache if I stay like that too long. I compromise by edging my back into the armrest and lay facing the kitchen.

From here I can see the microwave, it blinks with the time: 5:00 AM. I don’t have to go to lab for another three hours, so I lay there for a while, thinking of nothing. Before I know it, something starts to pull at my chest and I realize I’m digging my knuckles into my collarbone. My heart rate picks up and the pressure increases. I didn’t even have my coffee yet.
_______________________________________________________________________

After debating for too long, I finally make my way to the lab at school and crumble into the cold wooden bench outside. It’s 6:30 AM and I can enjoy the coffee I forced myself to buy on the walk into school. I finish it faster than I should have and find myself alone with my thoughts, again. Instead of staying alone, I decide to spend some time with the dead.

I walk into our locker room, which looks eerily like the one from my middle school gym, and drop my backpack on the ground in front of my locker. It’s usually impossible to get elbow room, but I’m the only one breaking the silence today. I pull my ugly, neon-green scrubs over my head and cringe at the stench. It gets on everything.

The first time I smelled death was when I was in elementary school. Someone had disposed of their dog’s body on the side of the road. My dad had to drive us down that road to get to school, so it became an unavoidable part of our routine. Each week, we observed it decompose further and further until it became bone. I swore I could still smell it, even when the flesh was long gone.

Eventually someone, or something, had come to pick up it’s bony remains. As I think about the unfortunate dog, an image I don’t want to see flashes through my mind.  An image of my mother clutching her chest, barely clinging to life over the kitchen table.  I use one hand to wave the thoughts away and the other to pour my half-finished coffee in the trash. My mom was the one who gave me that damn habit.

If only the doctors were right!

I could already feel the death seeping into my hair as I headed out of the locker room, into the lab. I scan my ID and push through the double doors that separate the living from the dead. The door knobs are sticky from my classmates that use hand sanitizer before opening them. The thin film of aloe reminds me too much of the buckets at the end of the table, collecting the fluid that spills over from the bodies. I never touch the door with my bare hands.

In the early morning, the rows of bodies draped in white cloth send a chill down my spine. I feel as though they will sit up and have a conversation with me if I don’t stay on my toes. The only light in the room is coming through the window. There is a pounding in my chest as I scan the room for a light. The coffee was overkill today. I flick some switches on the wall to no avail and race around the room trying to find the right ones. I wish I had waited until someone else was here. Talk about heart rate of 180.

I find the light and walk towards the body I have been working on all semester. I pull off this body’s cocoon and expose arms, haphazardly hanging off of the table and swinging like my partner’s, but without life.  The sun is rising and more light pours through the windows. Half of her body is showing, glowing in the morning light. Had we not torn the body to pieces, it would be as though she was resting peacefully under the light’s warmth.  I reach into her chest and pull out the heart we so painstakingly severed from its place.  

Exhaling sharply, I pull the heart closer, examining it against the light. An image flashes through my mind. I can’t feel mine beating anymore.

Diane Tang

A flower of death and, of life.
An organic dichotomy.

It possesses an odor,
Sickeningly sweet.
Unknowingly,
It bears the fruit of knowledge.

Ingested.

A pang of memories,
Become my inaudible drowning.
Sustenance and ambition,
Once desired and acquired,
Appear at my feet.
A mess of wretched chyme.

A glimpse of a nightmare,
My heart aches from trusting and believing.
My vision fades.
The lilies dance,
Against a bittersweet hum.

I slump into my new home.
Rays of dawn stipple through the canopy,
pattering the earth below.
The cool dirt yields, envelops my remains.
They embrace me,
Let me forget and forgive.

A lily of the valley …
Anew I begin.
New sins and sorrows,
Bright futures and dreams.

With a sprinkle of showers,
This spring flower of May
Envisions a better world,
A return of happiness.

But for now,
A dichotomy I remain.
Despondent and optimistic,
Longing for an age of innocence.

Jared Weiss

Let's get one thing straight: Surgery rotation, like so much of medical school, makes you feel subhuman.

4am: alarm goes off. Set to The Beatles, "Good Morning, Good Morning." Don't think it is, really. 5am: preround on your patients with a fruit bar as your only fuel. 6:30am: round with nice, competent physicians who barely want to know more than ten words about their patients. 7am: in the operating room. Three, four, five procedures. Some days you get time for a real meal; other times your patient has enough adhesions to make the abdomen a veritable Amazon jungle it'll take ten hours to get out of alive. Some days you get to scrub in and be a part of the scene at the table, maybe retract for a little bit, maybe drive the camera; other times a robot is doing the work, or there isn't room at the bedside, and you get to sit and watch the procedure on a monitor, living on the borderline between being awake and asleep.

Good days, bad days, doesn't matter. Get done by 6pm, call it a good day. Sometimes it will be 8. Go home, eat dinner, wash up, you should study an hour or two everyday for the shelf exam ha ha funny joke, do it again the next day. Drive into work hardly seeing another car on the road. All the streetlights are shut off. The whole city is dead; you're just the only fool spending their death being awake.

Weeks of these days feel like months. By Friday, you're desperate to just get done, get home, sleep a whole night, no Sgt. Pepper the next morning. The team's got two rooms in the OR; pick the one without the robot so you can stay awake. The cases are running smoothly, might just be done by mid-afternoon. Freedom looks so close...

...but you're not getting off that easy. Hiatal hernia in the other room is a mess; the VATS that was supposed to happen afterwards in that room's coming to yours. OR wasn't planning on that, so turnover takes longer. Done at 3pm turns into starting a case at 5pm on Friday. Right upper lobe lung lesion on imaging. History of adenocarcinoma in the other lung, not too long ago. Wedge resection. There's you, the resident, the scrub tech, the OR nurse, a CRNA. The attending moves back and forth between your room and the hernia. Nice folks, everyone. Making the best of it. Light banter and discussion of weekend plans. The mass comes out. Down to pathology for frozen section. If it's primary, have to spend more time in there getting margins. Metastatic, close up and go home.

7pm. Stand and wait, desperately longing for that telephone to ring. Nobody has to explicitly say the words. Everyone wants it to be metastatic. Damn the patient; damn her daughter and granddaughter you'd met in pre-op a few hours earlier. The granddaughter's probably around 10 years old; she's somewhere out there in that waiting room. Doesn't matter. Grandma's fate was sealed well before the team came for her with their blades. And don't worry; it's not your job to tell the family.

The phone call comes through and delivers the sentence. Sighs of relief. Sew it up. Scrub out. Go home. Will it weigh on your conscience? Of course not. You're too damn tired not to sleep well at night.

Ariya Mobaraki

“Please stand back,”
Spoken to naïve students.
All strain to get a glimpse of red,
Yet are constantly teased by an ocean of blue.

Beings who can produce both miracles and tragedies
See humans for who they are on the inside.
Akin to a sculptor handling a marble slab,
They envision their masterpiece and chisel away imperfections.

Arrays of instruments under their command,
Experienced hands producing orchestrated movements,
Suction pumps slurping and cauterizers hissing,
The red, white, and pink canvas begins to unravel for the finale.

Hours seeming like seconds,
The skin tailors carefully sow the final seam.
The artists breathe a sigh of relief,
Praying to never see their creation again.

Andre Bshara

I call out to the birds, and the birds call back to me
“Come join our flight!”
I join their flight, careless wisps of unstrung hair sing in the wind
Feathers growing from my fingertips, light as the air itself
Sleek and slender, like a newly-polished car, I feel in the wind
The birds’ flight takes to the sky, gold rays scattered over our backs
We land in reluctance from being away from the sky
At which point, my feathers fade and the others begin to fly

I call out to the pigs, and the pigs call back to me
“Come join us in the mud!”
I join the festival, pleasant squeals from the piglets
The stench of the mud gaining in pleasure, like a song made from wind (a fart)
My hands grasping the thickness of the mud, squeezing it through
Until I feel my hands in parts of two, playing with worms and viscous delight
We roll in the mud, thought of appearance forgotten, dedicated to the old farmer
Smiling at his happy pigs—one now a human, rolling in the mud

I call out to the fish, and the fish call back to me
“Come join our school in the water!”
I join their swimming, my scales now shining bright against the light
Dexterity such as this I have never felt before, acting and reacting to water’s motion
My hands, now fins, slicing through my surroundings
An unsung communication permeating as we move through water in unison
Up, down, sideways, and over, bliss in chasing a goal unseen
My struggle back above water truly denial of my human form, gills faded away

I call out to the ants, and the ants call back to me
“Come join our colony!”
My many legs so easy to control, a master of land I become
I join their methodical foraging through desolate ground, sweat already gleaming
We do not hold much individually, but together, we move mountains
Cradling crumbs on my back feels fulfilling
The thought of working for a higher purpose defining my being
The utilitarian mindset slowly fades, losing its logic, as my legs become nothing again

I call out to the wolves, and the wolves call back to me
“Come join our pack!”
Silence and stares as my straight back curls and my dull teeth sharpen
We run through the forest as an eerie mist rolls through mountains
The moonlight bouncing off the grey coats of my brothers and sisters
Dialogue assumes its presence in the language provided by our eyes
Howling only filling the dusk periodically
My calls grow weaker as my peers continue without me, running along in the night

I call out to the frogs, and the frogs call back to me
“Come join our army!”
But an army it was not, for my hands wielded webs, not weapons
The stretch of my legs during a leap was athletic—My body felt multifaceted
I could travel anywhere, do anything, no matter the terrain
But we knowingly chose to sit by the pond, whistle, peep, and ribbit our day away
Matching the peace of nature with the melody of our song
My confident daze turning to one of perplexion at my life’s experiences

I call out to the monkeys, and the monkeys call back to me
“Come join our troop!”
My body shrinks in size and strength, but my proportions grow in length and purpose
I stand there with awareness of all things around my body
Able to twist and turn, dip and dive, lunge and retreat at a moment’s notice
Swinging and running along tree branches makes me a master of survival
I feel witty—and, all the same, humbled by my awareness—the ignorant man’s curse
Comes back, as my monkey awareness fades away and I return to my proportions

And these proportions suit me, I realize
Despite enjoyment of the day’s diverse endeavors
I enjoy being a complex being with a presence as simple as the animals I was
I can merge each of them into my being, and still be me
Freedom of the birds, Amusement of the pigs, Serenity of the fish, Dedication of the ants,
Silence of the wolves, Ingenuity of the frogs, and Impulsivity of the monkeys, but
When I call out to the humans and wait for the call back,
I hear no call of union, celebration, or peace. Only crickets… perhaps asking me to join

Fallon Bushee

Whose woods these are I think I know;
His house is in the village, though…


He doesn’t live here anymore.
And surely I knew this before
I stopped and stared into the night
To breathe him as I did before.

But still I wait for signs of light,
Still longing as a child might,
When comfort lies just out of reach
And safety lies just out of sight.

This was our home, I do believe.
And in the silent, cold reprieve,
I wrap my arms around my core
To stave the splitting I perceive.

And still I, floating toward the door
To knock and see his face once more,
Will raise my hand, and let it fall.
He doesn’t live here anymore.

Nikil Revuri

Day one, your series of firsts,
Taking infantile steps, masking the before,
Eager to be eager, hesitant in spite
With lights in newly christened vision.
You admire cautiously, granted sanction.

Day two, your tendrils spread out,
From reluctant anchors, grasping,
Wavering but resilient, learning.
Burn, blame, and bravo at turn,
Your haven breaking for high water.

Day three, your steps turn to missteps,
As self-expectations duel deficiencies,
With faltering knowledge and confidence,
More fallen tree across worn path
Than log across unbridged river.

Day four, your boots dig in,
Climbing valley to cliff to peak,
Struggling by the inch, but cresting
Glorious at the top, yet crestfallen,
With molehill behind and mountain ahead.

Day five, your hands start wavering,
Fatigued by day, crushed by night.
Toil and torture and tears,
And  mirth and miracles and marvel
Come mixed by force and wrought by habit

Day six, your heart stone and cloud in turn,
An image of the future, imperfect reflection,
Seeing connections, seeking correlation,
Finally piecing this puzzle together,
Concluding what was inconclusive.

Mary Abramczuk

A lukewarm night
Clouds slither in overstuffed herds,
Turning glowing underbellies to the world.
Both parties equally indifferent.
Trees convulse, sobbing
Wringing ragged green hands
While a streetlamp drips slimy freshwater tears
Onto a disgruntled car.
Someone skulks beside the lot,
Towing a dog.
Head down, hunched into a jacket
Shutting out the rain, shutting out the light
Shutting out the world.
Even the dog cringes
Cowed by two-AM resentment
Or perhaps just the rain.
In a window high above,
Blue light flickers,
Mumbling threats and empty promises;
Somewhere on the third floor someone is sobbing with the trees.
Below the dog whimpers, shakes itself—
No use, still as wet as before.
Above it, the hunched jacket sways
And turns to the clouds an empty hood.

Karim Merchant

I awoke disoriented, my eyes still laden with the fog of my dreams.  I could still hear her voice.  
“Bapa, can we rent a paddle boat tomorrow?”
“No, I don’t think so, Anju,” I said.  “We have to save to buy you a new swimsuit.”
I was not the best of fathers, but my heart yearned to see her now.  She was the girl of my dreams, my daughter.
It was 5:42 AM.  I had fallen asleep at work the night before, while cleaning some lawyer’s office, and my watch was the culprit that had ended my dream.  No surprises there; it hadn’t failed me yet.
I fumbled to organize the papers I had accidentally drooled on.  They stuck to my fingers like gum, but I didn’t feel like cleaning it up.
All I could think of was my ex-wife’s chai.  My mouth longed for that tea, which was never boiled long enough, in which she put too much milk and sugar.  It always struck a chord with my sweet tooth, just the opposite of our pragmatic relationship.  Well, at least I could get a vanilla chai to warm me up.  I wondered if that Starbucks on the corner would be open.  
The office was a ghost town; a lone lamp reached its hands towards the gray elevator.  Everyone had gone home hours before.  They had seen the janitor fall asleep after vacuuming the floor and had not even bothered waking him up.  
Chai was on my mind.  I rushed toward the door, bumping into the corner of the table.
Cursing, I carefully packed up my mop and towel in the janitor’s closet, all the while making sure the secretary had locked the file cabinets.  I let out a long sigh while waiting for the ancient elevator to come up to the tenth floor.  Impatiently, I checked my ripped, button wallet for money; something fell to the floor.  
It was a photo, taken as my wife and I cheered on Anju at her swim meet; 100-meter backstroke—1st place.  I was the proudest of fathers.  My daughter smiled up at me, standing tall in front of her parents.  She was a strong little girl.  She had had to be, to avoid being torn apart by our painful divorce.  She got my strength—not her mother’s.
As the elevator arrived, I dropped my head.  I remembered now what had gone wrong with us.  I couldn’t keep a job.  My wife had accused me of being lazy, of not making any money.  She was wrong.  After all I had done to provide for them, all the dignity I had sacrificed, she had the guts to tell me I didn’t care for them.  We had fought so many times, and each time she left, as if she believed I was the cause of her problems.  She didn’t have the strength to continue a family.  Eventually, she had taken me to court, and moved to Chicago, taking Anjali away from me.  
But I can’t blame her.  I was always job hunting.  No matter how much I cared for them, I had failed to show it.  I had missed Anju’s science fairs, most of her swim meets, and even her two clarinet recitals, all because of pointless job interviews.
The elevator opened into the lobby.  The big-boned security guard, Manny, was there, watching a basketball game on ESPN Classic with a box of Krispy Kremes on his seemingly impregnated stomach.  I remembered that game well.  I had met my then-tender wife that day.  Game 2 of the 1987 championship series between the Lakers and the Celtics.  Magic Johnson had won it all for the Lakeshow with his baby-hook shot with two seconds left in the game.  Final score, 107-106.  That game had made history.  I had taken that to be a sign for my new relationship, like I was going to win too.  
“Wassup dude,” questioned Manny, “why are you here so early?  Couldn’t sleep?”
“Nah…I would never come here early, man.  I fell asleep in some lawyer’s office,” I joked.  
“For real, man?  You need to get a life.”
“Yeah no kidding.”
“Well take care of yourself.  You look as if you just slept for the first time in months,” scolded Manny.
“I’ve heard.  Peace, brother.  Take care.”  And I was out the door, free from my pathetic job.  
I often wished the nameplates on the lawyers’ desks I cleaned read my name, but it was too late for that.  My younger sister was a pediatrician, and my older brother was an aerospace engineer. But me?  Janitor Shahrukh Pandey—unlikely to ever make any kind of difference.  I took a deep breath.  I wouldn’t let myself get depressed again.  It was time to enjoy my short weekend.
I loved going for walks before sunrise.  I took a moment to look at my surroundings before walking on.  The air whipping around my face made me feel carefree.  It relaxed me, allowed me let go of the constant nagging of work.  The only other time I had felt like that was when I used to tuck my daughter into bed at night.  
It seemed as if the refreshing air had taken years off of my age.  I felt energetic, like a baboon toying with a shiny gum wrapper.  The cool air caused the same shiver up my spine as I had experienced on my wedding day, when my wife and I had walked around a ritual fire seven times with our shawls knotted together.  This was supposed to symbolize that we were bound together for seven generations; our marriage didn’t even last seven years.  
The Starbucks was open.  I ordered myself a vanilla chai, the closest I was going to get to my ex-wife’s tea.  I decided to get a table outside. I wanted to see the sunrise.
Lost in my thoughts, I almost didn’t notice the kids lining up on the corner, waiting for the school bus.  I suddenly remembered my school days—getting hit with a ruler by Mrs. Kakkad in Jogeshwari, India.  I don’t think I did any homework the entire time I was in school, but I still passed.  I missed those days—not really the school part; just playing Chowpat and other games with my classmates under our desks.
“Shark, shark,” summoned the Barista, mispronouncing my name.  I grabbed my chai and took a sip.  The Barista had mixed my order with coffee, but I still drank it.  The lukewarm coffee woke me immediately, and I didn’t feel like arguing to get my money back.  
As the rain stopped, a warm glow came over the street, and the sky turned orange.  This angelic setting took my breath away, and it seemed like the world had stopped to catch a glimpse of the miracle.
The group of kids were making quite a racket.  They were young, maybe eight or nine years old.  One of the girls held a metallic green balloon, which read ‘Happy Birthday’ in big bold letters.  When she turned around, I saw her, my daughter, holding onto her balloon.  I could still remember her last birthday clearly.  I had walked Anjali to the bus stop.  As we got closer to the bench, I decided to buy her a balloon from a nearby store.  She picked sunshine yellow, her favorite painting color.  
“Bapa, thank you!  This is the best balloon ever!” squeaked the super excited Anjali, but I knew she was just trying to make me feel better.  
“Anything for you on your special day,” I commented automatically.  I knew I was lying; the only other thing I could afford to give her was a cheap Tom cat, to go along with the Jerry mouse I had bought her the day before.  That had been the day my wife told me about the divorce.  
Clearing my throat, I stood up.  I was breathing heavily; thinking of Anjali always did that to me.  All of a sudden, the little girl on the corner let go of her balloon and chased after it into the street, just as a white cable van sped up at far side of the street.
I knew the little girl would be crushed if she went any further.  I had to do something.  My life was worth nothing, compared to the promise of her youth.  I had already lost everything that was important.  Realizing my place, I was happy.  
I sprinted as fast as I could, and at my age, I was no Usain Bolt.  I tried to go quicker, but my withering legs wouldn’t cooperate.  I began to shout with all the air in my lungs for the girl to get out of the way.  But she just stood there, flabbergasted, watching the madman dart towards her with his hands flailing.
I rushed out in front of the van, and the world around me began to slip away.
I heard sirens in the distance.  A man’s voice called out, “This one will be okay…”

Anisha Sunkerneni

Two bright eyes shine back at you
Twinkling
A flash of a smile, and then -
“Mom, I’m going to go play outside!”
It's summer
This...is normal

Two slices of fresh pumpkin pie
Taunting
“Dessert first!” - it was a naughty pleasure
Your brother races you to the kitchen
It's fall
This...is normal

Two meticulously wrapped gifts - Toys for Tots
Waiting
To be delivered to some little girl or little boy
Who you dreamed may be just like you
It's winter
This...is normal

Two daffodils catch the morning dew
Dazzling
“Dad - look! Can we please plant more?!”
So off you go to get bulbs and oh-so-cute pots
It's spring
This...is normal

Two baby birds fly the coop
Exploring
The nest feels a bit emptier now
What to do? Where to go? How to be?
It's simply time passing
This...is normal

Two missed calls, then more, light the screen
Daring
You to acknowledge that you’ve changed
Of course you haven’t; you’re just busy
You care, you really do
It's just the start of a new academic year
Is this normal?

Two more snow storms in the forecast
Cringing
Power cuts - they don’t delay the impending exam
They postpone the call home
You drift further - from them, from yourself
It's been a whole semester, who are you?
Is this normal?

Two granola bars on today’s lunch menu
Appetizing...
Class in the morning, clinic in the afternoon
A goodnight text home is all you muster
They miss you, “don’t forget your Allegra”
It’s already allergy season, damn it
Is this normal?

Two bags wide open, everything everywhere
Begging
You to pack, before that flight in 6 hours
Turned in your keys, put away your books, wait…
Will they remember you're coming back?
It’s June, but hell if you knew that
Is this normal?

Two happy parents, one happy brother
Coming
In for the hug - the biggest, best hug
The hug you didn’t know you needed
Of course they remembered
It’s a full coop again, is that...are you...almost...happy?
Is this normal?
You go in for the hug

Two bright eyes shine back at you
Twinkling
A flash of a smile, and then -
“Guys, I’ll call you when I land!”
It's time
To go back to finish what you started
They’re not going anywhere
Neither are you, not this time, not ever
This...this is normal

Erica Miller

At first, it didn’t seem like that big of a deal:
the nursing staff had forgotten to tell Mary that she had a doctor’s appointment today.

But, see, she only found out when they came in to get her, to move her tray off her bed, to comb her hair, and to get her dressed.
She found out when they turned on the pulley system that helps move her from bed to chair.
Its’ not laziness;
At 47, Mary is quite intelligent and quick-witted.
She has one of those smiles that makes you feel glad you tried that joke on her.
Its’ just that Mary also has multiple sclerosis and is paralyzed from the neck down.

They’d neglected to tell Mary where she was going, who she was going to see, and why she was going to see them.
Maybe they forgot, were too busy, or, like me, when I initially heard about it, didn’t think it would matter all that much.
But in Mary’s world, where her fully functioning brain is trapped in a body that can’t act, it mattered a lot.
Why should a mentally-healthy middle aged woman feel like she is being chauffeured around like a toddler?
How could she have prepared her questions or concerns if she didn’t even know about the appointment in the first place?

But then, there’s also her chair.
Mary’s motorized chair, the one that was designed solely for her,
it broke today.
When they were trying to move her into the van to bring her to the doctor she didn’t know she needed to see, the motor just stopped.
“They told me ‘don’t ask’,” she said, when I inquired about how long it would be until she’d get it back.
Out to the manufacturer for repair went her chair, as did her capacity to move herself anywhere without being pushed.

There may be no one single of blame for what happened to Mary today,
But it left frustration and helplessness in Mary’s eyes.
It left a sense of overwhelm in mine.
Today was a big deal.

That night I was heading to get eggplant
Some basil, maybe some hard cheese to fill
Up the barren shelves of my fridge.
Groceries help when life feels empty.

I turned and didn’t even see the black car
Pressing the break with all my strength
I prayed. “Please stop. Please stop.” It didn’t.
I saw my tears in the rearview mirror

“You’re a fucking idiot. What the did you just do?”
I yelled to the body in the rearview mirror
His wide eyes and frozen body infuriated me
A helpless, vile creature I abhorred

The man got out of his shiny black car
Calm as can be he asked if I was okay
Putting his hand on my shoulder pressing
Like I was the person who he needed to comfort

I could have killed him.
I thought of my time in the trauma bay
The people coming in tattooed with scars and blood
The moans of people as we huddled around them

I thought of the methodical game we would play
Looking to see where blood and injuries lurked
Maybe the ultrasound would show where blood was hiding
A scan might show blood squeezing between brain and skull

Maybe we’d need to go to the operating room
Wheeling the body under the fluorescent light
Sticking our hands into his belly excavating
Inspecting every inch of bowel for any tears or bruises

I don’t want to do that to someone
Looking in every mirror of my crumpled car
I saw my tears, I heard my conscious
“You said you’d do no harm”

Natalie DiCenzo

When every memory is a memory of a memory, distorted with every recall, each further from the truth, we become little more than tourists in our own minds. We collect snapshots with earnest intentions of looking back later, only to realize that the hues are not quite as deep, the edges are duller, and the moments that could not be recreated are replaced with frames of nostalgia outlining what they once were. The layers peel back to reveal what remains of our perceptions, contaminated by biases seeping in from what lies between the past and the now, and what reality was can never be found whole and pure again. Nothing is accurate or reliable, yet that’s most of what we have, most of what makes us who we are. How can we trust that? I want to believe it all amounts to more than just flesh and blood and hormones—that there’s something else at play, something unrecognizable and uncontrollable. But even if it is just a combination of chemicals and closeness, as far as I can tell it’s there to stay. And that makes me nervous, and you make me nervous when you ask me what I’m thinking, and I want to just spit everything out, all of my insecurities and doubts. Instead I just swallow my words and shake my head, disguised in the reflection of uncertain causality.

Samantha Innis

Many years ago, when I was just a girl, my family had a pool. Sturdy and upright, it held some of my dearest childhood memories. Whenever we were inside of it, my friends and cousins were focused on only one thing - attempting to drown. If not by playing mermaid hairdresser with the vacuum hose, then by making a whirlpool so strong it would surely consume us.

As a child, though, you don't always consider outcomes of actions; death was not the goal, per se, simply the end which was justified by the exhilarating, watery means. We would line up, evenly spaced around the outer edge and march in circles for endless hours attempting to build up enough force to carry our chubby carcasses around and around and

down

down

down

down

Usually the only outcome, however, was the consolidation of pool debris into a neat pile directly in the center of the vinyl floor. Perhaps thankfully, none of us managed to enjoy an all-consuming whirl.

~~~

Although I was asleep, I recognized her instantly as 296: red red hair as bright as her sly smile; soft eyes, sharp wit. It was easy to see why so many loved her. Her perfect balance of femininity and boyish charm made you question. Question whether you wanted to be her or be with her. Outwardly she was as calm as still water, but inward there was turmoil. Much like the whirlpool of my childhood, you had the sneaking suspicion she would lead you to your demise, yet everything about her indicated you would enjoy the ride.

People shouted questions into the void when she made the decision to remain suspended in time and place, forever twenty-something, in her college dorm room. But in reality, it was impossible not to foresee her tragic end. Nothing so golden could last. When she visited me in my sleep all these years later I was neither expecting nor surprised. We didn't speak; much like our years in college together, I was just given the opportunity to admire her existence from a comfortable distance.

In the dream, she moved quickly and pointedly; she had a message. She grabbed a silver kitchen bowl, some spices, and a whisk. She proceeded to add water and spices to the bowl and stir furiously. I recognized instantly the whirlpool of my childhood. Once the bits of dried herbs and pepper were fully suspended in the current, she abruptly stopped stirring, and I watched as all the debris consolidated to the bottom and center of the bowl. I understood immediately.

Although the life of 296 was complex, her reason for ending it was quite simple. When experiencing the delirium of mania, the flurry of motion, the frenzied energy of life, she could remain afloat. But the second it stopped, she was swept downward to the absolute bottom and buried under the weight of what once held her up. When her medicine kicked in, it stopped her system from adding energy to the whirlpool, but did nothing to stop her from being pulled

down

down

down

down

But she was not pool debris or water-logged herbs; she was a goddess, a siren, something otherworldly. She couldn't see that, but everyone else could. It was the medicine that did her in. The thing she needed to stay afloat was also what buried her. And we were left to bury her.

~ ~ ~

I want you to learn from the siren. As we step into the full responsibility of our careers in the coming years, we must be careful when playing with the chemicals of the mind. To write a script and send someone off for a month or two or three is reckless. The months will pass for you, but it's possible your patient may escape the passage of time. So I simply implore you - do not take lightly how fragile the desire of many to remain alive is, or you too could rob the world of some of its light.

Brian Park

“Tell about a time this year when you felt particularly challenged or stressed by your work as a medical student...”

I’m floating in outer space, among the stars.

I watch how the stars behave, hoping to be one on the wards.

What the luminous balls of gas give to me,

Is what escapes their gravitational force.

I’m bombarded by the energy they release,

Blinding and shocking, shaking up my quantum core.

Another side effect, a trade name, new DSM V criteria, deadlines, 

The unknowns, personal care and relationships, this, that, the other.

Astro quasi quasar solar cosmic nuclear giants.

Unfathomable, theoretical knowledge dwarfing our physical bodies, but filling up our minds.

I’m a black hole, trying to shine bright like the stars,

When all I’m here to do is draw in the time, space, matter around me.

Perceiving, receiving, absorbing, and holding.

Don’t you wonder what’s on the other side of the black hole?

If you’ve watched Interstellar, it might not be so farfetched.

In fact, you can probably understand or even empathize,

Since empathy is what we have, deep down in the center of our core.

It lets our experiences and emotions circle around us, sometimes close, sometimes far,

But always safely guiding.

Candice Mazon

If people come and go 

as much as the tide meets the shoreline, 

then this is the part after the go

and right before the come.

There is a silence that settles -

wedging between small crevices 

where love used to be.

After the bags are packed

and the phone stops ringing,

I realize my aloneness. 

And I know I have written 

a hundred and one poems

on how to stand on my own two feet,

but the truth is, I’m not alone. 

Sadness has welcomed herself into my everyday,

a reliable company that has made herself at home. 

What a smart one she is.

She starts the car every morning, 

reminds me to take my vitamins,

tells me to go to bed

even if it’s hard to. 

Sometimes, I resent her company.

I drown myself in people who aren’t her,

but always end up gasping for air.

How selfish of me not to embrace her

when sometimes, she is the only thing I can reach. 

And so everyday, she waits - 

sitting by the edge of the sofa,

staring out the window, 

wondering if I’ll come home. 

I always do. 

I always will. 

I lay my head on her lap, 

she strokes my hair as I tell her who I miss,

hums a soft melody 

to bring me back down

when I feel suspended in space. 

And I know one day, she won’t be here.

She’ll fade away without me realizing,

nothing left but a note that says,

“I’ve given you what you needed. 

I’ll be back.

Enjoy this time without me.”

But tonight she is here, 

lighting the candle,

turning the music low. 

Her arms are wrapped around me,

my arms wrapped around the could-have-beens. 

She pulls the blanket closer

and listens to me wonder

when the tide will meet the shoreline

once again. 

Samantha Innis

Anxiety creeping up

Feel it breathing down your neck

Know there's nothing coming

Still you've got to triple check

Makes you want to run

But all you do is freeze

Feet cemented to the floor

Locking up your knees

It's seeping through the floorboards

And flowing through the cracks

Pulse a furious flutter

Got you feeling like a heart attack

Feel the fire rising up

As your stomach drops

Some say that it's motivating

But for now it needs to stop

The clearness that comes with it

Can help you concentrate

But only on scarcity

And feelings that you hate

Everything else is muddled

Mixed and mashed up in your head

Clouded is the happiness

Clear as day is dread

You're put off by the popping

of particularly potent pills

But nothing else you try

Can help to soothe your ills

So nothing ever changes

Going through the motions of the days

Clumsily stumbling toward something

Hoping to cut through the haze

You're trying to move forward

But your bandwidth is preoccupied

You told them everything was fine

They all know that you lied

You question whether sanity

Was something that you ever held

But could you make it quite this far

With demons that were never quelled

And if not then when was it

That you finally lost your mind

Acting like it’s so damn shocking

But you know they're being kind

For years the fears that haunted you

Were clear for all to see

But it was what brought you here

AND stopped you pre-degree.

Arthur Kim

"Loop” is a collection of thoughts about a man’s progression with love.

Not sure who to ask

Not even sure what to ask

Our hands meet

Face goes red

Heart beats rapidly

She’s confused

I ask my friends

Oh, this is love?

…….Fuck

The lack of control

Emotions, undefinable

Just ask her out, they say

Oh, it’s that simple?

___________________________________________________________________

She turned me down

Probably a lesbian...

Or a person with her own life and interests

Doubt has always been there

But pushed deep down.

It creeps out

If I can’t be with the one I love

Then I wasn’t good enough

They say,

“She’s not seeing the best you”

Just do the complete opposite

___________________________________________________________________

If love was eternal

We’d only ever get one

Until..

I thought all I ever wanted in life was love

Until you loved me

___________________________________________________________________

"Kismet"

We were both wandering when we met as mere seeds

Spread onto the field and sown

As flowers bloomed around us

I couldn’t forget the vast sky during those summer days

The beautiful moments are always too short

You left

And I began to wander aimlessly

Reluctantly following time’s course

Eventually returning to where we first met

Under the autumn sun stood footprints

As if someone was waiting there

They pointed toward the path I used to take to you

__________________________________________________________________

When a man falls in love

He gets a little creepy

She gets a look in her eyes sometimes…

Like she just realized I’m also edible…

You make me feel terrible

For wanting to change.

I love it

Save me

___________________________________________________________________

You are beautiful when you sleep 


But it's getting tired

Wake up!

It’s not you, it’s me

It’s us

It's your mother

I used to say I missed you after just a weekend.

Like a child learning to talk, who calls every cat a lion

Yes, I said I’d love you forever

And I meant it then

But I never meant to hurt you

Believe me

I wasn’t thinking about you

At all

____________________________________________________________________________

I have loved since you

But scratch that paint

And you’re still there, underneath

I was in a desert, sometimes walking backwards

Only to see my own footprints,

Pretending that I wasn’t alone

But just as happiness doesn’t last,

Neither does sadness

Pain subsides eventually

Loneliness no longer debilitating

A new, shiny thing catches my eyes

Did I learn from before?

Am I ready?

…….Fuck

Just do the complete opposite

Natalie DiCenzo

Philadelphia District Health Center 5, 9:34 a.m.

“She’s a… feisty patient. What some doctors might call difficult to work with,” says Dr. Eberhardt, handing me the chart. “She either loves you or hates you. She loves me, so just… tell her that you’re working with me, and see what happens! It’ll be okay…  probably.”

With that glowing review, I walk out to the waiting room and call her name — with confidence, I hope. She looks at me skeptically, hesitant to get up from her chair to greet me. “You’re not Dr. Eberhardt…” she remarks, narrowing her eyes. But, after a moment of contemplation, she grumbles and concedes to follow me anyway.

Inside the exam room, she remains quiet, still thoroughly unconvinced of me. I ignore the part of me that starts panicking in awkward social situations, channeling ‘fake it till you make it’ like never before. I smile, act like I know what I’m doing, and ask her how she’s feeling today. I sense that she is warming up to me. She launches into her life story, one problem after another. She has a sinus infection, her right eye is red and itchy, she fell a month ago and has shooting pain, her hair is falling out, she wants bariatric surgery, she thinks her kidneys are failing, she fears she has cancer, her application for a home health aid keeps being rejected. It’s one thing after another in rapid succession. She’s almost manic. The descriptions of her pains are peculiar and specific — a seam running down her leg, caterpillars crawling in her knees trying to claw their way out, and a flap on her butt that feels like it’s opening up.

She stares at me, eyes wide and desperate, and asks me if I understand. I really have no idea what it’s like to feel as though my butt has a flap opening up, but I nod yes anyway and keep listening.

She brings up her bipolar disorder and schizophrenia. I inquire further. Chronicling her worries has left her frustrated and upset. It doesn’t take much for her entire life to spiral. “You hear how I’m talking in circles? That’s what I do. I apologize. It’s bad, but it’s not that bad. If my meds get messed up, that’s when it’s real bad. I’ll be out running naked in the streets,” she whispers, staring at me intently, watching my reaction. “It’s happened before. It’s not pretty.”

Even when restrained, the voices lead her to do things that she normally wouldn’t. They whisper to her, feeding her suspicions that people don’t trust her, don’t believe her, and don’t take her seriously. Absorbing the negative energy she feels radiating off of others, she can’t help but transmit it back. She resorts to swearing at healthcare providers and threatening to beat up her upstairs neighbors when they make too much noise. She mentions that she can’t wait until she can move to a different apartment, in the same complex but on the top floor. I can relate and tell her about the equally loud people who lived above my room in my college dorm, that it always sounded like they were dropping bowling balls around. She starts laughing hysterically, resuming her rant about her current neighbors — “always so fucking loud, what the fuck are they doing up there… wearing fucking shoes made of fucking boulders? I swear to fucking god…”

Suddenly she stops mid-fuck. She takes a deep breath and closes her eyes.

“Do you ever crave being totally, completely alone? So alone that you can’t even hear your own thoughts? That’s what I want. To endure the quietness of solitude.”

I remain quiet for a moment. This time I know what she means.

Jasmine Mirza

I did not formally introduce myself or inquire about the welfare of the person who lay before me. A quick inspection for any noteworthy bodily markings or surgical scars replaced the traditional handshake. In this context, I did not struggle to formulate a series of questions to extract a history, as any of my thoughts or anxieties regarding the cadaver were met by silence. Yet, despite the circumstances, I wanted the body to be comfortable while in its vulnerable, exposed state, awaiting to be touched, prodded, and eventually cut by a group of strangers. I recall my unease in observing the body positioned on its stomach, its nose hard-pressed against the table with a clear drop of fluid leaking underneath it.

I knew only limited information – that the body belonged to an 85-year-old man who had worked as a draftsman and passed away from coronary artery disease. A scar ran the length of his inner left leg, which I assumed was from bypass surgery. I surveyed the few fine hairs on the back of his legs and concluded that the nature of his work contributed to the maintenance of his delicate hands. He seemed worthy of a classic, old-fashioned name, one characterizing the nostalgic simplicity of a time recorded in black and white. He looked like a Winston. I hoped that he enjoyed a quality life into his elder years. I contrasted the decades of experience, knowledge, and wisdom embodied in this man with those of my relatively young self. I considered how he witnessed the various sociocultural, economic, and technological changes spanning his eighty-five years and how they may have affected him. Though I can only envision his story through an imaginary lens, I reflect on how I will be able to fully see what he did not – the detailed anatomical infrastructure in which his life is preserved.

The first incision was etched along the upper back, the firm barrier of skin eventually giving way to the thick superficial fascia and dark red threads of muscle. Subsequent skin flaps were pulled apart as other group members joined to make their initial cuts. The approach became business-like as an instructor briefly guided my group on proper technique. He worked efficiently, indifferent to a need to tread gently or achieve a clean muscle. Within a few minutes, fascia had become a burden to remove, and muscles accumulated as yet another layer to weed through. My initial reaction toward the cadaver had evolved into a focus on acquiring technical skill. Deciding to call it a day and resume dissection in the next lab, my group folded back the muscle layers and skin flaps to the midline, temporarily closing his seams and covering him with the white towels and sheet provided.

I imagine that I will always remember every first experience that I have throughout my medical training. Yet, these feelings of novelty and unfamiliarity will soon fade into standard practice and daily routine just as I grew accustomed to wielding a scalpel across tissue. I can only attribute significance to this body by viewing it as more than just skin, fascia, muscles, and neurovascular bundles. I can humanize Winston by remaining respectful and envisioning elements of his life story based on the gross anatomy equivalent of a physical exam. I am deeply appreciative for this man’s generosity in donating his body for medical study, providing the opportunity for me, along with other medical students, to practice, learn, and ultimately grow as an aspiring physician. As a draftsman, this man likely designed intricate drawings that supported larger ideas. Similarly, this man will serve as a blueprint upon which to build my knowledge base and medical career.

Sean Welch

I saw myself the other day.

I looked into the eyes of a 60-year-old black woman, and I saw myself.

This antithetical version of me came into the clinic for a long list of active health issues, but the clinic staff all knew the one real reason for her visit.  And there in large, bold, red lettering were the results of the UDS.  Percocet.  She hadn’t been prescribed Percocet in months, yet it was still positive.  I heard her admit to using the medications of her family and friends when hers ran out, just like me and every other person with the mark of the addict.

I might as well have been a fly on the wall.  Unnoticed, unspeaking, unthinking, just… watching.  I watch as the resident physician discusses the opioid epidemic, government regulations, the PDMP, and the fact that her admission of using another’s medications prevents the clinic from ever giving her any other controlled substance.  Words we have all heard before in one form or another, a laundry list of checked off boxes and hollow warnings.  She responds softly at first, but then her voice rises with an infectious fiery impulse I feel in my chest and through my throat. 

As the physician speaks, she begins to yell: “I AM NOT PART OF THE OPIOID EPIDEMIC.”

The resident leaves the room and presents to the attending physician with me in tow.  The physicians then return to confront the issue, the addict, the patient, the thing that we seem to forget is a person that awaits in the next room.  They exchange niceties for some time, but she becomes aware that the doctor is planning his attack.  As he begins to speak, she resumes her yelling, only louder and bolder. 

“I ONLY HAD THE ONE PROBLEM, YOU NEED TO STOP LUMPING ME INTO A CATEGORY.” 

Yet, here she is.  Lumped.

There was an emptiness to her.  An emptiness which I’ve seen in so many before her, and will see in so many after her.  Family, friends, and my former self.  It’s as if a piece of you has died and is causing the rest to rot away.  She was denying a truth which she was unable to confront, a certainty which people often refuse to admit. 

The killers now produce the pain.  She has a dependency.

The physicians restate that they cannot prescribe her Percocet, she replied that “rules are made to be broken.”  Not this rule.

The physicians finally get through to the patient; no Percocet will be prescribed today. 

The patient leaves, the physicians leave, I linger.  Staring at the place where this person, this patient, this addict, had sat.

What did I do?  What did I say?  Nothing.  What do I do in the future when it’s my patient? 

Do I tell them about my struggles?  I don’t want to trivialize their experience or my own.  

What impact can I truly make in a 20-minute appointment?  Especially when they resist?

This patient made me falter.  It reminded me that I am flawed, and that medicine and physicians are fallible.  Yet, we still confront these demons.  We walk into a clinic or hospital knowing full well what we will find.  While the reason varies between healthcare workers, I know what gets me out of bed in the mornings, what pushes me to learn, and what forces me to forge ahead.

We all have an emptiness that needs filling, a pain that needs killing.  We are all given the innate gift of empathy to fill the hole. To be used as a weapon to kill the pain. So, why not use it?  We must look into the eyes of another and feel their pain.  I want to know that in the entirety of my lifetime, I have used my knowledge and experiences to, in some small way, improve the life of someone who appears to be “the other.”

Jason Roley

When I think of the

Birds and the bees,

I think of the seas, 

I think of the trees –

Of all life on Earth,

All life that breathes, 

All that changes 

The world that we see.

I also think about 

Pen and paper, 

And words that 

Evaporate like vapor – 

Words that cut like a razor; 

Words that rise like bread 

Baked by a baker.

Words speak 

Silent sounds

Communicating thoughts 

That know no bounds.

The imagination that runs wild,

The dreams of a sleepy child.

Ideas make the world spin around.

Are they too alive

Like the earth in the ground?

Ideas are

Like the birds and the bees

And the seas and the trees: 

They fight to survive, 

They fight to thrive,

They fight to be!

Notions like freedom and equality

Are as big as any ocean, 

Or as certain as star-crossed lovers 

With unbridled devotion. 

If people don't breathe

Life into them, 

They too can die,

So they too must be alive.

Ideas know no lies. 

They can be small like flies 

Or big like the question 'Why?'

They set people free.

They let people be

Whatever they want to be,

Do whatever they want to do,

See whatever they want to see.

Ideas are free. 

They sprout like seeds, 

Growing quickly like weeds, 

Blooming into beautiful trees

Ultimately and forever 

Changing the world we see.

Naman Udadhyay

Death infects the living. it comes uninvited and robs a piece of your soul.

this weight in my eyes,

this weight in my mind and

this weight in my heart can't be lost by running.

The heaviness of loss began an assault on my senses

the sound of my mother screaming for her father to come alive.

the image of my grandmother becoming frail before my eyes.

what test am I being put through?

is death supposed to make me stronger?

(I feel like my mind is being battered.

this grieving house full of people feels so damn empty.

the happiness in faces wiped clean like a whiteboard.

their minds racing for moments of misgivings.

there's nothing left to do for the dead, only for the living.)

I watch my mother and her sisters sob. I hold her brothers who fit the fire.

And as I watch my grandmother gasp for breath putting her husband to bed for the last time,

I hold back tears. I refuse to cry.

I will not add to the flood that is drowning me in this room full of tears.

I grab her arm, keep her steady, provide her strength.

Atlas help me hold up the world that is crashing down around me.

I will not let this infection permeate my mind,

instead I will try to make their pain, mine.

Ria Mulherkar

The beauty of language is often in its silence.

An abyss of space imbued with emotion and wonder —

There. That’s where it is.

I used to think I needed a response for everything, that

A lack of words was a lack of thought.

Insight I could not express was insight I did not possess.

But, as I have come to learn,

Silence is not just an emptiness.

Silence, that ringing, resonating,

Absence of words is filled with the

Spaces between the stars and the

Dark, immaculate depths of the seas.

It is where impulses converge

Fervently upon seldom encountered synapses,

Where the mindlessness of my day meets the

Senselessness of my thoughts.

A fleeting moment,

When nothing is said and it is said for nothing —

There. That’s where it is.

In silence

Anisha Sunkerneni

Fine: an amount to be paid as punishment for a crime or offence

I’m sorry

That you have to pay the fine

For my crime

I didn’t mean to offend;

Please,

Forgive me

I thought I was at a loss

Of words

But I somehow mustered them up -

Everything will be fine

No, it won’t

Not always

Sometimes never

What havoc those words wreaked

Still plagues me

A buzz, a text from you - my best friend

Not a meme

Not a titillating article

Not your latest epiphany

Too many words

I parsed through quickly:

Grandma,

Hemorrhage,

4.1 cm,

Inoperable,

Coma,

Passing soon

A barrage of pictures

Of CT scans

It’s bad, isn’t it?

Waves of shock and anguish

Rippled through me

It was

I found myself reaching

For those closest within reach -

The easy words of comfort:

Don’t worry,

Have faith,

Everything will be fine

What comes quickly, simply,

Easily flowing like water

Following a current

Everything will be fine

Those words

Did not wrap you in a cocoon of comfort

They did not ease your mind

How could it be -

That everything would be fine?

What havoc those words wreaked

Still plagues me

I imagine them taking on

A life of their own,

Swaddling you to the point

Of suffocation,

Unable to breathe

In a state of shock,

People cling on to

The smallest branch

On the tree of hope

Whether it can support -

The weight

Of the burdens they carry

Or not

Everything will be fine

Hang on to that branch,

My friend

With your dear life

(But do not forget,

You may still

Come crashing down)

But

When nothing is fine

And that small, small branch

On the tree of hope

Gives way,

I don’t want you

To come crashing down

I know

That you have paid the fine

For my crime

I didn’t mean to offend;

I’m sorry,

Please forgive me

You have taught me that

False hope -

It breeds forests

Of trees too weak

To support the weight of

The very true and very real

Burdens you must carry

False hope -

It is not fine, and

Words need not always

Be necessary

To express ourselves or,

How much we feel

I know that now.

You don’t need

Those simple, easy words

Which flow like water

Following a current

All those words again

Grandma,

Hemorrhage,

4.1 cm,

Inoperable,

Coma,

Passing soon;

The barrage of pictures

Of CT scans

It’s bad, isn’t it?

I hold your hand

A shoulder to cry on

You know I’m there

A listening ear

You will get through this

Because you are capable of

More than you know,

Stronger than that small branch

On the tree of false hope

You stand tall,

A mighty tree

In your own right

Your deep roots keep you

Grounded

I will not see you

Come crashing down

I vow

To not ever again

Spread the seeds

Of weeds

That grow into

Trees of false hope

I will be there,

Every step of the way

But I refuse to

Suffocate you

With those words

For as long as you know

That I care,

I will let my presence

Be felt

And my silence

Express

What words cannot

Fine - I think -

I’ll be quiet,

And give you a hug

Instead

Anonymous

Rarely would anyone call me quiet

Speechless is what I was that morning though

I'll never forget the night before

The news pulled the proverbial rug out from under me

I scanned for a time machine to turn back the clock

But that was as plausible to me as what I had just heard

A good, no...amazing, person like her never deserved such pain

I sit, waiting for her to get up

What am I going to say? What could I even say? Without doing any damage...

The silence replacing the air in the room, I am breathing in speechlessness

Footsteps make my heart pound; does she even want me here?

I’ve never felt so helpless in the face of someone who absolutely needed it

The iron curtain was drawn, but under I could tell it was night, dark and lonely

I wanted so badly to be able to heal the wounds that she wasn't showing me

Ignorance was far from bliss...for both of us

Tea, breakfast, and a hug

That's all I had to offer her

I tried to make her laugh and make her smile -

Something I used to be very good at

But I was speechless, wordless, and at moments thoughtless

Whatever I mustered appeared to help

Was it enough to make her forget her pain, for even a second or a minute?

I sit and worry now, offering her plenty of words

Telling her I'm there if she needs me

Speechless at the wrongest of times

Hopeful she finds the rightest of answers

Kristina Orbe

My alarm sounded at 4:45AM. I slip out from under my comforter and tiptoe around my room, trying to minimize the amount of physical contact I have with the cold floor.

“It’s fucking cold,” I think to myself as I throw on layers of clothing. “I should really turn up the heat.”

I check my phone and see that it’s 29 degrees outside. I roll my eyes. Back On My Feet’s new policy was that we would continue to run unless temperatures fell to below 0, a change from the old policy that cancelled runs if it was below freezing.

After throwing on my sweater, jacket, hat, and gloves, I make my way to Broad and Spring Garden where Back On My Feet’s Center City team meets for the morning runs. As I arrive, I am greeted by hugs from a dozen or so familiar, friendly faces. I strike up a conversation with Johnny, a middle-aged man whom I recognize but have never spoken to. We make small talk about how long we’ve been running with BOMF, where each of us is from, and of course, the cold. Johnny and I partner up to run the two mile route. The cold air makes it difficult for the both of us to run, and we end up falling behind much of the group. As we leisurely jog through the city streets, I notice a dark mass a few blocks ahead taking up the entirety of the sidewalk. It’s positioned on top of a manhole, and I can see the streaks of white steam rising from around the sides of the mass.

“How inconsiderate to pile your trash to take up the whole sidewalk,” I think to myself as Johnny and I course into the street.

My heart sinks as Johnny and I get closer to the mass. What I thought was a garbage bag haphazardly thrown onto the sidewalk is actually a young man sleeping. He lays with his back on the manhole, his hands buried deep in the pockets of his hoodie. His hoodie must have been the warmest piece of clothing he had on, and I realize he is sleeping on the manhole for warmth. He could not have been more than twenty-five years old.

I dart my eyes away, ashamed. Just a few hours earlier, I had been tiptoeing around my apartment afraid to touch the floor, as if putting the weight of my body on the soles of my feet would give me frostbite. There have been many times during my runs with BOMF where I have been confronted with my own privilege, and as opposed to previous times in my life, I have met the experience with much more guilt and shame.

Prior to medical school I lived in a Catholic Worker Community, an intentional community of activists living together with persons experiencing homelessness. In that context, my experience of service and justice work was based on a relationship among equals. Providing resources to those in need did not feel hierarchical or transactional, because we all lived together with the hope of healing the wounds of oppression by creating personal relationships.

Upon entering medical school, I was really excited for DUCOM’s year-long volunteer curriculum. My desire to do justice work and serve my community are why I feel called to a career in medicine, and I was excited to live out that mission in medical school. I loved my time volunteering with BOMF, but I have come to realize that my experience of service is much different than in the past, because I have changed. My previous approach to service was founded in an equitable and mutual relationship. But now that I am in medical school, I find myself far removed from the experience of those whom I am serving. Medicine is a field steeped in prestige; shaking the baggage of the inherent status I have acquired makes mutual relationships such as those I formed in the Catholic Worker Community harder to attain.

Before we started running, Johnny and I chatted about ourselves and what we do when we’re not running with BOMF. I told him that I was a student, and he asked me what I was studying. Whenever a member asks, I always feel so guilty disclosing that I am studying to be a doctor. I can feel a palpable shift in the dynamic. Often the members joke that one day, I am going to be rich, and despite my current loans, I am fully aware that I am going to later find myself in a completely different social situation than those I run with.

While living in the Catholic Worker Community, my approach to service was interpersonal and relational. My life intersected with those I was serving in the same plane. We shared meals together. We lived on the same block. We were invested in each other’s lives. Now, service feels more stratified. When the run is over, I drive back to my heated apartment on the other side of town. I sleep in my bed with cotton sheets and a down comforter. The next week, I roll my eyes when I check the weather, and I have the privilege of forgetting the young man sleeping on a steaming manhole.

Painted above the doorway of one of the homes in the Catholic Worker is, “So you say you love the poor, name them.” Today I learned Johnny’s name, but somehow it still doesn’t feel like enough.

Luke Gatta

My stethoscope feels like a Fisher-Price toy
when I push against his denuded chest.
The sounds are hard to hear when he speaks.

He talks, endlessly,
of hustling, snorting, prison.

A job here and there.
Two suicide attempts,
four daughters,
somewhere.

I need to auscultate,
so I ask about tomorrow.

He pauses.

I hear two beats,
and they sound no different than mine.

Leann Dudash

I ran
to the nearest grassy field,
and clutched
my corner of the Earth.

As I ran,
the earth billowed behind me,
caught in the breeze,
flapping idly.

I saw the ground wrinkle
below me
and I knew
you were doing the same.

You grabbed your bit of the Earth
and ran to me.
We folded the distance
like sheets.

Leann Dudash

Wouldn’t it be nice to dream,

that we lay in the same bed.

The miles between are only

expanses of cotton threads.

I think if I reached out for you,

somewhere, our hands would meet.

I bet you’re closer than it seems,

only lost in blankets and sheets

Christine Mrozek 

At the beginning of medical school, they said, "Be ready to drink out of a fire hydrant." Today, I felt like one was gushing over my head. Outside, what had started as a drizzle was now a torrent. Inside my head, a maelstrom of emotions surged. Not only was it the week before a flood of testing in difficult subjects, but I was also being battered by an influx of hormones—meaning that once again my period would likely be synced to the days of the exams. Perfect.
To make matters worse, I was also sinking into a whirlpool of worries. My normally sunny outlook was darkened by family health problems that I could do nothing to help with. Tests worth half my grades in certain subjects intimidated me. I had a growing suspicion that the mouse problem in my apartment was back, making me wonder: Does do no harm also apply to the mice you might cohabitate with? I also was concerned for the wonderful man who was brave enough to stick with me since the beginning of medical school, through my flares of pre-test anxiety and the stories of, "What did I sever from the cadaver this week and how?" A pain in his hand had started as a sporadic occurrence, but now it was more constant and sharper. I might have been the one who wanted to be the surgeon, but he could do magic with his hands—relieving my stress through his gentle touch. He was upset because the injury was also interfering with his work. I was upset that he felt so bad. As a concerned medical student, I gave him all of my unlicensed medical advice, including  a handful of differential diagnoses and begged him to see someone else if it got too bad. Today, the pain had gotten that bad.
Before lunch, I fretted. I felt powerless knowing there was nothing that I could do to help at this point. Or was there? Within the past year I had gotten some training in Reiki, an energy relaxation and healing technique. While I couldn't prescribe medications, I could offer that. I texted him the suggestion of visiting.
As quickly as my hope appeared, it was eclipsed by his discomfort. After a long morning of texting all he felt like doing was resting. I tried to offer counter solutions: I could meet him halfway somewhere, pick him up at a train station, or even drive the whole way myself. If I were in a more logical mindset, I would have taken into consideration that pain can make me just want to be alone and sleep. Yet, lunch break sailed by and my emotions hadn’t quite ebbed to anything remotely calm.
I tried using a mindfulness technique. Focus on your breath. Breathe in. Breathe out. A tear escaped. As our lecture on viruses turned to the subject of the lytic cycle, I also felt like I was ready to burst and explode from the inside. I slipped out of lecture and ran to the bathroom. While the fiber cereal I had in the morning did a number on emptying out my colon, I still hadn't flushed out the other negative feelings inside of me. I tried to go to the gym and sweat out my sorrows. However, just like the stationary bike I was riding, I got nowhere.
The breeze ruffled through my jacket as I trudged to my car, whose bright color was a sharp contrast to my current mood. I flopped into the front seat and as I started my ignition, the song, "Come and Get Your Love" played out from somewhere within my bag. I fished for it and uttered a frustrated hello.

"How was your day?" he asked.

 "Alright..." I replied as I shifted the car into reverse and started to back out of the lot.
    "How were classes?"
"...not bad..."
    "Are you sure you're okay?" 
    I fought to compose myself. "Eh, test week is coming up... I'll be alright."
    I didn't want to add to his burden since he already felt bad. Though conversing with me was the equivalent of talking to a wet dishcloth, he still consoled me, and by the time I was home and sitting down, he managed to make me smile. He told me to go and take my shower. Potentially, he'd be able to make a trip in for the evening.
With a new glimmer of hope, I was able to wash off some of my distress. I looked at my work with new eyes. I steadily marched through notes as rain began to drum on my air conditioner from outside. After dinner, my phone rang again.

" How would you like to study something else for a little while?”   "Of course!" I exclaimed.
" Well, I should be there around 10, then!"
"I can't wait! Drive safe!"

  After a few minutes, the steady drumming on my air conditioner from before had turned into a rock solo. Lightning flashed, thunder crashed, and my heart pounded. How were the roads? My stomach sank with the thought. I didn't want to distract him from driving so I didn't call, but I watched my phone intently. An hour passed by. Only the sound of rain graced my ears. Frantically, I started praying. I didn't know what else to do. A few minutes later, "Come and Get Your Love" blared from my phone.

 "Hey."
"Hey! Are you okay?" I asked, now shaking.

"So, there's a tree down about 5 miles from the exit. I need to take a bit of a back way. Be to you closer to 10:20 now."

"Ok! Just drive safe!"

At this point, all I wanted was to see him in one piece. The Bruce Springsteen song, "Wreck on the Highway" came to mind, which further unsettled me. I tried to get back into my notes, but was jolted from my seat by an emergency weather alert from my phone: FLASH FLOOD WATCH IN YOUR AREA UNTIL 2AM.

 "Shit... Shit..." My subsequent rise in blood cortisol made me incapable of uttering anything else. My knight in shining armor was fighting against a dragon of a storm. Single handedly, I might add. I peered out the windows. The roads were wet, but it wasn't quite a river. I checked weather stations, and not only did they grace me with the news that there was also a tornado watch, but pictures of other flooded areas also flowed onto my screen. I thought I had panicked before.

A text message. "This sucks."

Immediately, the worst came to mind. He was stuck somewhere in a ditch, surrounded by water from all sides. It was the veritable incarnation of being up shit creek without a paddle, especially as captain of a vessel unsuited for aquatic explorations. Trembling, I texted back, "Where are you? Are you okay?" 

Time passed by. Sweat poured down my face.

"Took a wrong turn... Couldn't see where I was going."
He was alive. Be he was still out there. And I was stuck in here. More time passed by and I spouted out any prayer that I could remember. It got to a point where I couldn't wait any longer and called him.

"Hey," I said shaking again. "Where are you at? Are you ok?"

 "I'm in your parking lot."
Springing to my feet, and almost running out the door without my keys, I rushed to meet him at the side door. Rain still poured down, but soon my miracle, my angel, appeared, carrying an offering of candy. I hugged him and my tears melted into the rain. I've never been happier to see someone alive before.
"Let's go inside."
After a storm of a day, and a hell of a night, I was finally in the paradise of his arms. I slept better than I had all week and could have stayed nested by his side forever. The sun rose, and as the rays of light entered my room my morning was warmed further with a kiss. Yet, heroes have other duties to attend to, and he had to leave shortly after we awoke. I hugged him tightly before he left, and turned back to my work with new energy. I was going to be ok.
When it was time for me to go to school, I found a damp love note under the windshield wipers of my car and smiled again. Which of us really needed the most help yesterday? I'm still not sure. Regardless, at that moment, I could feel my heart beaming at the beauty and power of contact with another person, especially from the wonderful kind that flooded my stormy night with sunshine. 

Linda Chamberlin

Obstinate sun out there somewhere,

Insisting through cloud coverage 

That it is day again. 

I burn them down.

Every day like a flimsy match.

Oh, I could start something, 

I could really light it up.

But not today. 

Yeah, not today. 

I hold my breath.

A little, all the time, I know I do.

How can I deflate the worry in my chest?

Sugary treats and TV shows,

Online shopping, a good long doze…

They put the blinders on, that’s all:

Indulge the ego, stifle the Self.

I can do better.

I can be better. 

I just need to uncloud my vision,

Shake the syrup from my veins,

And remember who I am.

I lean into the luxury of solitude and silence.

I am queen of my infinite nutshell.

But the me that’s honed by interaction gets

Fuzzy, hazy, murky.

My social graces, weakened from disuse, 

Let loose my human ties.

I come unmoored,

Drift out to sea,

And bump into the wall of my walnut.

Nikil Revuri 

A thin wire stretched, pulled

Taut over a raging sea, 

From shore to distant shore,

The dirt from which we rose,

To the faraway land that we all go.

Tentative steps forward, 

Carefully balancing on that rope,

I begin that journey,

Waves crashing far underneath,

Moon and sun cycling wildly overhead.

With every step taken, I surge,

Pushed ever faster, howling winds

Biting at my heels, forcing me along.

Memories come and go, relinquished

By the inevitable passing of time. 

Around me, other lines draw into

The horizon, each sporting a rider,

Each on their own quests.

Some are near, getting nearer

And some are far, getting farther.

Ahead, they all plunge

Into a wall of mist that I, too,

Must face, to conquer or

Be conquered, within those

Hazy tribulations, uncertain perils.

Sheer force strikes me, crossing the

Misty veil, staggering, making useless

My limbs, they flail and fall.

My body tumbles off the knife-thin edge,

Into the azure-bounded abyss.

On a thread I catch hope

As I descend tumultuously, 

Slowing to a tenuous halt 

Seconds before my demise,

Swaying in obscuring fog and gale.

One hand atop the other,

I will not be broken.

And so I rise, certainty

My ally as I strive to board

That pathway once more.

Hoisting myself up, and out

Of the mist, past those trials.

I am proven, hands shaking

But heart unshaken, stepping

Forward, to the unknown horizon.

My journey must continue

Despite such perils ahead,

Past the fearsome wind

Beyond the anxious waves,

My line will prevail.

Anonymous 

Four lessons from four patients during a month-long inpatient rotation: 

An 86-year-old man is admitted for a CHF exacerbation; on his last echo he has an EF of 10-15%. He has a 180-pack-year smoking history. Rounding on him every day, you get to see how poorly a person with little remaining heart function looks, even with daily clinical improvement. Because of him, the sound of crackles will now be unmistakable to you, and you were able to practice the abdominal exam more than you ever have. He tells the entire team “You’re a good kid” every day, a compliment you find extremely moving. You make a mental note: “Strive for this sort of relationship with every patient you ever take care of”, a goal you are sure you will be very grateful to him for in the future. You treat his episode and he gets discharged, but his cardiologist tells you he probably has 6 months remaining and states, “Why did he not ever develop lung cancer? There must be something about him genetically in regards to smoking which should be studied.”

Lesson one – sometimes patients break the “rules”, and sometimes patients do more for you than you can ever do for them, even as their caregiver. 

An 83 year old man with a recent left MCA stroke gets admitted with a fever and altered mental status. He was found to be micro-aspirating on a swallow evaluation, developing an aspiration pneumonia. His recent stroke has drastically changed his quality of life; he now cannot move his RUE/RLE, has a right sided facial droop, has difficulty swallowing, and can only whisper. During admission he looks sad regarding his new disabilities and his current state. You hear him whisper “Just let me die, just kill me” multiple times, which in turn saddens you in a way you have not yet experienced. You and your intern continually mention how depressed he seems. During a geriatrics lecture at noon conference, you hear that left-sided strokes in the elderly are associated with depression, which immediately makes you think of your patient, and realize this is something that you will now remember forever. 

Lesson two – you can read and study all you want, but NOTHING cements information into your memory better than being able to correlate something you study with something you have seen in real life. 

A woman in her 90’s presents with fever and altered mental status. She is found to have malodorous and severely necrotic leg ulcers. She is nearly deaf, so you literally have to shout at her to communicate. She seems confused and is rambling about many things including how thirsty she is. She keeps fumbling around with the cup of water you bring her. You become quite fond of her high-pitched, crackly “old lady” voice. Her wounds are debrided. You see her on rounds and shout “hello!” and she exclaims “Can you please cut these pancakes, I cannot eat food this big!”.  You proceed to slice away. Cutting her food into smaller pieces becomes a daily routine. One morning you miss her as she went to the O.R. for further debridement. You see her on afternoon rounds with the team and notice she is about to eat her lunch, untouched and unsliced. Bothered, you stay behind as the team leaves, furiously trying to cut away so that they don’t notice your absence when rounding on the next patient, but they catch you. Members of the team praise you but you did not wish to receive any accolades whatsoever; you were doing this simply because you wanted to help – she reminded you of your grandmother. Unstirred, the attending motions, “Okay guys, let’s go, next patient”. The next morning you see her and one of the many things she rambles includes her saying, “This place is not nice at all, all you people seem to do at this hospital is push me around, push push push! I am going to tell everybody about this place!”

Lesson three – no matter how earnestly you may try to help and care for a patient, no matter the lengths you go in attempting to make them feel comfortable, there can be an immeasurable amount of variables, beyond your control, which will make the patient feel completely unsatisfied with their time at the hospital. Be prepared for this, and do not let it deter you from providing as much care as possible. 

A blind woman in her 70s is admitted with delirium secondary to a UTI. She speaks zero English, but is accompanied by her daughter-in-law, who translates. You share the same religion as the patient and her family, and they come from a country in South Asia that neighbors your own ancestral homeland. You become close to them during their stay. Being brown, they think highly of your status as a medical student and naturally come to inquire about your age and marital status. When you answer, the daughter-in-law responds, in what seems a bewildered fashion, saying, “What? Not even a girlfriend? What are you doing?” Unprepared for such a forward, blunt response, you laugh and die inside at the same time. 

Lesson four – I’m in my mid-20s, single, and in loads of debt; I have friends my age with jobs, getting paid, getting married, and having kids…what exactly am I doing with my life, and why must brown aunties always remind me of this question? It is a long, grueling four years, and clinical years will be completely unexplored territory. Take and learn what you can from every patient, every moment, every day.

Candice Mazon

i have been used to falling

falling  

falling.

but this year, i rose.

and everything bloomed. 

love came in drizzles, 

then in waves 

reaching the shore 

then pulling back on itself. 


loving this skin 

has never been free flowing. 

but i tried. 
 

like always, i tried. 

tried to walk on tightrope 

hoping there was a net underneath.

tried to drink starlight 

and ended up light headed. 

tried to laugh with the universe

 and realized i loved its silences. 

this year brought adventures

 in familiar cities, 

in unfamiliar buildings,

 and even within the confines

 of a twin sized bed. 

the better things 

that i’ve been waiting on

came with an embrace. 

they saw my face looking out the window,

with cobwebs in my hair, 

longing in my hands. 

they stumbled in, then told me, 

“thank you for believing 

everything would turn out okay.” 

because it did. 

and more things will come.

some unwelcome visitors, 

but also moments of bliss.

 so i will continue to look at the moon,

 as she tries to hide herself 

night after night.

 and i will continue to be brave,

 and be afraid.

 be reckless, 

and too cautious.

 and i will continue to love

 who i love, 

catch all the hurt

with these birdcage hands,

have faith in the Fates, 


and trust in the strength 


embedded in my DNA

to venture on. 

as always,

as always, 

as always.

Candice Mazon

when love knocked on my door

after years of absence,

i let it in.

the knock came unexpectedly,

in the middle of washing dishes.

i felt the vibrations from the door,

down to the floor,

and up my spine.

i could’ve sworn i locked the gate.

i never thought anyone would want to come in.

i let love sit across the coffee table,

as i fumbled hellos and offered drinks.

“tea?”

it nodded.

“how have you been?” 

i said, with a shaky voice and trembling hands.

it smiled.

i barely recognized it. 

it had darker hair,

a different voice. 

it liked books now

and talked about its sister. 

it laughed more than i remember, 

and looked at me in a different way.

did i seem different too?

“you’re welcome to stay.

as long as you want to.”

it nodded again.

the tea kettle whistled.

i grabbed two cups

and watched the hot water pour down

like a waterfall.

i looked back at love

while it stared out the window

and i wondered 

if visitors ever stayed forever,

if forever was always a limited set of horizons, 

if horizons ever enticed people away

to leave whatever

or whoever

they called home.

Esther Lin

He was a cheerful figure, always.

“Uncle, why do you live there?”

“Why not? Look how convenient it is!” He waved a hand behind him.

She adored him, the creative way he had about him, the way he transformed his strange room into a welcoming and comfortable home. His room flooded with light in the early morning, and to a young girl, it was like a secret hideaway, warm and secure.

“Uncle, where do you sleep?”

“What do you mean? Right here! Look how comfortable it is,” he exclaimed, arms gesturing expansively. In the golden light of the early afternoon, he would show her how to lay down paper and paste, to make the rough wooden floors into colorful, smooth panels. The manic edge to his cheer never frightened her; it wasn’t sharp and it would never cut her. He was always kind.

“But, Uncle, why do you stay here?”

He heard the whispers that followed him as he walked, but let them slide off like rain drops on the waxy leaves of the palm trees. It would not do to let her see. The gentle coddling only made him dizzy, blurry with mania and panic. Reality was a tenuous thing, and back home, curled up in his nest, he tried to untangle threads that were hopelessly knotted. As the sunlight slipped away, so did he.

“Uncle, I heard a noise last night.”

The dark was always a treacherous thing, an amorphous being that could not be trusted. As he thrashed in nightmares, he awoke, gasping, to face new horrors. He reached out for something, anything, to hold, to protect himself with. Phantom chains held him down, cut off his air, wound tightly until he sat up straight, clutching his throat and sucking lungfuls of precious air. But the dark was always treacherous, and momentary peace gave way to blinding panic­­. Where was he? Where were they? As he spiraled deeper into unconsciousness, he heard them­­-him­­-someone scream.

Worn to the bone, he lay in the dark, waiting for them to come for him.

“Uncle, where are you?”

She huddled in her closet, papered and cushioned the way he taught her. As she ran a finger over the tape line­­”Uncle, this means it’s mine! You can’t come in!”­­she let the noise of the house wash over her. Footsteps pounded on the stairs above her head, her grandmother cried, and she pretended that her colorful walls could block out the world.

“Uncle, where are you?”

He ran his hands over the papered walls, the curved edges and hard panels that he had made his. But nothing was his, not when even after the sun came and filled the room, bleached it with warmth, even then, the dark would return. They would return.

So he turned, readied himself. Laid down in his shallow nest, where it didn’t matter if he didn’t feel safe. Picked up what he held close to his chest in the dark, readied himself.

And stepped out into the morning light.

“Uncle, where did you go?”

Later, she learned.

Rohit Mukherjee

Kensington & Cambria, 4:10 PM

I saw the man from Clinic:

His thick matted black hair,

Deep wound on his forehead

Bleeding a lazy, red stream.

His body was falling asleep.

His eyes were drifting,

Sheathed by confused lids

Opening and closing

Cyclically,

Slowly.

The Clinic, 3:30 PM

“Baby, we gon’ give you narcan.

Just know, you get it if you fall asleep”

Yellow jacket, bleach blond hair,

She was sunshine and concern.

He stared indifferently,

Slumped in a chair.

Commotion buzzing around him,

His puff jacket was a defense

Covering all but his eyes.

He wanted to hide.

And then he disappeared.

Sunshine ran around whimpering,

Angst filling her face

Staring at an empty lawn chair.

Kensington & Hart, 4:08 PM

I thought he was dancing.

There was reggaeton booming.

His torso collapsed to the beat.

To his left:

Gleaming white washing machines.

To his right:

A Technicolor empanada.

The sidewalk was a stage.

No.

Legs failing him,

His slender frame fell

Slowly, gracefully

A piece of paper,

Drifting from air to concrete.

Eyes widening,

He hoisted himself up,

And walked south.

Kensington & Somerset, 4:20 PM

My watch said we walked for 15 minutes.

Fear amplified every second.

Every breath he took was a gift,

A way for my panic to ease.

Every time he closed his eyes,

I felt him drifting away.

He spoke the entire time.

What words did he say?

Nothing made sense.

Maybe it was heroin

Cooking up word salad.

Maybe it was panic,

Filling my ears.

Irony is a dark putrid wax:

My head, so full of science

My heart, beating furiously

Eyes waiting for chest rises,

All so utterly powerless. 

Rohit Mukherjee

Running through double doors, 

Skipping into the halls

Little Boy pranced to school 

He was a wombat:

Eyes and head too big for his body,

Stubby legs scampering about,

Skittish and wild with energy,

Running through fields of paper flowers,

Gleeful energy overtaking his being.

The classroom was his heathland.

There was no stillness in his body.

“Sit down little black boy.”

Guilt flooded his eyes.

Overtaking that large head,

A head still enamored by color.

The classroom had life.

A tree needed to be climbed.

His friend was a kangaroo,

Afraid to hop, desperate for help.

Wombat jumped with gusto.

“Jump with me! Jump! Jump!”

There was no stillness in his body

“Sit down little black boy!”

Confusion grew in the wombat.

Falling into his chair with a huff,

Eyes meandering through the room,

Seeing zebras and lions dancing 

Heads peeking through neon letters, 

Darting away from the window.

His eyes feared the outside.

Grey, gloomy, and decrepit

“Eyes still!” hissed teacher. 

Stomping to his chair with rage,

She slapped the desk with a thud.

That slap thundered through the room.

There was no stillness in his body.

Hair, hands, legs shivering. 

Eyes too big for his head wide,

Encased by tears and trepidation. 

“I saw my baby brother get shot.”

Charlie Fencil

I noticed the cut to his lip. It started at his jaw and ran like a small red river across the corner of his mouth.  He cradled his left hand like it was a small animal. One he was trying to keep safe and warm. I asked him what had happened and the story began to unfold. 

He had been at home with his little brother, a friend, mom, and stepfather. It started when his stepfather threatened his little brother.  An argument began, words were exchanged, and after a little while my patient retreated to his room.  He told his friend it was time to go.  When he was about to leave his stepfather stepped into the room and threw him to the ground.  He got on top of him and started to punch.  His closed fist struck my patient in the face again and again.  His friend tried to pull him off, but he couldn’t.  After a period of time my patient escaped and made his way for the door with his little brother.  With the door almost open, the stepfather ran up and slammed it shut.  My patient’s hand, like a misthrown ball through a neighbor’s window, broke through the glass of the door.  His story stopped here.  He did not tell me how he got to the emergency room.  He didn’t want to talk to anymore.  He just wanted his hand checked out.  I could see the fear in his eyes, and I didn’t want to push the issue.  I check out his hand and his mouth the best I could.  After I was done I thanked him, and went to give my report to the doctor.  

I barely remember being sixteen.  The only things that remain are vague memories of freedoms building and of racing around the world for the first time.  The warm home I went to at night and the family that made sure I ate before I went to bed.  I could not put myself in my patient’s situation.  I could not fathom the fear, the loneliness, and the pain of sitting alone in a hospital room with fresh scars from your family. I knew we had to call child services, but that did not address the underlying problems that my patient faces every day.  It is a small Band-Aid to put in place to help hold together the fibers of his life until he reaches eighteen. I am not even sure child services can help him to escape from the repeated assaults on his body. In that moment I felt the power of the short white coat draped over my shoulders disappear. 

I do not yet know the limit to our ability to help others.  I cannot put into place my future role as a physician or a healer.  Where does medicine stop and the world outside take over? An experience like this shatters my faith in the power of a white coat, but also inspires me to explore its boundaries. The ability to heal extends far outside of the ability to cast a broken hand or clean a cut to the mouth.  It extends into the personhood of those in our care. I am learning that to find the boundaries of medicine one has to struggle with the paradox of both letting go and jumping in headfirst. We have to be content to heal what is in front of us and rely on others to help in aspects that we cannot. However, we must also be bold enough to jump headfirst into a problem that is outside of our medications and procedures. We must learn to navigate the rough waters of poverty, abuse, and addiction that afflict many of our patients’ lives. 

Anonymous

Too many empty "see you tomorrow"s 

I thought I had missed the sunset and sunrise

 Too many unfilled rain checks

 I thought I forgot my umbrella

 Too many empty smiles

 I really thought the mask was real

 Too many nights spent wandering and wondering

 I thought your mind might have run past me for a second

 I turned to look. I realized it wasn't you. You were never there.

 The sun rises.

 I see tomorrow. The rain falls around my umbrella.

Nikil Revuri

Land of Light and Dark,
Of white hallways and
Frantic alarms, frenzy
Brought to life amid

Prodding tubes, pricking
Needles, and wailing
Ill, there lies shadow.

In that shadow, we
Stand in that abyss
Between saccharine
Light and bitter Dark,
Holding apart arms,
Interlaced fingers,
Barrier to fall.

When they fall, children
Up high, Dark tendrils
Claim their spark of fire,
As disease takes hold,
Invading body
And soul, we must stand,
Guarding life and Light.

Breathe life with outstretched
Arms while sirens blare,
Says that shadow creed,
Invoking our strength,
Pursuing duty,
Between drapes, amongst
Faltering heartbeats.

Metronome, we seek
That monotone beat,
Steady and assured.
Yet, some slip, cadence
Turns to a flatline
As tendrils drag under
Another being.

Beings of sorrow,
We learn to let go,
Lest our shadow fades
Casting us to Dark,
Dragging us under,
Rending asunder,
Tantamount to death.

From death comes promise,
For some want not pain,
Nor misery, lest
Pricking needles sting
Once more, seeking cure
At cost of pleasure,
Those we relinquish.

Relinquish our hold
On this shadow plane,
Saying our farewells
As dark wisps abduct,
Shunning caring hands,
Dying nobly.

Michelle White

Three uniformed EMTs surround the bed moving in from the ambulance unloading bay. I can’t see the patient’s face, only pink zebra-striped pajama bottoms and a naked chest that undulates with each compression. I follow the bed into Exam Room 9 and pull the curtain shut. 

Nurses swarm the cluttered trauma room. Ida hooks the patient up to the monitor, and Kristy sticks EKG stickers onto the ribcage and connects the leads. Dawn is poised with a clipboard at the foot of the bed, watching the monitor to record vitals.

The curtain swooshes, and Dr. Lultschik walks in. He stands on the side of the patient’s bed and presses his finger onto the woman’s thigh, feeling for a femoral pulse. All motion ceases and Dr. Lultschik gazes at the white wall. Then he pivots from the bed as quickly as he approached. Turning to the nurse performing CPR he says, “Come with me. Let Michelle take over compressions.”

I walk over to the bedside and lace my fingers together, one hand on top of the other. I begin pumping on the patient’s chest, watching so that the numbers on the heart monitor stay at around 100 bpm. Ah, ah, ah, ah, stayin’ alive, stayin’ alive. It is the song I learned in CPR certification that summer to keep rhythm. The steady swooshing of the EMT’s bag pumping grounds me. With each pump the woman’s chest rises like an inflating balloon.

I hesitate to take my focus off of the monitor, but look down at the patient anyway. My hand is thrusting downward in the middle of the woman’s fleshy wrinkled chest. My eyes wander up to her neck to where an endotracheal tube protrudes from her mouth. Her open eyes bulge, bloodshot veins flowing atop snowy white sclera into blue irises. Her dyed brown curly hair rests against the pillow, a butterfly clip sweeping her bangs off of her face. She looks to be in her mid-sixties. I overheard the EMTs telling the nurses on the way in that she collapsed at Conneaut Lake Park with her grandson there.

The patient with the pink zebra-striped pajamas is dead. Dr. Lultschik will come back in soon to call time of death, and I will have performed CPR for the first time; yet all I can think about is how cold death feels under the heel of my hands.






Parsa Salehi 

Thank God…it’s done… it’s finally over now.

I can breathe on my own, I see the light.

I’m walking? Oh thank you Lord! I missed walking.

I’m breathing? Deep breaths. Air never tasted so good.

Here I come, open the gates! “Mom, your boy is coming home!”

Doo-mm, crack, beep, beep, crack. “Still no pulse.”

Wait what? Stop! NO! Ouch, ah, oww. 

Please stop.

What’s happening? The light…it’s gone?

What did I do to deserve this? 

Please stop…

Doo-mm, crack, beep, doo-doom. “Where the hell is the crash cart?”

Who said that? Why are they shouting?

Oh no…this can’t be…I’m still in the hospital 

They are trying to save me…

But what is left to save, for a man with my condition?

The sinking of the Titanic, a most accurate rendition.

I wanted to die. My family disagreed. A disparate partition. 

Out of love, I succumbed to their wishes.

Now I suffer as their request comes to fruition.

Doo-doom, crack, beep. “Someone find cardiology.”

My body is numb, my chest bones are shattered.

My organs fill with blood, what a disturbing disaster.

My soul ripped from heaven, the sadness inundates my consciousness.

Meanwhile, I hear doctors yelling about my “lack of responsiveness.”

They bark orders at each other, in a foreign terminology. 

Doo-doom, crack, beep, dah-doom. “Nothing else we can do.”

For a moment, I can see again—chaos in the room.

It’s obvious from their expressions. It will be over soon.

These are my last moments. I race to find a familiar face.

Then, in the corner, I see a boy—wishing he was anywhere but this place.

His face wears his emotions, but nobody seems to notice.

In my final moments, why is he my focus?

D-Doom, crack, beep, dah-doom. “He’ll be dead soon.”

 I remember my family and friends. Send my final prayers.

God forgive me for my shortcomings, my failures.

Please show me the light again. Open the gates!

“Mom, I’m still coming home—this time, I won’t be late.”

As my eyelids close, I fixate on the boy in the corner.

Blackness. A tear leaves my right eye. Call in the coroner.

…

My first day of third year, the start of rotations.

I couldn’t wait to get started, exciting situations. 

I spent my life in pursuit of this moment. Time to save lives! 

I craved all the experiences. Ready to take the dive.

“Code Blue. Cath lab,” the intercom blared. 

I knew what this meant. But did I dare?

I stood in shock. Was this a drill?

My attending turned and said, “Go now!”—not a second to kill.

I took off in full sprint, not ready for the scene.

When I arrived to a sight I could never unsee.

Doo-mm, crack, beep, beep, crack. “Still no pulse.”

A sea of doctors running around.

In the center, a lifeless man on the gurney, lying down.

Doo-mm, crack, beep, doo-doom. “Where the hell is the crash cart?”

A doctor mounted the man and continually smashed his chest.

Manually beating one’s heart can’t be easy, but he was doing his best.

People shot the man on the gurney with needles like darts.

Why were they doing this to him? Was it all worth it?

Did he even want this himself? Who decided this?

I was shocked by reality. In the movies it was so glamorous.

All they do is tap on the chest and gently blow in the mouth.

Then the person wakes up, everyone smiles, no frowns. 

Doo-doom, crack, beep. “Someone find cardiology.”

The sounds of bones breaking filled the room.

I could see his torso changing colors—red, black, and blue.

His chest filled with blood, a disturbing reality.

I fade into the corner, as doctors yell about his “lack of responsiveness.”

Someone reveals he has ALS—what a dreadful twist.

Doo-doom, crack, beep, dah-doom. “Nothing else we can do.”

I’m having an existential crisis. Do I really want to be a doctor?

Is he looking at me…? I must really be losing it.

I send a prayer for him and his family.

D-Doom, crack, beep, dah-doom. “He’ll be dead soon.”

Would my death be this tragic? 

Do Not Resuscitate. There’s no such thing as magic.

As his eyelids close, I fixate on the man’s face from my corner.

Sorrow. A tear leaves my right eye. Call in the coroner.

Parsa Salehi

“I won’t let anything break my spirits. Nothin. With God on my side imma keep on breathin” 

-J.C. aka Patient 12

Early on in my internal medicine rotation, I was assigned a patient admitted for constipation. I remember our first encounter with clarity. His eyes, his position in the bed, the stutter in his speech, his 5/5 strength, his complaints, his beliefs—the list goes on. Although there was no way of knowing Patient 12’s fate at the time, I had a feeling dwelling in the deepest corner of my brain that something was off—that somehow the experiences shared with this patient would be different than my interactions with other patients. 

Even after a physical exam and history consistent with the attending’s diagnosis of bowel obstruction, something still felt off. J.C. told me that this was just a small obstacle and that he would recover without a problem. He told me about suffering a broken leg years ago in a work accident, and how God gave him the strength to rehabilitate and walk again. I shared with him the story of my recent broken clavicle and how God also helped me recover from the injury. We bonded. He described his sheer will to live and determination to get through this. I assured him we would do everything to help him, and he thanked me. However, something in his eyes told me he doubted some of his own words. 

The next day I did a mini-mental exam on him. Person, check. Place, check. Time, check. He even told me the name of the president, Barack Obama…who he proceeded to tell me he knew personally. Obama would send him a personal card every Christmas—sounded plausible, but improbable. He then told me Michelle and the Obama kids visit his house often—sounded like delirium. I could sense the foundation of J.C.’s determination was cracking. His voice trembled as he assured me he would get through this. I noticed he would avoid picking up the calls of his family, who I had never met. When he would pick up, I could hear them pleading on the other end for more information about his prognosis.  Silent tears escaped from his eyes as he put the phone down, without hanging up. Again he reiterated his determination, his own strength, and faith in God.  I saw something different in his eyes that day—fear. He was scared, questioning his own faith, making empty promises—was he in an existential crisis?

What didn’t make sense to me was why a simple bowel obstruction was stripping a previously strong-willed man of his hope. This was not just delirium. Patient 12 realized the end was near before anyone else in the hospital did. Before the attendings. Before the medical student. Before the nurses. Before the physical therapists. At the time I didn’t truly understand J.C.'s words and behavior. Most of all I did not understand the look in his eyes. In retrospect, I now understand that look. The look in Patient 12’s eyes was the look of a man who knew he was being dragged down by death, but was unprepared to make the journey to the next life—a man pleading for someone to grab his hand and pull him to safety.

That same day imaging showed a mass in J.C’s colon. Colorectal cancer was responsible for his obstruction. He needed surgery. Frankly, I don’t think he understood what was going on when he went under the knife.  When he woke up from the anesthesia he was a different person. He was combative. He continually accused the hospital staff of trying to hurt him. Oddly enough, the only person he trusted was me.  The day after his surgery he was making a gurgling noise in the back of his throat; he fought off the respiratory therapist trying to suction the fluid. He made the attending physician bleed during cardiac auscultation. He died later that night, after I had already gone home.  

I still don’t fully understand why this experience has been so meaningful for me. I have experienced death before. I have seen more traumatic things in the hospital (full code ALS patient, gunshot wound to the head, overdoses, etc.), which should have made Patient 12’s death look relatively benign. What I think impacted me the most was seeing a patient make the transition from life to death so quickly. Moreover, the fact that the patient did not want to die and was not expecting death really affected me. To see a patient go from a relatively common ailment (bowel obstruction), to cancer, to surgery, to death all in a short interval did not afford me—or the patient—enough time to ruminate on the situation and accept death.  The look in his eyes and his silent calls for help are etched permanently into my hippocampus. 

Perhaps part of it was highlighting for me that death can happen at any time, and that we are not always prepared for it—shattering my previously held conception of death. It’s difficult articulating what I saw in J.C.’s eyes and how it made me feel. All I know is that Patient’s 12’s death reaffirmed something I’ve always known: everyday is a gift, one ought to enjoy life as much as possible, and one should never take health for granted.

Jared Weiss

Behold life, in all its glory,

life so full of wonderful riches,

of love and laughter,

of happiness and peace,

all seamlessly swept under the rug,

trampled upon by the masses,

masses with agendas,

with checklists full of boxes,

the boxes of life,

all of the things that

need to be accomplished,

all of the burdens that

need to be unloaded,

in a world where they come

twice as fast as they go,

ostensibly all this in pursuit

of the good life we all strive for,

only it so often feels more like

striving and less like living,

caught up in a sticky web

of tasks and choices affecting

the people of our lives,

who we sometimes like

and we sometimes hate,

who we sometimes hold close

and we sometimes push away,

not to mention ourselves,

so obsessed with liberty

and the pursuit of happiness

that we forgot about life;

we were too busy pursuing,

and those forefathers of old

never guaranteed success in that pursuit

because even then, they knew it was only

an ideal for most, something that

happened to other people, but not us.

Still we hope that maybe

we can become one of the

lucky few, the lucky ones that

by some miracle manage to

figure out the whole blasted thing,

only we do it the same ways

we always have, going about the

same lives we have always led,

somehow expecting that

if we just give it time, it will pay off;

a world full of gamblers playing

the lifelong slot machines.

Anya Golkowski

It is February, and I am volunteering at the Boys and Girls Club in North Philadelphia for nearly five months. Across the room, a Connect Four game starts to get more and more heated, as accusations of cheating and lower than average intelligence start to fly. Finally, as expected, James has an outburst of anger, yelling vehemently that there was no way he would have lost if the game were played fairly. Wrapped in his accusation of injustice comes a slew of insults. Ms. Jade has to yell over James to quiet him down, threatening to kick him out if he does not calm down. This tips James over the edge. Another injustice. He starts grunting and kicking the walls. I finally go up to him and ask if he wants to talk.  He shrugs and looks back at me, a little hopeful. Sitting across from him, I ask him the first thing that comes to my mind, “Where is all this anger coming from?” What I get is a mumbled, “I don’t know.” I nod awkwardly. 

Let me stop and preface that I am not skilled in talking to nine year olds. I never had younger siblings, and my experience working with children has always been limited to adolescents. So when I asked James to talk, I had no idea how to diffuse the situation that I had come to learn was far bigger than being chastised by a teacher.  

I met James on my first day of CEE, and quickly took a liking to the quick-witted and enthusiastic boy. As I spent more time with him, I learned more about his personality, and noticed traits that made him stand out from the other kids. He is quick to see relationships whenever we do science experiments, and he loves math. He also knows a little too well how to insult his peers with jokes of false paternity, abandonment, and domestic abuse. Over the year, he has become adept at throwing tantrums when adults ask him to let up on his friends. 

I know some of James’ story. James lives in government funded project houses in North Philadelphia. His mom is rarely home, and he frequently rides his bike around in circles because he is locked out. He doesn’t have a father, and he remembers when his older brother got locked up. He always knows who is fighting, where and at what time. He has been suspended from school more than four times this year. I can think of at least five serious reasons why James might feel angry everyday. 

Yet James doesn’t seem to know what is wrong with him. He is not able to go up to his teachers and tell them that he feels rejected. He does not know how to tell his friends that he misses his brother. All he knows is how to kick walls and yell louder than his peers. So he is labeled as a misfit, as a child with “anger issues,” and is frequently put in time out. 

In my naivety, I thought James would connect all the dots as he sporadically told me his story throughout the year. I was hoping he would say something like, “I’m tired of waking up and fighting this world just to survive. I want someone to help me.” Or think something like that. But instead I got a frustrated, “I don’t know.” 

Our society seems to have a problem with angry youth like James whom we can’t control. We fear the gangs they create, get annoyed at the graffiti they draw, and feel frustrated at their lack of engagement in school. So to try and fix these situations, we create well meaning after school and youth outreach programs, expecting children to come to them seeking help and guidance. But how many well-educated, privileged medical students or even doctors seek help when they need it? How many Wall Street brokers seek counselling for their addictions? Yet we expect children who are not even able to emotionally comprehend their situations to open up and asked to be saved.  

Despite obvious evidence to the contrary, in my fairy tale version of reality, all who wanted to be saved – and deserved it - got what they asked for. Helped by white knights, friendly animals or pure magic, they somehow always found their magical path to happily ever after. In real life, kids are left wandering not even knowing they are lost.

Jared Weiss

Where did you go?

This, I know how this feels now

To feel the descent of the clouds

From unforeseen skies,

Down over me, through my head,

the great exhaustion, the great

unease, emptiness, seemingly

random, always disruptive,

eternally incomplete,

permanent fog,

this is me, me

with my eyes closed

let the fingers do the talking

let the words be disjointed

as the mind that births them

one of its many ugly processes

and extraordinary wonders

I know where you went

I know how easy it is to

get lost in the storm, to lose

your vision, to lose your direction

to get stuck inside your own

misconceived notions of reality

and your role within its

fantastic coincidences

paving endless roads

all covered in rain

all covered in hail

from the storm of the clouds

from unforeseen skies

I have been where you vanished

I have been to the point where

the pavement ahead and behind

crumbles and you realize that

any way is forward and any way

is meaningless and all of the puddles

that form from the rain of the storm

of the clouds from unforeseen skies

are just like the ones before them and

I know how easy it is to get lost

and I only wish that if we are lost

that maybe we could find the way

back out of the fog around

ourselves together

Jason Roley 

What do you say,

When the words just drone on and on,

Like the lyrics of that pop song,

Or an overworked mom on a tirade?

You’re struggling to wade through,

The ashy shade that's accrued.

What do you say,

When all you see is crimson?

Two hearts, once connected,

Now dissected, infected with a fiery blaze.

You’re suffocating from the smoldering clouds

That faze and induce a heavy malaise,

As you lie there and bleed pools of sadness,

Your madness spilling messily on the kitchen floor.

What do you say,

When there’s nothing left to say—

Nothing at all?

When the talk, which was gay, is now a bay,

Of lifeless wood, a broken sled,

Devolving and falling,

Stalling and stonewalling.

What do you say,

When you’ve surrendered,

But trying to mend things only hurts?

The only move left is down—

Down a slippery slope into darkness.

You’re drowning,

The current shifting and twisting,

There’s no way back.

You don’t even know if you’re running—

Running on the same track.

What do you say,

When in the end,

What you intended,

Cut deeper and meaner,

Than any surgeon’s quintuple bypass,

And the wounds are slow to heal,

Like an undigested meal,

The acid corroding the steel,

Your heart no longer able to feel.

This struggle is the ultimate crumble.

What do you say,

When the gas that’s entrapped,

Explodes like napalm,

Cracking and splitting,

Like lips without lip balm.

Your soul is now a walking corpse,

High on embalming fluid.

The rest is sealed, the anger congealed,

The dream, a distant memory no longer seen.

Two steaming glaciers now familiar strangers.

What do you say?

What can you say?

Why say anything more.

Brian Park 

No face. Sometimes I try to outrun the shadows to see a face.

No name. Not even a number on the mailbox.

Friends come over. Footsteps. Laughter. But no warmth in my heart.
The water rushes down the toilet. I can barely remember anticipating the ice-cold seat.

The TV blares voices and tunes through my ears, filling up my head. These sounds press against my temples. I want to make it stop. But I can’t.

I can’t recognize the music. It is foreign. It quickly becomes an annoying chatter.

Occasionally, I’m awake at 4:30am for the morning workout. The floorboards rumble like a creak. It’s too dark to see anything. I don’t perspire. I feel tired for the rest of the day.

The microwave door slams. DING. I run over. No smell. No salivation. Poor Pavlov.

Mattress creaking. Bodies moving. Two low-pitched moans ringing in my ear. No eye contact. No bareness. Climax. No euphoria. No connection.

I think about how I want to confront him. I plan, then run to the mirror to practice. But I only see myself.

Luke Gatta

After work, he sits alone in a pew

on the third floor of a library

with the smell of old books

that sit for years.

Until a curious hand picks one up

and stumbles upon that paragraph he was looking for

only to realize that it doesn't answer the question

that brought him there in the first place

but gives him a new theory, or twenty, 

which at first exhaust him 

because he now has much more to do

but also a purpose.

Anya Golkowski 

Only a fool would think Science is a man.
Science is a woman dressed in black with red luscious lips.
She is careful and cunning and skilled
at stringing her victims along in a lifelong search for meaning.
Science flirts with depth and illusions.
Science is a tease in the worst ways.
She’ll draw you in with a hint
of how the world works. And then,
run laughing,
as you despair in the tangles of details you lost yourself in.

Maybe she’ll call you in with the promise of greatness,
but pity the fool who ever attempts to hold on to her for very long.
No, Science was never a man, shackled to his textbook.
Science is a seductive goddess
with a trail of spited, yet devoted lovers.  

Yoon Sung

Make my way through the masquerade,

in awe of the allure

around. Resplendent chandeliers

drape down, longing to lure

in the crowd. Men of opulence

glide by, with leather shoes

freshly polished. Ethereal

gowns on the ladies, whose

scents imbue the euphoric air.

Clocks chime—I should be gone.

Just one more hour, that I swear.

The gowned night traipses on.

Ebullient beings whirl and twirl,

inebriates of lust.

Gold and silver trimmed with feathers,

to mask the carnal thirst.

I gape into the cheval glass,

appalled at what awaits:

silver and gold, a splay of feathers—

clinging to my own face.

Anonymous

Friendships are life's clothes

Temporary, fleeting, a lot of them are

The shirt that summer sweat through

The shoes that winter snowed in

The pants that seemingly ripped months ago

Eventually, all of these run their course

Used till their purpose no longer served

Friendships are life's clothes

Enduring, lasting, only a few are

The shirt from your middle school basketball team

The shoes that took you to her place every weekend

The pants that just seem to always fit

They stick around, regardless the peaks and valleys

There, unconditionally, as wanted and as needed

Friendships are life's clothes

Picking the right ones is tough

Realizing which fit is even tougher

But the ones that tough it out

Those are the quality

Because like good clothes,

Good friends keep you warm, make you feel comfortable, and stick around

Yoon Sung

One of my fondest memories from working in the kitchen is the Family Meal I had with the other cooks and staff each day around 3:30pm, before the dinner service madness began. As a farm-to-table restaurant, we regarded freshness of local ingredients as one of our highest priorities. Therefore, whenever we had produce or ingredients that were no longer of guest-worthy quality, we would use them to come up with dishes to feed our staff. For one of our events, the other members of the pastry team and I made churros, rolled in cinnamon sugar, served with a warm chocolate sauce. Since we had some dough left over, I decided to fry it off for Family Meal the next day. Generally, churros are long and straight, around 4” in length, but I had some fun experimenting, making shapes and seeing how long I could make them. When Family Meal came around, the dining room was bustling with excitement, and everyone loved these light, crunchy treats, fresh out of the fryer. I had a lot of batter to go through, so I ended up skipping my meal and staying at the fryer, but it was so worth it, seeing how excited everyone was. Ever since then, churros have become one of my favorite desserts. 

Churros are made from choux pastry, the same light dough that is used to make éclairs, beignets, and cream puffs. Choux traditionally consists of only butter, water, flour, and eggs. Instead of a raising agent, the dough utilizes its high moisture content to create steam and puff up the pastry while cooking. When done correctly, churros should be golden and crispy on the outside but light and moist on the inside. 

Recently, I was lying in bed and thinking of what flavors and dishes would go well with matcha (green tea powder), one of my favorite ingredients. I’ve had matcha cakes, cookies, lattes, donuts, ice cream, but realized that I’ve never had or heard of a matcha churro. I figured the matcha would lend a beautiful deep green color, and that its bright but earthy flavor would balance nicely with powdered sugar and a warm chocolate sauce. The next day, I did some experimenting, and was very happy with the result. 

I had four of these while standing over the fryer. I hope you’ll enjoy them too!

Ingredients: 

Churros 

-6T unsalted butter 

-2 ¼ cups water 

-1t vanilla extract 

-1t salt 

-2T matcha powder 

-2 ¼ cups all-purpose flour 

-1 egg 

-Oil, for frying 

Chocolate sauce 

-3 ½ oz dark chocolate chips 

-1/2 cup heavy cream 

-Pinch of salt

Directions: 

1. Place flour in a bowl. Sift the matcha powder into the bowl and stir. 

2. Place butter, water, vanilla, and salt in a saucepan, and bring to a boil over medium-high heat. 

3. Remove from heat, and add flour mixture to the pot. Stir vigorously with a wooden spoon until a smooth dough forms, about 1-2 minutes (It’s quite an arm workout, but keep stirring!).

4. Transfer dough to a bowl, and add an egg. Stir vigorously again until the egg is well incorporated, and the dough is smooth, about 2 more minutes. 

5. Transfer dough to a piping bag with a star tip (3/8”). 

6. Heat oil in a deep skillet over medium-high heat until 400°. 

7. Pipe dough into the oil in batches, and fry until golden brown, about 2 minutes. Turn frequently, and keep the oil between 375-400°. 

8. Transfer to a plate lined with paper towels, and dust with powdered sugar. 

9. Make the chocolate sauce: Place the chocolate chips in a bowl. Put the heavy cream and salt in a saucepan and warm over medium-high heat. Just before the cream comes to boil, remove saucepan from heat and pour over chocolate chips. Let it sit for 1 minute. Stir until a thick chocolate sauce forms. 

10. Enjoy immediately!