ars literarium Volume 2 | Spring 2017
the literary journal of Rutgers New Jersey Medical School and Schools for Biomedical and Health Sciences
Cover by Stephanie Ruthberg
In acknowledgment of The Healthcare Foundation Center for Humanism and Medicine at New Jersey Medical School Dorian J. Wilson, MD, Director Tanya Norment, Program Administrator Faculty Advisors Beth A. Pletcher, MD, Associate Professor of Pediatrics & Genetics, New Jersey Medical School Andrew Berman, MD, Professor of Medicine, New Jersey Medical School Co-Editors-In-Chief Emily Moore, MS-1 Shanen Mulles, MS-1 Editors Kristyn Lao, MS-1 Sri Puli, MS-1 Katie Whitehill, MS-1 Cover Art Stephanie Ruthberg, MS-1 Creative Design Shanen Mulles, MS-1
Published June 2017
For information, inquiries, and submissions, please email us at Ars.literarium@gmail.com
Ars Literarium Volume II Ars Literarium is published annually by The Healthcare Foundation Center for Humanism and Medicine at New Jersey Medical School
Rutgers, The State University of New Jersey
Welcome to the second volume of Ars Literarium.
from the editors
Late last year, we invited members of the Rutgers healthcare community in Newark to share creative works that fit the theme of the medical narrative. We interpreted the concept of narrative medicine to mean the written or artistic reflection of experiences providing patient care or preparing to do so in the future. Narrative medicine allows those who spend endless hours in the hospital, clinic, or classroom managing constant stress and enormous responsibility to find peace through creative outlets. Transforming memories or emotions from an intense day spent with patients (or a day of unending studying) into words or visual art allows for a stronger, healthier connection to the self and a deeper appreciation of patients’ perspectives. Our invitation unearthed the remarkable artistic and literary abilities of our diverse healthcare community, which includes doctors, nurses, dentists, other healthcare professionals, faculty members, and students. We are incredibly proud to share this collection of short stories, poems, photographs, sketches, and paintings - reflections of our shared humanity. They have inspired us to incorporate more introspection and awareness into our lives, and we hope that they will do the same for you, our readers.
Table of Contents A Patient’s Gift 8 The Voiceless Patient 9 Little Boy, Little Girl 10 Fishermen in the Sunset 11 Gap Year 12 Come With Me, Come With Me 13 On Call 14 Truce About Insomnia 16 Long Night’s Journey Into Day 17 Mitochondria 18 The Right Shoulder 20 The Gangs of Newark 21 Craniotomy 21 The Meaning of Futility 21 You’re So Lucky: Hormonal and Hypnotic Moments 22 A Student and His Fortress of Books 24 Studying 25 Technology Age(ing) 26 The Journey 28 Be Like a Tooth, My Friend 29 Excerpt from The Circles of Life 30 Choice From No Options 31 Every Final Stroke 32 Desde Mi Ventana 34 Blue Stitches 35 Chicago: 23 y/o G1P0010 36 Follow the Way 37
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a patient’s gift No free lunch, they say. Not even so much as a pen. What about lip gloss? A patient came to me with an ear infection. Nothing a few drops of antibiotics and A match to set her Q-tips on fire couldn’t fix. She laughed. “Take this,” she said to me. “My daughter works for Mary Kay. I have so many.” The gloss is red. Maybe it’s orange. Maybe it’s both. It sits by the bathroom sink like a piece of accent furniture. I never wear it. A glance in the morning when I’m getting ready for work. Or at night when I’m washing my face. Gives me peace. No free lunch, they say. Not even so much as a pen. What about prayer? A patient came to me with fatigue. A little coronary artery blockage. Nothing a balloon catheter with stent placement and lifelong aspirin couldn’t fix. She sighed. “Can I pray for you?” Her daughter asked me. Shocked, I muttered yes. I wasn’t sick or in the hospital. Did I need prayer? I stood stiffly as she took both my hands and closed her eyes. She thanked me for taking care of her mom. Asked me to continue helping patients. Continue searching for the truth. Then she prayed for my wings. When she opened her eyes she told me I had everything I needed. And it gave me peace.
Brittany Gladney, MD Internal Medicine, PGY-2 New Jersey Medical School
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the voiceless patient Who will speak for the patient who has no voice? To be locked inside without a choice. I have no strength to make a scene, Won’t you fit me in – in between. I am here too, why can’t you see? Very tired and sick, don’t you agree? Lying here, inside I shout, Afraid and alone, without a doubt. Your time is precious, I know, Can’t you see me, I’m so low. Please acknowledge, that I exist, Not a stranger, lost in the mist. My greatest wish, you could read my mind, My room, bed and body - not hard to find. I need your care, compassion and your touch, It would work wonders, so very much. Is that a nurse, just standing there? I’m a person, who needs your care, You must have seen the tears in my eyes, Or is it your ability, to empathize? How did you know, I have no voice? No power to wield – no way to rejoice. I whisper softly, with no rhyme or verse, I’m so very glad, that you are my nurse
Jeff Heend, RN Staff Nurse Rutgers University Correctional Health Care
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Little Boy, Little Girl Little girl, little boy where are you going? Taken away by our time’s plague? Little boy, little girl, why are you so small? Wasting away from an OI? Little girl, little boy, where are your folks? Called away by the same bug that’s givin’ you wings? Little one, little ones are you so poor and alone? What’s happened to the Shepherd’s embrace? Tender and small, afraid and alone, When did your family leave you so alone? Little girl, little boy, why did you have to die? No medicine to treat the new plague in your home? Little boy, little girl are you so small that no one truly cares? Are you so poor that your name is not on anyone’s list? Little girl, little boy have you only survived, To be somebody’s toy To be somebody’s tool, To stay lost and alone Without a safe home? Now is the time for all children to be cherished and saved And to be on somebody’s list! *Remembrances of the HIV plague that struck our community in the 1980s. OI refers to an opportunistic infection
James M. Oleske, MD Department of Pediatrics New Jersey Medical School 10
Spring 2017
Fishermen in the Sunset
Lolade Olayinka, MS Class of 2017 Graduate School of Biomedical Sciences 11
Gap Year
Emily Moore Class of 2020 New Jersey Medical School 12
Spring 2017
Come with me, come with me We’ll travel to infinity
Come With Me, Come With Me
She sits arms crossed, brow furrowed She is imprisoned here The lithium insulates her mind like cotton Pink and fluffy, it itches and chafes Light and sound reach her filtered She craves the sparking energy she felt before
against
her will
She once smoked Camel Exotic Blends Held a cigarette expertly between two fingers like Marilyn Monroe to blow Defiant smoke into incredulous faces She drove too fast across Lake Pontchartrain singing Annie Lennox Shouted “Walking on Broken Glass” into drive-thru speakers She once felt a burning desire to create And she would churn out prose that twisted and curled like smoke The words danced across her illuminated face at night They spoke to her like they did to no one else They performed tumbling acts and tricks in the dark She started not to trust voices on the phone Association began to loosen and crumple Punctuation. Got. In. The. Way. She wanted truth She wanted to hear people’s truth Words got in the way She used to wonder why so few people enjoyed Gravity’s Rainbow Now she knows it is because she is special She is chosen. Not everyone can balance the tight wire act between doom and freedom They are too afraid to fall It was her destiny to fall, like Eve She sits arms crossed, brow furrowed Surrounded by people, asleep! Asleep to life’s true meaning A clarion call from outside the pink fiberglass Come with me, come with me We’ll travel to infinity
Natalie Smith, MD Class of 2017 New Jersey Medical School 13
On Call I came to gradually, finding myself in a room pitch black except for a small flashing red light accompanied by an irritating beep, beep, beep. How strange was that? I knew my eyes were open, but in that moment, I had no clue where I was. I had been in the midst of a vivid dream and the beeping sound had been subconsciously integrated. As I took inventory of my body, I realized I was stretched out on the rough, lumpy couch of our on-call room with no pillow beneath my head. My right arm had fallen asleep, but my left arm was draped over a small soft object. Snuggled up against me was a warm, peacefully sleeping child completely oblivious to the racket her IV apparatus was making. Five year old Abby was a patient on the hematology floor and was undergoing chemotherapy for leukemia. Although it was densely dark in the room, I flashed on an image of her translucent skin and exposed scalp covered only by fine blond peach fuzz. She sighed and nestled even closer, if such a thing were possible. Abby, with her IV pole in tow, must have slipped in here and settled in while I was soundly asleep. However, the battery for her IV pump was in need of recharging, hence the flashing light and annoying beeps. Before I even had a chance to get to the light switch and plug in her pump, the charge nurse came through the door, ushering in a wedge of light and shaking her head. “Ah, Abby,” she said, smiling. “I was wondering where you had wandered off to.” It
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was time for vitals, and her nurse quickly and gently carried out her task without ever waking Abby. We managed to stretch the electric cord to the outlet on the far wall; the flashing and beeping ceased at last. I assured the nurse that Abby could stay here as long as I was in the room and so long as they knew where to find her. Abby and I stayed there cuddled for most of the night, until an emergency propelled me out onto the ward. She was a peaceful little sleeper, unlike many children, and this rather uncanny sleeping arrangement continued until I completed my rotation and went off for a month in the nursery. In all fairness, this wasn’t my idea. My fellow resident Trish had taken pity on Abby the previous month when she was tending the kids on 5 West. Abby’s mother had kept vigil in the hospital the first two weeks after her daughter’s diagnosis, but the long hours and competing demands of two other children at home required that Mrs. Billings be home at night. Abby was frightened and feeling alone without her mom, so Trish had invited her to sleep in the on-call room one night. Clever Abby recognized that most of us residents were pushovers and took advantage of anyone who blinked for even a second. While I am sure there must be some sanction against sleeping side by side with a patient, this took place perhaps at a time before such rules were considered. Several months later, I learned that Abby was in remission and
had been discharged home to her grateful and loving family. I doubt that Abby, now 37 years old, has any recollection of those on-call nights, but I will forever carry with me the image of her sleeping by my side. I hope in her life she has her own child or children to comfort and cuddle, children who are healthy and never know the fear of being alone in a hospital. While
chemotherapy eradicated her cancer, I knew then as I know now that there is much more to healing than making a diagnosis and employing appropriate medical or surgical interventions. There are times when a touch has healing powers, when softly spoken words provide relief or comfort, and perhaps, when human contact itself provides solace and promotes recovery.
Beth A Pletcher, MD Department of Pediatrics New Jersey Medical School 15
truce about insomnia
Lumber trite passages through sleepy head As awake lays my body in comfortable bed Wandering wonders and worries of day Like whitewater agitates my restful way. As vermin and qualms scurry through night Upon sweet sleep rains troubles like blight Lonely quiet hours, in the dark before dawn Wakeful, weary yet restless lay the forlorn. What annoyances fleeting through sun filled hours Over fretful souls as great ghosts they now tower? Is it years-old wounds one believed were a-mend? Or the inherent fear of one’s ultimate end? No matter the cause of wide eyes and frayed nerves Ruminate a weary mind on life’s treacherous curves As hours they pass, as night noises lullaby A mist covers the mind, flutter goes my eye. Yet unwelcome dawn enlightens the sky ‘Tis anger I feel at a bird’s early cry Frustration it wanes, when at last I surmise Sleep or wake, night reflection is what makes one wise. In the morn, the soothing motions of routine is best For in the day’s drudgery, a mind can find rest ‘Tis no matter, eventually will end the night With wistful trepidation, greet I the light. Sharon Gonzales, MD Department of Radiology New Jersey Medical School 16
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long night’s journey into day
Shanen Mulles Class of 2020 New Jersey Medical School 17
Photograph & mitochondria Asmi Panigrahi Class of 2019 New Jersey Medical School 18
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I carry in each cell of my body a piece of my mother and my mother’s mother and her mother too Not just in the genes that give the same angle to our zygomatic arches, the same strength to our deltoids or the same curves to our iliac crests Enveloped in a theory of endosymbiosis is a lineage of strong spirits and stronger base pairs A selfless circular strand passed on for generations, seeking nothing more than to sustain me here, today It is nothing new to say that from the moment of conception we are a product of our mother’s labor But the labor doesn’t end when the placenta is delivered nor decades later, when ovaries begin to atrophy and responsibilities seemingly shift Not even when daughter becomes mother and the cycle repeats, the ringed ribbons still preserved to precision, passed on once again lengthening a lineage of women who will know how to give before their hearts even know how to beat In the end, it is our mothers and their mothers, and their mothers too who still stay with us, labor for us long after their Darwinian duties are due, long after we even know we still need them In the end, it is our mothers and their mothers, and their mothers, too upholding the fabric of our phylogenies, who fuel our every cellular breath, transporting on their backs each electron on a relentless chain that could only be maintained by a sense of maternal responsibility- no, by the power of maternal love. Is it any coincidence that the powerhouse of the cell is maternally inherited? -- mitochondria
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The Right Shoulder Peter Alsharif Class of 2020 New Jersey Medical School 20
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The Gangs of Newark Pop, bang, boom, crack, snap! The sound of a cap, Bullets—broken bone. Shot in front of home By the unseen drone, A known old syndrome.
Craniotomy Don’t cry for pain, Don’t cry for hurt, Don’t cry for tenderness, Don’t cry for staples and sutures, Don’t cry for aches, Don’t cry for loneliness, Cry for the blessing to feel, Cry for those who love, Cry for the air you breathe, Cry for the warm sunrise, And a daily surprise.
The Meaning of Futility A hand with fractured metacarpals attempting to open a jar A 45 pack-year COPD patient with small cell still smoking A child that holds on, even during the fourth code Endless tears of a suffering patient with thoughts of cure The heroin dependent patient in exquisite pain Clash among the subspecialists as organs wage war The value of a pulse over being actually alive Starting the next vasopressor with a BP of 70/40 Having the late new admission and hopes of leaving
Nabil Abou Baker, MD Internal Medicine-Pediatrics, PGY-4 New Jersey Medical School 21
You’re So Lucky: Hormonal and Hypnotic Moments
I t was the early years at what is now known as
Legacy UMDNJ, and a time medical students didn’t see patients and do morning reports until the start of their third year. Morning report had a terrible reputation, and we got to see many a third year afraid of that first day, but he was different.The call came from the Dean of Student Affairs that an excellent student was leaving school because he was doing morning report the following day and was immobilized by the thought of doing so. The Dean had sent him over to Student Mental Health Services before accepting his resignation. The student appeared at my door, hovered in the doorway and before fully entering, said, “I’m quitting and nothing you can say will change my mind.” I invited him to come in by saying, “You are here, so you might as well sit down.” He sat there like so many students before him, but unlike the others, he was without any doubt, resolute about his decision, willing to toss it all. I said to him that he was in good company about fear of morning report, but his extreme decision seemed to color the circumstances. What was it that he was worried about? “I cannot speak in front of everyone.” “OK, when did this begin?” I asked. “Begin?” he said. I could see the look on his face that indicated that he was truly trying to find a start point. “Always,” he finally said. 22
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“Always,” I echoed. “You never spoke in public before tomorrow’s class? Didn’t you take public speaking in college?” “No”, he said, “avoided it.” “High school?” “No never had to?” “Never?” said I. “Well, I was an altar boy.” “So at least you were before the public” I stated. He quickly added “I was president of my Middle School” and he continued, “I had to speak before the sixth, seventh and eighth grades and…” I could see the look. The look of meeting an old story with present eyes. He said, “When I’d given that speech, I remember coming down from the stage and Janie McKeene came up to me and said, ‘you’re so lucky, you don’t have any problems.’ You know, I’ve never spoken since.”
I could see the look.The look of meeting an old story with present eyes. He leaned back and thought for some minutes. “Do you think that’s it?” he asked. “I don’t know,” I answered. He stood up and, without looking back, left.
Some two years later, he stood in my doorway again. “Remember me?” he asked. “Of course,” I said. “Just wanted you to know, I’m graduating tomorrow,” and he walked away. Yes, I knew he had not quit, but this was the first time I knew it from him. I thought about it a long time. What had happened? What made for the change? As if in answer, a few months later, the Dean sent over a new third year student who was leaving school because she didn’t want to sleep in the on-call room. She came in and sat down, and I said to her, “I have a story to tell you.” I told her about the student who almost left because of morning report.
She listened carefully, and when I had finished, she said, “Nothing happened to me like that.” And then she said, “But when I was about the same age, my parents sent me to sleep-away camp. I cried so much that my parents were called back to pick me up that same night. And,” she continued, “In all my life, I’ve never slept a night without my family.” She seemed almost relieved. “Is that it?” “I don’t know,” I said. But I was beginning to think that these might be hormonal and hypnotic moments. We exchanged a few more pieces of information, and she left. The following afternoon, she appeared at my door and said, “I slept last night in the on call room, and I didn’t want you to wait two years to find out.”
Sheila S. Bender, Ph.D Retired Faculty Rutgers Biomedical Health Sciences 23
A Student and His Fortress of Books Daniel Oh Class of 2018 New Jersey Medical School 24
Spring 2017
Studying
Daniel Oh Class of 2018 New Jersey Medical School 25
Technology Age(ing) “Treat the earth well: it was not given to you by your parents, it was loaned to you by your children. We do not inherit the Earth from our Ancestors, we borrow it from our Children.”
The holidays burst with tradition, pleasures and pressures often throwing me into a nostalgic haze. I am not one to anxiously anticipate the latest and greatest technology gadget of the season but more so, I relish in dusting off my oldest Christmas treasures: my favorite childhood ornament, a book of poems, or a Kodak of me with Santa. I hum a quote by the Goo Goo Dolls, “Reruns all become our history.” I attempt to force my children to sit with me as I watch It’s a Wonderful Life or a string of animated tales. I encourage them to draft a letter to Santa and discourage requests for a computer, yet enthusiastically support a list of classic board games or sports equipment. To this, one might predict that my son and daughter will say, “Bah Humbug.” However, they never read Dickens nor watched The Muppets’ Christmas Carol, so they dutifully put pen to paper and send a mix of their requests (and mine) off with the Elf on the Shelf. This year’s fall semester, I found myself in the midst of technology overload as a professor. There was an app or new software for every (and I mean every) aspect of my teaching duties that was forced upon me to adopt and embrace. Being close to a half-century old, I am suddenly struck by the 26
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similarities of emotion that my father encountered when he turned 50. It’s a mix of awe and frustration. The wonderment of technology and boundless possibilities it brings. I can remember so clearly sitting at the top of the stairs watching my father, an electrician, and uncle, a mechanic, use the first calculator in our household. They, with pencil and paper (and slide rule if necessary), attempted to stump the calculator. The device plugged into the wall and was large and bulky with red glowing type. But it was the future. I typed in 1978 just to see, for the first time, the New Year light up, as it would be in Times Square in a few days. “Wow. Technology--how cool.” Frustration seeps in, however, as it did for my Dad when he could no longer collect discarded TVs off the street and pop in a picture tube to restore the box to function. No, not anymore. TVs changed and record players and hi-fi stereos’ insides were replaced with sci-fi guts with which my father could not tinker. Yet, his eyes did light up like Christmas on his first and other future encounters with this new age. I must take a lesson from him. My annoyance with adopting and adapting to the technical innovations will only fade if I embrace and wonder in the possibilities.
On Christmas morning this year, Santa, to my surprise, left for my daughter beneath the tree a cellular phone along with another wonderful invention: a pen—a calligraphy pen to be exact. When I was her age, my fifth grade teacher gave lessons on calligraphy art. It was predictable that the pen set was opened with an “Oh, wow,” and the cell phone with an “OMG, I can’t believe it. You should have posted my reaction on YouTube, Mom!” To this I replied, “Sorry, I didn’t know Santa was going to bring you a phone, and I didn’t know you had a YouTube channel.” What ensued in the next days was not so predictable and, thankfully, spoke to more awe than frustration. My daughter instructed me on the many hidden treasures that lie within my own cell phone that on a daily basis went undiscovered. She thus far
has followed the many rules and boundaries of her new device’s possibilities and utilizes it for creation and communication. The calligraphy set is not collecting dust. During the technology “off hours” of the day, we sit quietly together and place the calligraphy pen to paper, watching how carefully the hand must navigate the angle of the pen to design the smoothest curve for a letter of the beautiful alphabet. Yes, as the New Year rings in the new, we remember the old. My New Year’s resolution is to be in awe of technology and to embrace and adapt a wise proverb—to not just inherit the past but also borrow from the future.
Susan Paprella-Pitzel, DPT Associate Professor School of Health Related Professions Glossary of Terms (of sorts) Calculator – Not an app on your phone Dickens – Charles Dickens, a Victorian author (1812-1870) The Elf on the Shelf – a character from Carol Aebersold’s 2004 children’s picture book Goo Goo Dolls – a Buffalo band popular when I was in college Hi-fi – a set of equipment for the reproduction of sound with high fidelity Kodak – an American technology company producing imaging products with a historic base in photography Picture tube – a cathode ray tube of a television set designed for the reproduction of television pictures Slide rule – a mechanical analog computer YouTube – a video sharing website (my son corrected my ‘u-tube’ spelling of it in the text) 27
The Journey
“It’s not about the destination, but the journey that gets you there” Joshua Tree National Park, August 2016
Raymond Lam, MS Class of 2017 Graduate School of Biomedical Sciences 28
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Be like a Tooth, My Friend Be like a tooth, my friend, Tough enamel, Soft-hearted pulp. Form tight contacts with your fellow men, Yet, keep enough embrasures to cleanse yourself. Take good care of your health, Lest decay creeps into your body. The road of life won’t be straight. There will be pits, fissures and fossae, But also cusps, ridges, and heights of contour. With your comrades, you can crush and grind any obstacle. Yet, remember you are still unique; You have a special role in this life, And no pontic can fully perform your functions. Sometimes, you will be injured and traumatized. You may even feel out of occlusion with the world, But you have the power to regenerate, to remineralize; For your bones are deep-rooted in the house of humanity. And your close friends, your abutments, Will support you and gladly share the load with you. Don’t forget, trauma can strengthen your ligaments, And one day you will realign yourself, And reoccupy your space in the arch of life. Never give up or surrender to toxins, For, I’m afraid, extraction will be your only option, This premature death that grieves your closest friends, Who will shift, erupt in tears, and tip over your grave To mourn the loss of a friend they couldn’t save. Be like a tooth, my friend! Karim Elmorshedy Class of 2019 New Jersey Dental School 29
“a journey of healing with arts... and love of life”
“Anna Emilyevna Skulskaya, known to family and friends as Anushka, was my name, until unforeseen events changed my life forever. When I was diagnosed nine years ago with breast cancer, I decided to write letters to my young children, who were then five and eight years of age. Those letters comprise [my] book. The Circles of Life offers glimpses of a journey that brought three generations of my family from Ukraine to Israel and America. It is also a personal account of change, growth, new beginnings, love of Life and hope.” -- excerpt from “The Circles of Life” by Anna Aizic
Anna Aizic, B.S. CPRP Graduate Certificate in PsyR School of Health Related Professions 30
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I know there are choices but I’ve been given none. We’re finally here, and I’m supposed to be grateful – and I am.
She doesn’t care how we feel or what our preferences would be. Instead, it’s all routine, and I’m supposed to be grateful that she took time with me.
Yet, I know that asking for choices is taken as disrespect. “Take it or leave it” is what she said. To leave it leaves me and him back in the dark.
After all these years of being ignored of watching him go downhill of being told it’s all coincidental of seeing him struggle. She said “Take it or leave it.”
No treatment, no resources, no one taking us seriously. We’re now in year four of nothing Is something better than nothing?
So, I took it, and he suffered and he improved – marginally – and he continues on because I had no choice.
She says take oral Chemo and there’s a drug for that. He’s only six years old I don’t think this is right for us. Vomiting, rash, hair loss, anxiety for a child at six? For only marginal results? Vomiting, rash, hair loss, anxiety for only marginal results. This can’t be the only choice to suffer for nothing, marginal at best.
choice from no options
That’s not who I am. That’s not who I teach him to be. Suffer and fight for real gain – to not go to second grade walking on a cane to rid his six year old body of arthritic pain. But, I’m told I have no choices. The choice isn’t mine. The choice belongs to this doctor from beyond our state boundary line.
Allison Stephens Class of 2018 School of Health Related Professions 31
It tore me in two Not knowing which to choose. I wanted to stand out But the risk: what I’d lose, I cannot
‘Twas my AMCAS application And my personal inclination To share the story of my Statement Via stanzas and rhymes, and then payment, Submit
But fate turned against me as I predicted it would. Doctors warned me of what the AdComs could Do to my whole future if they misriddled my rhythmic tongue As an indication of frailty or that I’m “too young” To be a Doctor, But my conscience was stirred, My mind in full gear. What was wrong with art? What was it they fear? Humanity
So I did what was expected The same old spiel: Five paragraphs, one essay, No need for a new wheel Twisting
Would it be a silly question or rather a confession To say that my impression of our profession Is that we have an obsession with healing humanity? Yet, being told poetry “could harm” me in actuality Is inhumane.
Is it a disability to be human amongst physicians? Why would I be looked down upon for going against traditions? Did I sign up to surrender to what society says I should? It was then that I learned there are Secrets to Doctorhood. The hidden curriculum They are not so much secrets as they are parasitical puissances Ideas that breed machines, turnings healers into nuisances. They begin, do their damage, target one’s mentality, And soon, their effects are in the realm of physicality. My subject is the Humanity in Medicine Woos with the dollar, Or rather, how absent it has been. Too long has it reigned true That doctors are barred from the civilities of me and you. By stigma We expect our patients to be human, but not our Doctors. No one would snitch, but we’re nurturing closeted monsters. You learn it as you go along: only the smartest climb up the ladder, So, do more research, cancel volunteering because those hours do not matter. We deign. We are choking our warriors before the battle is boomin’. Yes, you are a doctor. But before that, you are human. The one is intrinsic. The other a career. The choice is yours. Steer clear of the veneer. And forsake life 32
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We need to qualify this Truth – too many lose touch with Earth Because their minds are locked on the next surgery, the next birth, The next godlike expectation, which they do fulfill and so, claim their title as a divine idol With their own Bible and group of disciples, all because they restored someone’s vitals. In exchange for Doctors are heartless, you say? I promise, from the deepest place in my heart, We do not start out this way, But this artificial system rewards science and not art, so we do what is necessary to set ourselves apart. A heartless shell, I’m calling you out, you demons of health. Tricking healers to forsake leisure in exchange for wealth. You’ve got a firm grip on the entire field, I know, But in the name of all that is Holy, we will work to let you go. Wishing for a redo button Dear Audience, I cry out on behalf of the silent and pray I do not offend. Like the childish argument: you can have more than one Best Friend. It is not adultery to have passions besides medicine. We all do, no matter how secret. All we have left is the money you pay us for the sacrifices you demand we frequent. Before we sold ourselves We peel the skin of our humanity with the scalpels we use to save you. Volleyball: goodbye, piano: adios, performing arts: adieu. Numbers have come to define us more than our humanity, So, this summer, “get published if you want a better residency.” To hell. When I grow up, I do not want to be a one-trick pony. Let us prescribe that notion to antiquity. Respect and allow us to indulge our interests as the rest of the world does Do not force me to turn to alcohol, pride, or worse just to feel a buzz. Dreaming of health care in healthcare. I return to my plans for summer break: Now, opportunities are endless, so I might learn to bake a cake, or how to animate, Or perhaps I’ll learn to rhyme better, Reread each last line for the hidden message in this letter. Whatever I do is an equally precious inspiration. And that, my Friends, is where medicine needs its medication.
- Every Final Stroke -
I cannot submit to be a Doctor, twisting humanity is inhumane. The hidden curriculum woos with the dollar, by stigma, we deign And forsake life in exchange for a heartless shell, Wishing for a redo button before we sold ourselves to hell. Dreaming of health care in healthcare.
Peter Rezkalla Class of 2019 New Jersey Medical School 33
desde mi ventana Desde mi ventana veo la luna caer y el sol nacer. Desde mi ventana veo el horizonte y la luz ardiente de mi amigo el sol. Veo un lienzo azul y blanco con lazos de amarillo y rosa y naranjo. Desde mi ventana veo un valle de montañas ardiendo en colores que visten el semblante de sus lomitas y la brisa juguetona regando hojas como lluvia de mariposas. Desde mi ventana veo las luces del día. El sonido de los trenes y de los autobuses me alertan escucho el bullicio de la gente al pasar por las aceras y el ruido de las sirenas alborotadas de emergencia. Desde mi ventana veo la cumbre de la universidad. Estudiantes vienen y van, la multitud llena el espacio y el colegio vive.
Desde mi ventana siento el ritmo de la música, siento el frío del invierno y los rayitos calientes del sol. Desde mi ventana escucho voces y veo caras. Veo la cara del fuerte y la del débil. Veo la cara del sabio y la del necio. La cara del héroe y la del derrotado. La cara del triste y la del alegre. Veo la cara del justo y la del injusto. La cara de miedo y la cara de amistad. Veo la cara del pobre y la del rico. La del día y la de la noche y muchas caras más. Desde mi ventana veo una ciudad nueva con vigas que sostienen las columnas de la esperanza y el progreso en la ciudad vigas que sostienen
el futuro del niño y de los jóvenes vigas que sostienen el triunfo de su gente y de la humanidad. Veo libros y tabletas lápices y plumas profesores y maestros policías y pintores. Veo razas y raíces. Veo una ciudad que despierta al ritmo de tambores que cruzan el océano para embarcar a una tierra llena de oportunidad. Desde mi ventana el sol se esconde y la luna se pone. La ciudad se duerme la noche reparte una sabana de estrellas y el pintor contempla tantas maravillas creadas bajo el calor de un mismo sol. Desde su ventana Desde mi ventana escucho voces y veo caras
Desde Mi Ventana & Blue Stitches Milagros Seddiki Class of 2018 School of Health Related Professions 34
Spring 2017
Blue Stitches
“The hands of a good surgeon work as diligently as those of a good artist - both have a fine appreciation for detail and perfection - and the final product is often appreciated most by the spectator.�
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Chicago: 23 y/o G1P0010 Packing my bags and whispering Tiptoeing between discarded clothes Nobody can hear me. I open my window. He is waiting for me. Sunday already, Jenny. Make a wish. Okay. And I soar. We exhale the cold air. He says it. I can’t hear it in the wind, but I can see it on his lips Moving me. I am seventeen and I owe the world nothing But I can feel a debt in my belly. He holds me. Look at me, Jenny. Chicago promises to make you new again. The bus steams and crawls Fear makes my fingers dance. I think I chose this because I had no other choice. I know. You’re lying, you can’t know. I know. I can feel everyone watching and listening. We are interstate television. James Huynh Takahashi Class of 2018 New Jersey Medical School 36
Spring 2017
Ten o’clock in the shelter We share a bed in the cold You’re breathing over my shoulder All I see are clouds shooting past the carnival swings where all this started Michigan would never allow it, Jenny. That’s what you tell me. But Illinois will set us free. And there I am. Bright white lights, legs spread. I grasp the poles that hold the swings. I feel numb inside, but then lightning as he comes. My body shakes It lasted fifteen minutes. A life in a vacuum. And as I lay sprawled on the auburn and amber, I see the traces, running in lines Of a thing that cannot not be put back. A child is gone. Once there was a desire To be young, interesting, and modern For reasons older than man. And now I just am. But as we paced, I lost myself among a sea of stars. Make a wish, Jenny. Soar.
Follow the Way
“Stay on the path towards your dream” Newport Beach, CA Raymond Lam, MS Class of 2017 Graduate School of Biomedical Sciences
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Notes
Rutgers, The State University of New Jersey