the
UCF Arts in Medicine’s Literary Art Magazine
CONTENTS
Forward from the Dean Letter from the Editor
2 3 5 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15
Waitress / Aryan Sarparast Digital Photography / Cara Rose Sherrill On Family and All That Is Left at 7pm / Sami Kishawi Bob the Pacman Frog / Peter Joyce Defiant / Cara Rose Sherrill Digital Photography / Paul D. Schumacher, MD Ignorance / Gurjaspreet Bhattal Male Gaze / Michael Metzner Female Gaze / Michael Metzner Excerpt from “Dark Phrases” / Ntozake Shange A Black Girl’s Song / Kesha Thomas Digital Photography / Cara Rose Sherrill
18 19 22 23 24 25 26 27 27 29
Witnessing the Unexpected / Christin Giordano Digital Photography / Paul D. Schumacher, MD Patient History / Heena Ahmed Diesel / Peter Joyce Tusks / Peter Joyce Digital Photography / Cara Rose Sherrill Emotions / Gurjaspreet Bhattal Pokegama / Jaclyn Reinemann A Refugee’s Tale / Sayed K. Ali, MD & Olga Karasik, MD Desire / Gurjaspreet Bhattal
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Light at the End of the Tunnel / Heena Ahmed To Be or Not to Be: An Artist in Medicine / Michael Metzner Leao / Peter Joyce Gum / Peter Joyce Pause and Reflect / Lea Meir Digital Photography / Paul D. Schumacher, MD The Edge of the World / Cara Rose Sherrill Digital Photography / Cara Rose Sherrill The Bridge / Anonymous
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Untitled / Angela DelPrete Anvils / Heena Ahmed Digital Photography / Paul D. Schumacher, MD Raw, Unforgiving Grief / Karen Wong Danny / Peter Joyce Digital Photography / Paul D. Schumacher, MD Ectopic Pregnancy / Heena Ahmed Digital Photography / Cara Rose Sherrill Do You See? / Cara Rose Sherrill Digital Photography / Paul D. Schumacher, MD Broken Playground / Cara Rose Sherrill Ghost / Aryan Sarparast
A Message from UCF Arts in Medicine A Special Thank You Cover art: Uniting the Gap by Michael Metzner, Photography & Pencil
Foreword FROM the Dean
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e go through life surrounded by the beauty of nature and physical art, music and the written word. Yet we are often unaware of its power or impact. Art celebrates the healthy spirit that lives in us all. Understanding, experiencing and appreciating art adds to our health and wellness and can help us bring healing to others. Art can help us make sense of pain and loss. It can inspire us to look at people, circumstances and challenges in new ways. And just as individual brush strokes, musical notes and words must work together to make a beautiful piece, art shows us how collaboration makes us stronger than we can ever be alone. As physicians, we spend most of our lives in the world of science. Yet the world of art enriches what we do. It touches our hearts and allows us to better communicate because at its very core, art is communication. The best doctors are the best communicators and experiencing the arts can be a bridge that connects our hearts and minds, for the good of those we serve.
I hope you will enjoy this second edition of The Script. I hoped that our students, faculty and staff would create a literary magazine for our new medical school. The inaugural edition was a huge success – and one that garnered the attention of the Association of American Medical Colleges. I am delighted the second edition is here. Dr. Deborah German Vice President for Medical Affairs, Dean UCF College of Medicine
Letter from the editor
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hroughout medical school and later during medical practice, physicians accrue many experiences that help to shape not only who they are as practitioners, but in a broader sense, who they are as people. The Script reveals those feelings and encounters responsible for forming the lens through which the UCF College of Medicine faculty and students view the world. In the construction of this magazine it became apparent to me that the themes commonly seen throughout medicine transcend the profession itself, and apply to everyone, everywhere. Life, Emotion, Perception, and Death apply to all humanity, whether viewed through the lens of medicine, or not. To some, life and death may serve as comrade and enemy to the physician, but to others, the substance of what life and death truly represent aid in eliminating the stereotypical roles with which each may be associated. Inside you will notice many pieces that discuss the sentiment surrounding the relationships and processes encompassing life and death. While life and death are the natural bookends of man’s journey on earth, many of the pieces contained within follow themes of both the emotion and perception humanity must undergo daily. The Script provides a depiction of emotion felt throughout many experiences, ranging from the rigors of academia, to clinical diagnoses and treatments. Like emotion, perception is vital in both art and medicine, becoming a theme that clearly resonates in many of the contained works. The best doctors must interpret, understand, and appreciate their patients, very similar to the manner in which a piece of art should be regarded. Harvey Cushing said, “A physician is obligated to consider more than a diseased organ, more even than the whole man—he must view the man in his world.” In the next few pages, our authors and artists show us the way they perceive themselves, their patients, and the world that surrounds them. My hope is that each of you may take away the empowerment of expression from the works found within, and a greater appreciation for the integration of art and medicine that we aim to deliver in The Script. John Stelzer Arts in Medicine, President UCF College of Medicine
UCF College of Medicine
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The Script | 2015
waitress
Aryan Sarparast, MS-3 Medical Student If only life was a waitress like you. Served what I wanted, On a whim or a coo. Petty small talk and idle chat, Only begets cold pancakes. You would be homely at best, As though I was complimenting a fireplace, Not a woman. Your hair tied back for so long that it made your brow look always furrowed. There would be only simplicity and, ‘Anything else I could get you, Hun’. You would recognize me and serve the usual. And if there’s a special, I could decline if it pleased me. My cup would never be dry, My plate right on time. And when it’s all done and dealt, A black rectangle would teeter over the table’s edge, And bury itself into your hands. You would thank me and bid me a good night. I would be satisfied and full and dead, Before even leaving you a tip.
Life | 2
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The Script | 2015
Cara Rose Sherrill, MS-2 Medical Student Digital Photographs (left & right) Life | 4
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on family and all that is left at 7pm Sami Kishawi, MS-2 Medical Student
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is kidneys failed, I’m told. The both of them. Tubes crisscross over and under his bed in a room crowded with empty seats, fuzzy television screens, useless nightstands, and a whiteboard that reads: “Goal: Increase activity”. The lights are turned off and it’s 7 pm. Flash back to the days when we were young and restless. With muddied hands (mama told us to stay away from the puddles but we never listened) we run to the kitchen sink without making eye contact. Because once we make eye contact, mama gives us that look that means we’d better be in bed in less than five. She asks whether we’re tired. “No,” we say, but we are. We are just too young and too proud to admit it. And at 7 pm, the lights go off. Flash forward to the days when we outgrow ourselves. I don’t know what to say. Five of us are in the room now---four standing, none sitting. I’m the last to shake his hand, to give him that squeeze that, when I was a teen, all the married Arab men would advise me about. “Walak, shake my hand properly,” they tell me. I’m shivering. It’s winter and I’m outside without a jacket shaking a stranger’s hand for far too long. It’s 7 pm and it’s dark out. The men before me kiss his head and joke about how strong he’s become. Just yesterday I filled out an application to a medical school that asked what my biggest fear would be in a hospital setting. Giving false hope. Definitely. It’s my turn; the blinds are drawn. I grab his hand expecting to hear that snap when skin meets skin but his hands are soft and my grip is softer and I throw away everything those married Arab men told me on that cold winter evening. I’m not entirely sure where to look so I direct my attention to a purple paper taped to the wall. Now I know what to do and who to page if I want to use a luer-lock needle to draw someone’s blood in room 308. He asks me how I’m doing. I thought he won’t remember but he does. He asks me how I’m doing in school.
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For a brief moment I run through the hours of conversations I’ve had with him in what feels like slow motion. He asks me about school every time we meet and he remembers every answer I give. “You are almost done with the year, right?” “How was that exam?” “What’s the latest on that GPA?”
The Script | 2015
Our conversations are mainly about school and today’s is no different. He is an old Palestinian man who puts education before himself. His children, much older than me, have families now who admire their doctorates and their professional degrees. He himself still puts his doctorate to good use. Imagine an old man with a cane in his hand, a Russian fur hat on his head, and a kuffiyeh guarding his shoulders. He walks into the classroom. “Professor!” they shout. He fills them in on the latest computer science developments. Today he is just an old Palestinian man. No cane, no fur hat, and no kuffiyeh in sight. No family either. The seats are still empty. He is still holding my hand. He asks how my summer break is going and I give the most genuine response I can give but, in all honesty, everyone who loves school knows that summer break is a drag. We both know it but we have guests in the room, his eyes tell me, so I keep it to myself. The conversation shifts to virtually everything that has absolutely nothing to do with his health. I am no longer in the picture. He and the other three discuss whatever it is that married Arab men discuss. Firm handshakes. “You’re getting stronger.” He is. Two days ago, he could not squeeze. Today his thumb is working hard. He is still holding my hand. I feel guilty though. They put me in a disposable set of gloves and an equally unsightly gown. At least I put it on properly, I think, as I quickly glance at the others. One man didn’t bother putting his head through the convenient little head hole. Another didn’t bother tying the gown from behind. But the guilt won’t subside. The blue latex makes me feel artificial. His family is far from him. Today, it is 7 pm and we are his only family, clad in the most sterile outfits the hospital can provide for us. “Sami, rest your legs. Sit down,” says one of the men, now sitting down in what was once an empty chair. There are two more empty chairs. Now there is one empty chair. And now nobody is standing but me. My mind drifts and I begin to wonder who designs these hospital rooms. The chairs match the blue-taupe walls so well that I’m truly impressed. That’s when I catch myself. I am doing everything in my power to avoid facing the reality of life, a reality that can be summarized by our bedtimes. We are young, so mama puts us to bed at 7 pm. We are teens and so we sleep at 11 pm like rebels. We are in college.
We don’t sleep at all. We are adults who work in the morning. Bedtime is at 1 am. We’re getting older now so we hit the sheets at 10 pm, right after our favorite episode of Law & Order. But today we are grandparents and sleep comes to us at 7 pm. He’s still holding my hand and you know what, I’m happy he is. His occasional squeeze means he’s still with us. Someone whispers that there is just no hope. How’s this for increased activity? The conversation slows as we prepare to leave. I don’t want to let go, really, because he’s family, and I don’t want to let go of family. My grandparents died years ago. I’ve only held the hands of two of them, and when I did, my bedtime was at 7 pm so I always had to leave their sides early. But I’m in college now, and sleep is the last thing on my mind. That’s it. Two of the men say their hellos and leave. We don’t do goodbyes. It’s just me, him, and one other. The grip loosens and I pull my hand away and wait for the other man to say his hellos. He does, and the two of them quickly remind me of the small group sessions the old Palestinian man used to hold in his apartment. He’d invite the world, literally, to a meal, a conversation, and a chapter of the Qur’an. Exactly three decades later, we still see him as our community’s most beloved member. He’s family, to all of us. Now it is just me and him. I remove my gloves, having already said my hellos, and make for the door. But I know that I cheated him. The nurse isn’t in the room so I run back, grab his hand properly, softly, carefully, and give it a squeeze. Skin on skin, without the snap. He raises his eyebrows and puckers his lips. I give him my forehead. He is three generations older than me. I don’t want to give false hope and so I don’t. He reminds me that I’ll be graduating soon, that it will be a happy occasion. I said I’ll bring him the diploma. He will be the first to see. “And then you will become a doctor, right?” That’s a hard question to answer. “That’s the plan,” I say, struggling with myself. I really want to say “That’s the plan. Your doctor, actually.” But by then, I wouldn’t want him to need a doctor. I tell him I want to see him on his feet and then promise to come back with a diploma and a GPA he would be proud of. He has high standards. He lets go of my hand, and I look at my watch. It is 8 pm, one hour past his bedtime. But I’m happy he’s up. Life | 6
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Peter Joyce, MS-3 Medical Student Bob the Pacman Frog Acrylic on Canvas 7 | Arts in Medicine
The Script | 2015
Cara Rose Sherrill, MS-2 Medical Student Defiant Charcoal & Pencil Life | 8
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Paul D. Schumacher, MD Cardiovascular & Thoracic Surgery Digital Photograph
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The Script | 2015
ignorance
Gurjaspreet Bhattal, MS-3 Medical Student I feel safe, In a dangerous place called Ignorance; Surrounded by the mighty walls of a closed mind. My neighbors, are petty thoughts and illogical arguments And my street, is a one way road to stubbornness. I despise the enemy state of Knowledge, And fear its inhabitants called ideas. I use the weapon of denial To combat the attack of knowledge And keep myself safe In this dangerous place called Ignorance.
Life | 10
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Michael Metzner, MS-4 Medical Student Male Gaze Pencil & Digital Coloring 11 | Arts in Medicine
The Script | 2015
Michael Metzner, MS-4 Medical Student Female Gaze Pencil & Digital Coloring Life | 12
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EXCERPT from “Dark Phrases”
Ntozake Shange American Poet and Playwright somebody/anybody sing a black girl’s song bring her out to know herself to know you but sing her rhythms carin/struggle/ hard times sing her a song of life she’s been dead so long closed in silence so long she doesn’t know the sound of her own voice her infinite beauty she’s half-notes scattered without rhythm/ no tune sing her sighs sing the song of her possibilities 13 | Arts in Medicine
The Script | 2015
A BLack girl’s song response to shange’s “dark phrases” Kesha Thomas, MS-3 Medical Student
Who can sing a black girl’s song? The rhythm is too unpredictable. Loud and harsh to some, they cover their ears so they don’t hear her singing. But, she must keep singing, Close her eyes and throw her head back and finish the song that began in the bellies of frightened African women bent over in the bellies of monstrous ships funneling them to auction blocks where they stood nameless and naked, singing a deep fragmented verse. Who knows the words to a black girl’s song? Incomplete lines that do not rhyme There is no punctuation Words piling up in some places and silence stretching out in long
pauses, waiting for redemption, waiting for her turn to come watching for a space to become available where she can sit herself down and open her dream in the light of day without it being snatched away by foreboding statistics that predict poverty and mortality and HIV. Who can sing a black girl’s song except a black girl? I will sing her song and teach it to my daughters line by line because they will never hear it on the radio. They have to know the melanin in their skin is not God’s poison; their presence is not toxic. Babygirls, you belong. I will sing a black girl’s song because it’s the only song I know.
Life | 14
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The Script | 2015
Cara Rose Sherrill, MS-2 Medical Student Digital Photographs (left & right) Life | 16
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The Script | 2015
witnessing the unexpected Christin Giordano, MS-4 Medical Student
We all start here in some version or another. It could be a quaint room, a hospital room, the back of a car Or even a bathroom. But we all start here. With an expectant mother. Expectant. So much to expect. Pushing. Pain. Joy. Urgency. Fear. The delivery room, in all its forms, somehow holds all these Expectations. Nothing prepares you for this pregnant moment. For seeing new life wake into the world. Pain. Joy. Confusion. All at once With that first cry. Everything that was expected and so much more. Magical, really. Father declares to the little one, “I am your Papa!” And mother says. “I am your Momma!” Witnessing this first meeting, Tears spring to your eyes. You expect the next one to be different, somehow less. But expectations are defied. Every first meeting is a privilege to bear witness to And every first meeting is just as full of Expectations.
Emotion | 18
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Paul D. Schumacher, MD Cardiovascular & Thoracic Surgery Digital Photographs (left & right)
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The Script | 2015
Emotion | 20
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The Script | 2015
patient history Heena Ahmed, MS-2 Medical Student
Fate brought us together—at least that’s one way to look at it. No one would have predicted us a complementing team. You, the realist. While me, young and always smiling, (maybe a bit too much for your liking) I walk in optimistic that today will be burden-free. I weigh our interactions in numbers: scales of positives and negatives. Maybe I should have focused less on the number of times we met. More on the holes of silences that punctured our conversation. Less on the pints of alcohol consumed in five years. More on the immeasurable anguish of losing your mother. The yellowish hue tainted your skin like faded wallpaper— I never bothered to find out your favorite color. That’s what you said to me, in a way, with sunken bloodshot eyes and hair disheveled—our first fight. I hang in a constant balance. Wanting you to be your best version and wanting you to accept what I see, from the outside: Strong and functioning body, not ailing. Not hopeless. The leather chair you complained about was bare. No note, only a handshake and formal paperwork to signify an end. Your eyes were apologetic. Relief seeped down the creases of your face through the tendons of your rotator cuff. The gears that creaked under the weight sighed in one swift motion. Maybe we can be friends, I think, as I go back to work with no time to be fazed by the string of intermittent relationships: Constant lessons on how to love you in some undefined way, through my understanding of all your dark and light textures that are familiar and yet, feel all together unique.
Emotion | 22
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Peter Joyce, MS-3 Medical Student Diesel Oil & Acrylic on Canvas 23 | Arts in Medicine
The Script | 2015
Peter Joyce, MS-3 Medical Student Tusks Acrylic on Canvas Emotion | 24
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Cara Rose Sherrill, MS-2 Medical Student Digital Photograph
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The Script | 2015
EMOTIONS
Gurjaspreet Bhattal, MS-3 Medical Student No one said anything And I remained silent too. I kept it all in me And obeyed the unsaid rules. But somewhere deep inside I felt something change, Something that didn’t feel right Something that previously wasn’t there. The years went by With my feelings caged inside. Yet asymptomatic, I carried on with life. With years of experience of holding back, I had now become an expert. Even the painful cry of a parting soul Didn’t stir any feelings up. I had successfully unlearned The process of generating emotions. I had successfully become An epitome of professional perfection. But it wasn’t until that one day That I realized how ill I was, When stepping on a tiny nail Upset me a little too much. So much so, that I ended up sobbing, Crying like a little baby Over a tiny nail That had left me thinking. The physical pain was sparse But the emotional - much greater. Years of holding back Had finally unveiled its torture. Like a malignancy, a plague It had taken over my life. But this lifeless little nail Did exactly what was right. It put life back into me And rid me of this burden. With a tiny puncture in my skin, It drained my repressed emotions. It didn’t just pierce my skin It pierced through my soul This tiny little nail Made me human once more.
Emotion | 26
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A REFUGEE’S TALE
Sayed K. Ali, MD & Olga Karasik, MD Internal Medicine & Palliative Care
My name is Nala. I am ten years old. I am a refugee; this is how my tale unfolds. Raised in Damascus, surrounded by bliss, Life, I remember, full of love and kiss. My beautiful, ancient city, Art and history; people truly pretty. Alas! A war broke out. Suddenly, surrounded by chaos and doubt. Deafening bombs and blasts, Memories that still haunt me from my past. Flee we had to, across the border, Dangerous and frightening the road, far from order. Days hot and nights shivering cold, An arduous journey, no belongings, fear two-fold. Days later, crossing the border, we arrived at the camp,
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The Script | 2015 Greeted by many refugees, all stuffed and cramp. Many questions they had for us, The situation, please divulge and discuss. Space was limited, tents we had to share, Amidst silent prayer, blanketed by tears and despair. Food was scarce, water rare, Rape, theft and abuse rampant, daily the scare. Is this is our new life? So much we have lost, the strife. Every morning, I look at the sky, bright blue, Days come and go; nothing to look forward to. The conflict is still rampant, Our spirits and hopes to return, further dampen. Home, my family, my friends, I terribly miss, All left of my country is now an obscure abyss. So many innocent lives lost, Upside down, my world seems tossed. This is my sad tale, The life of a refugee, behind the veil.
Jaclyn Reinemann, MS-3 Medical Student Pokegama Digital Photograph Emotion | 28
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desire
Gurjaspreet Bhattal, MS-3 Medical Student All you want is not the end It’s just the beginning of desire’s slavery. Before you’ll know, you’ll desire more And yet one day when you have it all, You’ll still crave for a little bit more. With every bit you acquire, Desire grows a little And so does the agony Of not having it all. To rid yourself of this torment, You sacrifice some more And before you know You’ve lost a little more. A wife at home waits a little longer And a child at game expects you a little less. All while you’re struggling to possess. One day however, Your body won’t comply. Your wish of having it all May then start to subside. But what will increase is your agony, For you’ll realize how much you’ve lost In those days of desire’s slavery.
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The Script | 2015
Emotion | 30
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The Script | 2015
light at the end of the tunnel Heena Ahmed, MS-2 Medical Student
A small speck, a Houdini imposter. First trick: a flash that causes eyes to squint and beams to jettison. Forcing apart the sliver of space between eyelids the way dawn breaks through heavens— Light is closer than it appears. That is, until the fog of delusion clears. I swear, Light is moving farther away with every step. I wonder how much stretch of black pavement will be swallowed up by this hollowed black hole—a conveyor belt shuffling dreams dismally forward. Teasing me, pretending to live another life as a different kind of light with far less responsibility: The light of a child’s flashlight; a flexible acrobat molding into shadow figures. A stunning performance for a long-awaited applause as walls shake and Light trembles with glee— Only to shudder away daydreams to face the ghost of expectations haunting in persistent whispers: always be constant, always burn bright, always wait in the dark to give someone else hope. Perhaps, simply wishing to be candlelight, burning for no one in particular. Dim and soothing, with purpose fulfilled, a soft breath would finally offer Light rest.
Perception | 32
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to be or not to be: an artist in medicine
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Michael Metzner, MS-4 Medical Student
hy would an artist want to go to medical school?” It was a good question, and one of my favorite questions asked of me during my medical school interviews. I am what one might define as an artist, and yes, I really wanted to go to medical school. I was a photographer, musician, composer, and actor. I loved the arts, and they were part of my everyday life. From performing on stage to directing fashion photo shoots, I embraced my creative spirit. However, I never saw my imaginative curiosity dwell within the arts alone. I also considered myself a scientist. The complex interactions of proteins and compounds to produce changes in the human body were fascinating–thus it only made sense for me to attain degrees in both visual art and biochemistry. So there I was, in the middle of my medical school interview, being asked why an artist would want to go to medical school. To me, the answer is quite simple: Medicine is an art. Throughout history there has been a rooted ideology that the arts and sciences were one in the same. Scientists were artists and inventors–there were no preconceived boundaries of what was possible in either world and in many respects, there was a blending of the two paradigms. The great minds in history have long spoken about the importance of the arts within science, with Albert Einstein famously stating, “After a certain high level of technical skill is achieved, science and art tend to coalesce in esthetics, plasticity, and form. The greatest scientists are always artists as well.” Medicine is no exception. As clinicians, we are asked to do what at times seems impossible. We have a very limited amount of time with a patient to diagnose and develop a treatment plan for an ailment. We must effectively communicate complex ideas among colleagues and patients, all while showing empathy and ultimately doing what is best for the patient. Medicine is a field in which we are always learning and challenging what we really understand. Art students are trained to develop critical thinking and observational skills that are needed to extrapolate information from the physical and emotional realms around us. We are to take these observations and create and communicate an idea that has never been
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synthesized before. Artists often reinvent themselves through their artwork and are trained to observe the world with extreme detail–from color to line, and light to shadow. These practiced qualities can be translated directly into the everyday lives of a physician. To be a good physician, most would agree that you must be a critical thinker, keen observer, and be able to connect and communicate with your patients. The better the communicator, the better the physician. Having an art background makes sense within medicine. In fact, studies have shown that formal fine art training with medical students improve their diagnostic skills. Many medical schools around the country are incorporating these artistic workshops into their curriculum and are learning the importance of the arts in medical education. The art of medicine is beyond a learned algorithm, it is a human connection with a patient. Although I agree about the importance of evidence based medi-
The Script | 2015
cine, there are many times we must look more in depth than simply putting a checkmark by predetermined questions for a history and physical. It is very easy to get into the monotonous habit of rattling off a number of impersonal questions to get the diagnosis with completely missing what might be the actual cause of the illness. It is no wonder that many diagnoses go undetected, as we do not have time in many cases to actually connect with, and listen to our patients. There are also many times when we reach the limits of what modern medicine can provide. In these instances, when no medicines benefit, we must remember that the human connection we have with our patient is powerful and is the foundation to the art of medicine. I believe that everyone is an artist, although some have not yet uncovered their talents. Physicians and other healthcare providers must remember that not every patient fits into a simple box and we must con-
tinue to be like an artist–to challenge what we know, observe and critically think about what we see, and communicate effectively with those around us. As now a third year medical student, I am glad that I am an artist who entered the field of medicine. Throughout my rotations I have seen so many instances where the lines of art and science blend together. I challenge those in healthcare to see open their eyes and realize that we all can be considered artists in medicine. Dr. William Osler said it best when he stated, “the practice of medicine is an art, not a trade; a calling, not a business; a calling which your heart will be exercised equally with your head. Often the best part of your work will have nothing to do with potions and powders, but with the exercise of an influence of the strong upon the weak, of the righteous upon the wicked, of the wise upon the foolish. There is no more difficult art to acquire than the art of observation.� Perception | 34
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Peter Joyce, MS-3 Medical Student Leao Acrylic on Canvas 35 | Arts in Medicine
The Script | 2015
Peter Joyce, MS-3 Medical Student Gum Acrylic on Canvas Perception | 36
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Pause and reflect Lea Meir, MS-2 Medical Student
Pause and reflect. That was what we were given time to do. Only we did not have anything to reflect on, at least not yet. I looked across the sparkling lab. The cadavers have not been taken out. I passively watch a video telling me what I will be feeling. It feels forced. There is so much tension in the air. It’s difficult but I try hard to imagine what this person’s life was like. Did he have children, grandchildren? What did he spend his time doing? Did he enjoy his life? When our team’s cadaver finally got taken out, at first I just stare at him. Almost afraid to touch him, as if this man was made of delicate glass that I did not want to shatter. This period of time felt like the longest period I have ever experienced. I did not understand it at the time, but that was all the time I would be given to reflect and come to terms with the fact that I would be cutting into a real human being. Week after week it got easier, almost mechanical in a way. Just focus on the structures I would think. My teammate’s words replaying in the back of my head: the greatest gratitude we can show this man is to learn as much as we can, so we will be able to help others.
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The Script | 2015
Perception | 38
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Paul D. Schumacher, MD Cardiovascular & Thoracic Surgery Digital Photograph 39 | Arts in Medicine
The Script | 2015
the edge of the world Cara Rose Sherrill, MS-2 Medical Student
There once was a hallow on the edge of the world, where man met spirit and found himself. It hides just behind this tree or over that hill. Many children lived there, who would dance through the fields of flowers and giggle the way only children do. It was a place of great joy and serenity. There was no hate, no resentment, never fear. If you searched, you would never find it, and if you found it, you would never leave. Even the land was very much its own. All knew the land was their most sacred friend, but could be their most wretched enemy. Here were many creatures unknown to mankind, many foods that would never touch the lips of mortals. Colors so vibrant, they were impossible to see if looked upon. The energy was none that could be compared; some would call it magic, but it was the moment—the joining of the
wind, the soil and the feet that walked lightly upon it—that held it together and made it so. As I’ve told you, there is no way to find this place by looking, but there are many paths to reach it; usually when one is looking, there is some need, and need is a drive of the flesh. It is the feeling of time passing that induces need and need itself that shapes the illusion that is time. In this land existed anything and everything that could ever be imagined or desired, with no desire for it, but this does not mean there was no gratitude. Without love, not of the flesh, but of the spirit: warmth glowing inside that recognizes the vibration of its matching light, this world would be forever hidden. For many it hides just out of reach, for some it may be drawn away, and for the unfortunate, it isn’t recognized when it is seen. Perception | 40
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Cara Rose Sherrill, MS-2 Medical Student Digital Photograph
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The Script | 2015
The bridge Anonymous Medical Student
I look around, and I see sickness. Sickness and Pain. I hurt. I hurt so bad I cry. I cry. Will it stop? No. Poking, proding, pointing, and nodding. Knowing, but not perceiving. Not understanding. I look, and I see hope. A bridge. A bridge from pain to comfort. Sickness to health, Courage. They talk. They talk a lot, But they smile. I smile too.
Perception | 42
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The Script | 2015
Untitled
Angela DelPrete, MS-3 Medical Student I didn’t know where to look. At your eyes At the rise and fall of your chest At your twitching hands So I focused on the rapid pulsation of your carotid artery Unable to hide behind the sunken skin and atrophied muscles of your cachectic neck. I’ve never waited for death. Death always shook me from peaceful slumber or stood in the doorway with an iniquitous grin, reminding me that I was too late. So I didn’t know where to look Or what I would see in that final moment Or if I would want to see. So my eyes darted from the rapid pulsation of your carotid artery To your eyes To the rise and fall of your chest To your twitching hands And I told myself that whatever I was meant to see, I would see. I wondered what you saw. Your mother Your brothers White sheets Two exits I couldn’t look away for two whole days but as soon as I did, Death shook me from a peaceful slumber and upon my arrival, was standing in the doorway with an iniquitous grin, reminding me that I was too late. I didn’t know where to look.
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UCF College of Medicine
ANVILS
Heena Ahmed, MS-2 Medical Student “Would you like me to leave the room,” the man asked her, “while you consider your options?” Such a loaded question. Anvils are falling to the ground, each with a loud thud that shakes the earth. The woman shrilly with fear, ducks and dodges, shirking past the falling weights, squinting for hopeless shade. What are you saying? What does that mean? What options? Thud— A strike to her chest. She is dumbfounded, pinned still, no longer running to avoid the downpour. White-coated general speaks again, but his voice is distant and muffled, as though behind a glass wall, safe from the war zone. Deployed for 6 months: A soldier with no warning. Prostate cancer. Room 604B. Age 76. Son, Husband, Father, Grandfather. Caught by surprise in previous guerilla warfare. Cowardly enemy, sneaky in its invasion, was merely playing dead— bidding time until retribution slips under the door, like a silent call of duty to enlist. Heartbroken, the woman examines the battered uniform, the armor of conviction, unlikely to withstand another bullet. Dust gathers on the high shelf where past wounds were kept in the hopes of disappearing in her negligence. He soothes her qualms and pleas for dignity. Thud— Her husband’s heartbeat, weakened, still strikes her ears with the invigorating force of anvils striking earth.
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The Script | 2015
Paul D. Schumacher, MD Cardiovascular & Thoracic Surgery Digital Photograph Death | 46
UCF College of Medicine
Karen Wong, MS-2 Medical Student Raw, Unforgiving Grief Ink, Crayon, Watercolor, & Acrylic on Paper 47 | Arts in Medicine
The Script | 2015
Peter Joyce, MS-3 Medical Student Danny Acrylic on Canvas Death | 48
UCF College of Medicine
ECTOPIC PREGNANCY Heena Ahmed, MS-2 Medical Student
Maternal instincts begin long before a mother holds her baby: A pain deep in my gut tells me my child is a rebel. A premature player in the game of fate determined to choose the road less traveled. Bright-eyed and seeking (against all odds) a new niche within that undefined realm where miracle and reason reconcile. The way millions of seemingly disconnected synapses zip from point A, hopping off precise exits on the highways of myelin sheaths to point B: A soundless kick, traversing serous layers of an expectant belly, greets awaiting fingertips. Meticulous rules are set into motion to prevent fender-benders and unwanted congestion. A single fractional delay, a minor malposition— Chaos ensues and the individual moving pieces swerve off course. Blood-red beads marked the dotted line of your trajectory like tracing a trail of miniature footprints— Struck by a dead-end. Dark blots seeped through the carpet fibers, clues painted in perfect circles, intermingled with tears and sweat of a panicked mother. One, two, three seconds of darkness— my eyes demanded rest. Sprawled in a hospital bed, four limbs intact, and yet, the out-of-place feeling of an essential appendage missing still haunts. I was given no time to plant signs beside the lane for you, to place billboards with the warning “Danger Ahead.” Are choice and destiny a single path with two identities, known by two different names? One may be long and winding; one lined with luscious fruit; both bending back around, full circle. I may have lost you either way. Is the diverging fork in the road God’s hoax?
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The Script | 2015
Paul D. Schumacher, MD Cardiovascular & Thoracic Surgery Digital Photograph Death | 50
UCF College of Medicine
Cara Rose Sherrill, MS-2 Medical Student Digital Photographs (above & below) 51 | Arts in Medicine
The Script | 2015
do you see?
Cara Rose Sherrill, MS-2 Medical Student The man stands on the busy street corner, his sunken cheeks match the passing tires. We think he and his kind are all liars. But do we see the truth behind his eyes? The pain that bursts within? When he lays down past dark, no doubt holding his bottle of gin, Is he glad as he hears the gun fire? Now, as his body shuts down and his heart beat slows, In his mind’s eye the memories begin to flow. Does anyone stop to help? One stops to stare. This is nothing new to the man, and as he dies, not a soul cares. How did we sink so low? Later, his picture is in the Sunday paper; if he were alive he’d point and say “hey that’s me.” Others will use it as bedding, and soon cover it in pee. Will anyone do more than glance at his picture? They and you, who have known no more than a cut? Next time you walk by the news stand, there he may be, but When will you see?
Death | 52
UCF College of Medicine
Paul D. Schumacher, MD Cardiovascular & Thoracic Surgery Digital Photograph 53 | Arts in Medicine
The Script | 2015
BROKEN playground Cara Rose Sherrill, MS-2 Medical Student
I walked a while today To the dilapidated school grounds, Where we used to like to play. Love, tis nothing like it used to be. Remember where we hid to kiss, Underneath the old oak tree? The mangled swings: groan and screech… The jungle gym: like a skeleton… The Big Cheese: now the color peach. It’s your face I see… your breath on my cheek Each morning when I wake. Your soul’s the one I will forever seek.
Death | 54
ghost
Aryan Sarparast, MS-3 Medical Student The towel felt heavy, Weighed down, Soaked. I held my breath while we grabbed the ends of the damp cloth and peeled it back, In part from the acrid smell of formaldehyde, And in part because, The fear. Its chin was jutting upwards, Poised by an imaginary strand of silk tying it to the ceiling, The black buds of a sloppy row of stitches closed the deep fissure running along the clavicle and towards the midline. This was where the blood was drained. I braced myself, The cold iron rails of the table sucked the life through my hands and from my body. I tightened my grip, And then I saw it. I felt nothing. Just a floating. Lightheadedness. As I begun the ascent, Levitating into the ethereal space between the world of the living, And the world of the dead. Like purgatory, I was completely still. Motionless. Dissected from reality. Cutting away, Just naming the structures. Then later, The day was done. We coated it with formaldehyde through a spray-bottle. Like gardeners tending a plot, As though the skin we just eviscerated would sprout back. It won’t. My foot was poised on the step-lever to hoist down the body,
But I was disturbed. There, The white towel in front of me. And what was there underneath? An outline traced along the matted cloth- Someone who was loved and had loved. A gash where she was bled- Someone’s daughter. I could not dissociate dead from alive anymore. The idea of who was underneath, The idea of life. I had touched a ghost. The thin white veneer that wrapped the outside of her body, It was a canvas. Upon which I painted the image of an offshore breezy fishing town. I’d like to think she lived there for a while. In that little idyllic village off the coast, With her husband. A hardworking man with a stout jaw, An Irishman by blood, Who made a living off the boats. He brought her daffodils on the way from the marina. There wasn’t much pollution there, If any it was from the tugboats wrangling along unwelcome fishing seiners. This was evidenced by the lack of carbon pigment deposition in the lung tissue, Seen on gross dissection and histological analysis. The years weighed on and on like lead, The grief of the love that passed on and along the waves more days than not. And no longer did love linger lightly on her like the tiara of trillium I always imagined she wore on her wedding day. So her back bent and broke under the load of grief. Anterior T12-L1 compression fractures, Seen on post-mortem CT imaging. When her neighbors asked when her old man would be back, And joked of a love affair with a mermaid. Her back would ache again. Tears welled in her eyes. And the lump in her throat made it so hard to speak. I excised it for her. A thyroglossal duct cyst. Characterized by the presence of parafollicular cells seen on an H+E stained tissue sample. I had to slip underneath her right arm to cut open her neck, Through the years she was always And in her icy embrace I heard her speak. a good woman to him. We had cleared the cobwebs from her throat.
Who is arts in medicine?
Co-Founder of The Script
A
rts in Medicine (AIM) is a University of Central Florida College of Medicine organization founded in 2012 with the goal of empowering students, faculty, and the medical community through self-expression. In a matter of a few years, it has grown into a robust group of students, faculty, and staff that are united by their love for the arts. AIM is composed of the following branches: Dance, A Cappella, Music Performance, Writing, and the Visual Arts. Each branch spearheads an aspect of the arts through community service projects and activities ranging from writing and producing theatrical productions, to singing at the bedside of pediatric patients. Through our efforts, we hope to create a vibrant community not only at the University of Central Florida, but also in Central Florida as a whole. AIM has partnered with numerous distinguished Central Florida organizations, including The Pabst Art Foundation, Dr. Phillips Performing Arts Center, Nemours Children’s Hospital, Florida Hospital, Relay for Life, and Community Based Care of Central Florida. Those of us at AIM live by the philosophy that within each person is an artist. We encourage you to join us on our mission to spread the spirit of self-expression through our community, and brighten each day one brush stroke at a time. Find us online at www.ucfaim.com
The 2014-2015 AIM Executive Board Simon Ho President Angela DelPrete Secretary
Peter Joyce Vice President Aryan Sarparast Creative Director
Richa Vijayvargiya A Cappella Co-Chair
Margaret Capobianco A Cappella Co-Chair
Michael Chambers Instrumental Co-Chair
Zhe Ma Instrumental Co-Chair
Katie Peacock Performing Arts Chair
Juan CendĂĄn Faculty Advisor
Co-Founder of The Script
thank you for your support The goal of the Jules B. Chapman and Annie Lou Chapman Foundation is to elevate the values of professionalism and humanism within the practice of medicine. The Foundation advocates for humanism through activities within medical education and the community. A longterm goal of the Foundation is sustained involvement in promoting the values of humanism both in medical education and in the practice of medicine. Thanks to a gift from the Jules B. Chapman, M.D. and Annie Lou Chapman Private Foundation the College of Medicine created the Chapman Humanism in Medicine Initiative, which will support a variety of programs that foster humanism and promote students’ wellbeing.
The American Medical Student Association (AMSA), with a half-century history of medical student activism, is the oldest and largest independent association of physiciansin-training in the United States. Today, AMSA is a student-governed, national organization committed to representing the concerns of physicians-intraining. AMSA members are medical students, premedical students, interns, residents and practicing physicians. Founded in 1950, AMSA continues its commitment to improving medical training and the nation’s health. The UCF College of Medicine (COM) chapter of AMSA is proud to support a publication constructed entirely through the dedication of medical students. This resource demonstrates both the passion and creativity of UCF COM’s future physicians, and serves as a reminder of how medicine is intertwined with the many facets of life. David Hutchinson UCF COM AMSA, President