The Red Wheelbarrow (2023)

The Red Wheelbarrow

THE 2023 LITERARY AND ARTS MAGAZINE OF THE UVM LARNER COLLEGE OF MEDICINE

The Red Wheelbarrow

THE 2023 LITERARY AND ARTS MAGAZINE OF THE UVM LARNER COLLEGE OF MEDICINE

so much depends upon a red wheel barrow glazed with rain water beside the white chickens

“THE RED WHEELBARROW”

William Carlos Williams, M.D.

Published in Spring and All (1923)

mission

The Red Wheelbarrow is the student-run magazine for the literary and visual arts at The Robert Larner, M.D. College of Medicine at the University of Vermont. Named after physician-writer William Carlos Williams’ poem, “The Red Wheelbarrow,” our publication aims to capture, cultivate and explore the creative endeavors of the medical and scientific communities—past and present—here at UVM and its clinical education partners.

The Red Wheelbarrow encourages submissions related to the medical humanities—an interdisciplinary field that strives to contextualize and interpret topics including, but not limited to, the medical profession and education, and human health and disease; however, our publication remains inclusive of all ideas and artistic pursuits outside the scope of the medical humanities.

The Red Wheelbarrow is published annually, and welcomes submissions from all members of the Larner College of Medicine, UVM graduate health sciences and biomedical programs, and our clinical affiliates.

EDITORS

Jasmine Bazinet-Phillips, M.S.Ed., Class of 2025, She/Her/Hers

Anirudh Hirve, Class of 2025, He/Him/His

Ana Carissa Homick, Class of 2025, She/Her

FACULTY ADVISOR

Stephen Berns, M.D., FAAHPM, He/Him/His

Professionalism, Communication, and Reflection (PCR) Course Director

Associate Professor, Department of Family Medicine

DESIGN

Ann Howard, She/Her

CONTACT

redwheelbarrowuvm@gmail.com

editor’s note

The Red Wheelbarrow was founded nearly three decades ago, by the University of Vermont medical students as a medium for sharing poetry, prose, photographs, and other artwork that demonstrates an understanding of patients’ lives, caring for the caregivers, and giving a voice to the suffering. This year, we highlight students’ work from the PCR Patient Story Project, an assignment under the four-year medical school course Professionalism Communication Reflection (PCR). The purpose of the PCR course is to foster self-awareness, emotional intelligence, mindfulness, and the capacity to care for self and colleagues. Facilitated by PCR course director Stephen Berns, M.D., associate professor of family medicine and director of education for palliative care, the PCR Patient Story Project brings first-year medical students into the hospital for their earliest encounter with patients. The student’s task is to listen and learn from the patient’s experience regarding their hospital care. After taking the time to speak with a patient at their bedside, students can select an artistic medium

of their choice to create a piece capturing the narrative encounter of their patient’s story. Pieces from the PCR Patient Story Project are joined by artwork from two Larner medical alumni, Kym Boyman, M.D.’99, clinical instructor of obstetrics and gynecology, and Arnie Goran, M.D.’58, as well as three third-year medical students, Sofia Toro Alverez ’25, (myself) Jasmine Bazinet-Phillips ’25, and Angela Russo ’25.

Photographs from Kym’s portfolio are included in this publication as anchoring pieces for student stories and artwork. Arnie submits pieces annually to The Red Wheelbarrow and is an adamant supporter of the publication and the stories it holds. Sofia’s watercolors are inspired by her Obstetrics & Gynecology rotation. Angela’s poem is from her first-patient story project, as a first-year medical student. Lastly, my prose is influenced by my Psychiatry Rotation.

We hope you enjoy this collection of work from our community.

Jasmine Bazinet-Phillips

Class of 2025, She/Her/Hers

Co-Editor, The Red Wheelbarrow

Cows in the Fall

JULIE ADELMAN

Class of 2026, She/Her Katherine Dolbec, M.D., PCR Advisor

“Abstract art frees me from restrictions and allows me to create something that is authentically mine.”

– Wally

Wally is 83 years old. He is a lifelong Vermonter. Wally said he “didn’t have the right stuff” to go into the hard sciences. So, he spent his career teaching English at a private school in Essex Junction. Now retired, he lives with his wife in a retirement community off route 7. They moved there when he was diagnosed with dementia. He is afraid of what his future holds. He lost his sister to dementia and hopes he dies before he’s too far gone.

Dementia isn’t what brought him to the hospital. He’d been on Baird 6 for a week with an intestinal obstruction. He couldn’t eat which made him so hungry that he couldn’t sleep. Wally was bored and depressed. He didn’t want to talk about his medical condition. The hospital staff was nice, but Wally was tired of being there. He wanted to go home and paint.

Wally came alive when he spoke about painting. Wally started to experiment with art after his father passed. His father was a well-respected neurologist who could do anything with his hands. He was a painter and a wood carver: a true artist who could replicate an object from life in minute detail. Wally cried when he spoke about his father’s talents and accomplishments. Painting is Wally’s way of keeping their connection alive. As he developed his skills, he was drawn to the abstract.

To tell Wally’s story, I decided to experiment with abstract art. I am not an artist. The word “abstract” is solidly outside my comfort zone, but I was inspired by Wally. I struggled. I don’t understand abstract art. I don’t know how to manipulate objects in meaningful ways. On top of that, watercolor is a fickle medium. Once you put paint on paper, there’s no going back. Despite my struggles, I had fun with this project. It was nice to mess around and be forced to accept the outcome.

Sticker Crisis on Inpatient Psychiatry Unit

JASMINE BAZINET-PHILLIPS Class of 2025, She/Her/Hers

After leaving the early childhood classroom to study medicine, I did not think I would find myself sitting in a provider room on Shepardson 3 bartering with a resident for stickers. My persistent request for 1 metallic star sticker was painstakingly rejected by the resident’s looming stare, and with one hand outstretched for the stickers, I was reminded of the year-long, visitor policy of a third-year medical student. The unspoken words in the exchange hung callously in the air “there is no fair trade for metallic star stickers-not interested.” But on a curiously warm Spring afternoon, as the sun rose yellower and higher with each passing minute, I found myself once again on the trading floor of the sticker exchange in a sticking debacle with a colleague. It turned out we had both promised our patients stickers in earnest, in the hopes that the added shiny, sparkly sticker encouraged patients to accomplish daily tasks and embrace independence on the inpatient psychiatry unit. To implement a meaningful intervention the

sticker to patient ratio had to be at least 10:1, but there were only ten stickers. And, as it were, for any meaningful intervention in psychiatry it would take time and ultimately the supply of all ten stickers available, if not more, to support one patient. As a third-year medical student the stakes of my first rotation are high, the ever-present medical hierarchy determined that I would defer the iridescent star stickers to the resident. The resident suggested that perhaps in the absence of stickers, my patient could draw a star into the premade chart, a wholly unappealing alternative. I thought of my patient who isolated themselves on the floor and had not yet demonstrated a willingness to open their shades in their room despite the Spring sun hanging in the thawing still air. Prior to realizing the sticker shortage, my treatment team mentioned, with hasty brevity, the sticker chart as one of our next steps in their care. Earnestly, I indulged my need to search for stickers. Armed with preparatory working knowledge, I recognized the stickers were an integral part of my patient’s care and, with proper delivery, could serve as a positive reward for the cluster of requisites,

but indiscernible, mundane daily tasks; tasks that appear as mammoth as the equinoctial sun after a cavernous winter when a person is experiencing Major Depressive Disorder and Complex Bereavement Disorder. Keenly, I left Shepardson 3 in the hospital and walked back to the Office of Medical Education in the Medical School, the place where I learned the basis of compassion needed for patient care for my third year during my PCR Patient Story Project. I walked into the Office of Medical Education declaring, “There is a sticker crisis in the inpatient psychiatry unit!” In haste, the office administrator shared that the office did not have stickers, but she thought perhaps circle sticker labels might do. Overtaxed and under-resourced, I accepted the circle sticker labels as a sufficient exchange and walked back to Shepardson 3. Stickers in hand, I went back to the patient’s room and walked the patient through the process of the sticker chart showing how they could earn stickers each day upon completion of independent tasks. Showering, talking to family members, leaving their room to walk around the unit, eating all three meals, and opening the window shades in their room were now more

visibly up for grabs. The patient sat up from their bed, a gesture slow to come in previous encounters, and put the stickers on the chart in two places: talking to family members and leaving their room to walk around the unit. The patient eagerly shared their two meals of the day and expressed openness to get their third sticker on their chart following their third meal of the day. I explained that the team would checkin each day and that we could add a sticker then. In a classroom buzzing with the loaded anticipation of reprieve from winter’s unchanging demands, a sticker alone can often provide enough positive reinforcement to motivate students to change their behavior. Sometimes when grasping a helping hand, we also need a little visual praise, a budding patch of cartoon wildflowers laid against deteriorated industrial adhesive, to recognize our efforts for when the simple things become the hardest, we’ve ever done.

JOHN RUSTAD

Class of 2026, He/Him

Valley Junction

Katherine Walsh, M.D., PCR Advisor

MALLORY STULTZ

Class of 2026, She/Her Self Expression

Alison Fitzgerald, M.D., PCR Advisor

Don’t Sweat the Small Stuff

TUCKER ANGIER

Class of 2026, He/Him

Dan Weinstein, M.D., PCR Advisor

Carol stared out the window. The sun, starting to fall toward the horizon, was warming the herd. All eighteen of the girls were grazing contentedly, periodically peering over toward the milking barn, passively chewing their cud, not a worry in the world.

Happy.

She could relate. Marty was picking her up around six. Carol was elated. Marty had been the focus of her attention since the fifth grade, and she had tried unsuccessfully for five years to catch his eye. Thankfully Carol’s mother, Marsha, said that she would make sure the girls got put to bed if all her other chores had been completed.

Earlier that day Carol and her field hockey team had won the first state championship match in Vermont’s history. Everyone in Goshen was going out to celebrate. Barnett Trudeau was hosting a barn party

Continued on page 16

and rumor had it that Callum Sinclair had gotten a keg from his parents’ bar. After the game, Carol rushed home to finish her Saturday chores.

“Carol?” She turned around, her mother was in the doorway to the kitchen holding a shovel. “You forgot to muck out the stalls and you know that they’re gonna put up a fight if it smells like shit in there.” Marsha handed Carol the shovel and a bucket for water.

“

Ugh, mom! Can’t you find someone else? I can’t smell like manure; Marty is coming over soon to pick me up.” Carol looked at the clock, it read 4:00, she knew that it wouldn’t take too long to shovel them out. If she went quickly, it could be done before six. She had done it earlier in the week and the cows were spending most of their time outside. However, she had already changed into her nicest dress.

“Marty St. Pierre? Picking you up?” Marsha was skeptical and she laughed, “The first date I went on with your father he had been in the honey wagon all day, spreading manure. If he likes you, he won’t care if you smell a little bit.”

“Mom! I can’t!” Tears were welling up in her eyes, she had been waiting for this day for five whole years.

“Fine, if you can’t do it then you can’t go out with Marty tonight. Responsibility is responsibility. Those girls depend on us, and we depend on them.”

“Alright! Fine, I’ll do it.” Carol ripped the shovel out of her mom’s hand and headed for the barn.

The barn was about one hundred yards from the main house, over a small hill, which collected water at the base on the barn side. She started running at a quick clip, she had to finish in time. In Carol’s haste she crested the hill and slid down the back side, right into the puddle. Laying on her back, in the mud, she started to cry.

Carol sat up and looked down at her dress. Her legs and waist were under the water and the mud. She began to sob uncontrollably. Then, seemingly out of nowhere she felt someone pull her to her feet.

Marsha had seen the whole ordeal and rushed to see if her daughter was alright. When she got to the top of the hill, she started laughing at the sixteenyear-old covered in mud. When she pulled Carol out of the puddle, Carol stopped sobbing.

“Mom, my life is over,” she said sniffling. “I can’t go out anymore. I can’t”

Marsha smiled and held her daughter close, “Don’t sweat the small stuff honey. I got you a dress at Shaw’s the other day. I was going to give it to you for your birthday, but now seems like a more appropriate time. Don’t worry about the barn, I’ll make your brother do it. Let’s get you cleaned up and into that dress before Marty gets here.”

Carol closed her eyes. When she opened them, she was in her hospital room. She must have dozed off. She smiled. While she dreamt a lot, she had not thought about that night with Marty in over forty years and it brought tears to her eyes. Marsha had passed in February and Carol had not seen Marty since their last high school reunion in 2019. She laughed when she thought about her teenage obsession with him. It would make her husband Abbott, a close friend of Marty’s, laugh as well. Abbott was her world, her prom king, her high school sweetheart. Marty had introduced them, and from the first time she laid eyes on him, it was game over. They had raised three boys together in Ferrisburgh, close enough to Goshen where she could go back to visit when needed but far enough where she could have her space, which was also needed. Goshen was a small town, it made sense to create some boundaries, and everyone knew Marsha and what her family was up to.

Life since 1974 was not always easy. Carol thought about her experience working as a Dental Assistant and her time at Champlain College. Her son had battled addiction, and with the support of the community had found sobriety. She was proud of him. He was eight years sober.

Her knee was starting to smart; the pain killers were wearing off. The first knee replacement was life changing, until she needed to get the other one done, and she was confident that this would get her back skiing again. At the very least, it would let her dance at Phish’s New Year’s Run at Madison Square Garden. Abbott had gotten them tickets for their anniversary. She was excited. But even if she couldn’t dance at the show, she would be happy. Her mom made her realize that regardless of what was going on in her life, that she had to live in the moment. Marsha believed that people who got caught up in other people’s lives and believed that the grass was always greener, would never be happy.

Carol pushed the call button for the nurse. They had been a bit slow today, a little bit of pain was OK. She didn’t sweat the small stuff.

The Edge

BRIANA LEGER

Class of 2026, She/Her Jeremiah Dickerson, M.D., PCR Advisor

My journey is not one I take lightly. Heart pounding in my ears, A deep, unrelenting ache in my bones, But with strength, With a dogged determination, I progress. I pass through a river of liquid sapphire. And as it consumes me in its frigid beauty, I pay no mind to the numbing of my fingers, Nor the aching of my back.

For I am fueled by fire And I progress.

As I ascend the steepest of mountains, My legs feel heavy as bricks, But I am unphased.

I drink in the beauty of the vista, Its quiet elegance instills me with vigor, With patience, With devotion.

I bear my weight alone My companions long gone, Lost to the icy river, To the looming mountains, To the gentle earth. And I remain, A responsibility I take with grace.

I know no destination, No safe heaven, No rest in sight.

For my journey is one without end. This I know all too well. And yet, I progress.

While I know that this cannot go on forever, I continue to pull myself forward. My weight has grown heavy, And I have grown weak.

And on the day that I came to the edge, Despite my best efforts, How could I have done anything, But slip?

Red SARAH KOHL

Class of 2026, She/Her/Hers

Caroline Hesko, M.D., PCR Advisor

My life has always been defined by red. I remember the red hamper when I was young. I remember being dropped out of it and hitting my head. And then I don’t remember. My world is now on fire.

Yellow and crimson flames lick at the house I grew up in, the only home I had known until this point. The nightmares about the heat and smoke have not stopped, even 50 years later.

I have been running from the fire my whole life, and now my son runs toward it, braver than I will ever be.

My children astonish me every day with their strength, despite how they grew up.

I stayed with their mother longer than I should have, longer than I could have.

Sickness was no excuse for the searing abuse hurled at my children. I stayed to protect them.

Fiery, red anger fills me now.

This fire is different from what keeps me from what I love doing most in this world. The rush of pinning my opponent to the mat is unlike any other.

Feeling the tension of a joint as I twist it, almost to the breaking point. But the pain. Every joint, every muscle aching, keeping me from my passion.

I clutch at my chest, the burning now inside of me.

Ruby blood pumps through my arteries, blocked from where needed most.

I can leave soon and will continue my scarlet-tinged life.

But soon I will be defined by blues, browns, and greens.

I will go home to my farm and my animals and my plants. And no more red.

Normal

ADAM LEWIS

Class of 2026, He/Him

Mariah McNamara, M.D., and Tabitha Ford, M.D., PCR Advisors

I’m lying in my bed, Dad wakes me up for school, It’s hard to get up but I know I must. I get to school, and the words don’t look like words, it’s hard for me to focus.

Dad tells me I’m normal, but I don’t feel normal.

At 9 years old, I loved Uncle Ken, But I guess he loved me more. She swore she’d keep it a secret, Being a good sister, she told dad anyway. I asked him if this is normal because it doesn’t feel normal.

I got my GED and moved around a lot in my twenties, Working odd jobs to pay the bills. No matter where it was that I went, I never felt like I belonged, but I was okay with it. Is this normal? It doesn’t feel normal.

It was hard being gay in the 80s, It wasn’t as accepted as it is today. I was afraid of people and viruses, But I wasn’t about to pretend to be someone I’m not. Is it normal to live like this? It doesn’t feel normal.

I wasn’t sure if I would ever find love, But I was hopeful for that day.

I met him in DC, in 1989, We were so in love.

Is this feeling normal? It can’t be normal.

I lost him to a drug overdose in 2003, We were together for 14 years. We’d still be together if he were alive, I miss him every day.

Is this normal? I don’t want it to be normal.

My health began to spiral out of control. Diabetes, CAD, renal failure, liver damage, and I was diagnosed with HIV in 2015, I thought this was a death sentence, Medical treatments have come a long way and my HIV is now undetectable. It was a miracle, this wasn’t normal.

I moved to Vermont to take care of my father and be closer to my sister I lost him in February, and my sister no longer answers my calls.

My dad was my best friend. I was heartbroken and stopped taking care of myself, My diabetes was poorly controlled, so my kidneys got worse.

I’ve felt like this before. This feeling is normal.

It’s been 20 days in the hospital, They think I should try dialysis. I have lost everything, and I’m not sure what else I have to live for, I think I’m going to tell them no.

I have done all that I want to in life, death is normal.

I want to apologize

THUYMY-MICHELLE NGUYEN

Class

of

2026, She/They

Katherine Walsh, M.D., PCR Advisor

I want to apologize

At this intersection, you are dazed

The treatment from your fall gained you a new knee

I ask for your story but At this intersection, your words elude you What only escapes instead is

“You speak really good English”

I want to apologize

We are only meeting in passing The impact of your words run deeper than our interaction

“You speak really good English”

I used to wear that with pride.

By age seven, I chased this sensation— Acceptance by exception.

I want to apologize

You will heal from this juncture

But I can’t help to think

At age sixteen, a white woman screaming

“Speak English or leave!”

My mom was just asking What it was I wanted for dinner

How was my mother not shaking?

Being told off caused by her native communication

How did I not see

“You speak really good English”

Was an affront to our family?

KYM BOYMAN, M.D.’99

She/Her

opposite: Mount Abraham, Lincoln, VT

It brought tears to my mother’s eyes— Another way to lose her old life

I want to apologize

SARAH YANG

Class of 2026, She/Her

Still Life of Table in Hospital Room

Jennifer Todd, M.D., PCR Advisor

Miracles, not coincidences

KASSANDRA MASTRAS

Class of 2026, She/Her

John Wax, M.D., PCR Advisor

Heart beating fast, palms sweating, A new white coat. A new identity. A patient, lying in a hospital bed, Filling me with quiet trepidation. What should I ask? How much are they willing to share?

How will their story affect me?

There is a fear of intruding into their life, of exploiting their story. My curiosity, overcome by apprehension.

Joyce.

Artistic, creative, imaginative.

Always a crafter, a knitter, deterred from the medical profession of her father and brother. A self-taught artist who found her passion later in life.

As she says, she is a lesson that you can do anything with passion and practice. A landscape painter turned portraitist during the pandemic, Whose work has left a lasting impact on her patrons.

Everything changed over the past summer. Fatigue, loss of interest in painting. She began to lose herself. The onset of her illness.

But it would take months for a diagnosis,

The reality of living near a small, overwhelmed clinic. After incorrect diagnoses, medication, MRI delays, and a distant ER visit, Finally an answer that brought both relief and shock.

Non-Hodgkin’s lymphoma.

You can’t predict anything in life, she says. She becomes teary-eyed, but not because of her illness. Her best friend died the day before, in the same hospital. And she was able to see her, hold her hand, sing to her. She was able to take part in the honor walk for her friend’s organ donation.

My friend is a hero, she says.

An impact even in death.

Miracles, not coincidences.

An unexpected change gave her an extra night in the hospital.

An extra night to visit her friend.

An extra night to take part in the donor walk.

An extra night to say goodbye.

A cancer diagnosis. A best friend’s death. You don’t know what is going to happen, she repeats. But sometimes you have to believe in miracles.

More to Lose

ERZSIE NAGY

Class of 2026, They/She

Amalia Kane M.D., PCR Advisor

Shades of rose

standard tuning - key: C - capo: 4th fret.

Memories made for stories we told

Just yesterday

I held her hand, the look on her face

A piece of advice

It takes a lot of work to keep a wife

And when we get older, do we get wiser Or do we just get more to lose?

Nobody taught me how to be lonely

Now I’m living a life that I didn’t choose

Guess I’m lucky enough to have things to lose

Which would you choose?

Your body or your mind to lose

Lost and confused

JAS

MACIAS

Class of 2026, She/Her

opposite: Road to Recovery

John Wax, M.D., PCR Advisor

The only way to forget the rules Or stuck in a bed

Can’t outrun the thoughts in my own head

And when we get older, do we get wiser Or do we just get more to lose?

Nobody taught me how to be lonely

Now I’m living a life that I didn’t choose

Nobody’s left I fall asleep to the sound of my own breath How does it end?

I’m asking for myself and for my friends

And when we get older, do we get wiser Or do we just get more to lose?

Nobody taught me how to be lonely

Now I’m living a life that I didn’t choose

Is it easier with fewer things to lose?

A Letter to a Younger Self

CASEY NORTON

Class of 2026, He/Him

Caroline Hesko, M.D., PCR Advisor

To a younger me:

I want you to know, you did a great job. Not everyone gets to look back on there life and say they would do it all again, and even though these last few years haven’t been the best, I would absolutely do it all again. I’ve had a lot of time to reflect on our life, 102 days in the hospital last year to be exact. I know that sounds horrible, and don’t get me wrong it was, but everything is okay now. I came in with chest pain that resulted in me needing a coronary artery bypass graft that seemingly went fine, until I developed an infection that no one could seem to get under control. It began to infect the valves of my heart, every organ in my body, and resulted in me being constantly cut open and wrapped like leftovers with saran wrap, as they tried to remove parts of the infection, dose me with intense antibiotics, and ultimately figure out the problem 100 days later. It scared the daylights out of the entire family, but it brought everyone back

to Burlington and reminded us just how important family is.

It was in those 102 days that I started to think about you, but it wasn’t until this hospitalization that I decided to write. I don’t know when you’re reading this, but I want to let you know how things work out. The stress and lack of love you feel from your family because of what they keep calling strong Italian roots, that makes you into an incredible wife and mother. So incredible in fact that one of the first things you tell your to be husband is that no matter how rich or poor you are, if you are driving past a creemee stand and your kids want an ice cream, it doesn’t matter if it’s the last dime to your name you are getting them that creemee. You’ve built a home full of love, with two loving daughters, and rescued your now son-in-law from a terrible home situation, don’t worry about that you’ll know what to do when it comes happens.

And that husband I mentioned, he’s the cute boy in the Sears catalog that you keep admiring. He takes you on an ice-skating date when you two are fifteen and you never look back. He starts a heating and cooling company right here in Burlington, so you always have enough money to get your kids a creemee. Now he did pass away a couple of years ago, but I want you to know that it was an incredible marriage, and his memory lives on with your grandkids in a couple of silly traditions. Like how we still decorate his grave for Halloween like he asked, so it looks like someone is coming out of it.

Sorry for being all over the place I just have so much I want to share. You’re probably thinking wait, what the heck happened that I’m in the hospital AGAIN! Well, this time I’m 82, found out I have a fatty liver, and need to have a defibrillator put in to help keep my heart going if my heart rate gets to low. You see after the first hospitalization; I did everything I could to make sure I was there for my family in every way possible. I lost 50 pounds and was at every single soccer game, I even rode my scooter onto the field right when I got out of the hospital! The other grandmothers thought I should be embarrassed but I said this meemaw is going to be at every game regardless of what it takes because I want

my grandkids to know I love them. But even though I did everything I could, with the infection and the procedures, the doctors warned me this would happen eventually.

Now even though I don’t like to admit it, my hospitalizations and health problems have slowed me down a bit, but they’ve brought me and my sonin-law closer than you can imagine. He helps drive me around town, brings me to Costco where we laugh while he pretends to make a scene about me being a senile old lady. It’s brought my daughter who moved away back to the area. It’s given me a new outlook on life. Reminding me that I never want my kids or grandkids to forget how much I love them.

These last few years sound horrible, a long hospitalization, losing a husband, back in the hospital, but like I said, everything you’re doing, you’re doing right. Don’t. change. a. thing. This path brings you right where you need to be, and the little (sometimes big) hiccups only bring more love and happiness into your life. Keep smiling, keep being yourself, and keep getting creemees!

KYM BOYMAN, M.D.’99

She/Her Tranquility

Steven

HAYDEN CHRISTENSEN

Class of 2026, He/Him/His Katherine Walsh, M.D., PCR Advisor

A fiery sharpness billows through my neck, It’s just shingles they say.

Months later and I’ve fallen to my back; Everything fades gray.

I wake up to white walls and coats imposed. The surgery went well, they say. My neck is braced and I can’t feel my toes. Screws and rods make new vertebrae.

Who can we call? Your family? They ask;

A memory stirs and pierces me with pain. A prison sentence served—both parents passed.

I never should’ve touched that damn cocaine. My girlfriend’s here and light refills my eyes.

I’m walking now, in pain but I’m alive. Maybe soon I’ll hold my daughter’s gaze, A kinship I hope that I might revive.

Despite what comes my spirits will stay high. That’s what my mom would want for me today. I’ve been beat down by life but I’ll still try To make a better life for me someday.

To Listen

IAN STROHBEHN

Class of 2026, He/Him

Frank Ittleman, M.D., PCR Advisor

So many twists and turns

Had brought Richard to where he was now

Sitting in a room on Miller 3

Long wispy white hair and beard

Keeping warm under a blanket

We could have talked about his hospital stay

How aneurysms in both legs required surgery

What medications he was on

If he liked the hospital food

But instead we talked about his winding path

His time at Goddard College

Where he ran not one but two radio shows

And befriended the future members of Phish

But was later kicked out

We talked about his life afterwards

His odd jobs

His mental health diagnoses

His loss of two close friends to overdoses

His loneliness

Mostly we talked about what kept him going

Where he said little about other things

He gushed about music

The many bands he had seen live

The instruments he played

The differences in sound quality

Between then versus now

He described music in ways I had never heard

But that made complete sense when he said them

Like how music can sound

Like the items towards the front of a shop window

Or like the items far in the back

Despite his arduous life

More difficult than anything I had endured

He had something that made it worthwhile

And I wondered

What would be my one thing

If I were in his shoes?

His life will still be hard after leaving the hospital

No car to drive to the grocery store

Limited mobility to get to the bus

Few friends to help him out

I wanted to lend a hand

But all I could do was listen

Heart

MIKAELA MARI

Class of 2026, She/Her

Frank Ittleman, M.D., PCR Advisor

There once was a boy

Alone with time

With growing hands

Who lifted steel beams up to tremendous heights

And helped create home for people who had none

Fought against grief for a living

There once was a boy

Who listened to the spirits

And bowed deeply to the universe

Who learned and unlearned the art of peace, Learning and unlearning himself in the process

There once was a boy

Who held his center

As things descended without warning

Labor wasted, ambitions worn, As the grief he fought became a river

He was unable to bend with

There once was a boy

Who grew old

But still truly a boy

Still alone with time hands no longer growing, though the heart still has room.

SOFIA TORO ALVAREZ

Class of 2025, She/Her/Hers

opposite, left to right: Flourish, My Children; The Garden is in Bloom

above, left to right: Pain Takes the Crown; I’ve... Had... Enough of This

Pancreas

CHRISTOPHER PHAM

Class of 2026, He/Him

Nina Gluchowski, M.D., PCR Advisor

There’s a malignancy that affects many students in early medical education. It’s a subtle, insidious condition that few recognize initially. Lecturers predispose their students to this condition unknowingly - with throw away comments about the human body. We’ve all heard asides like “this is the brain, that’s all there is,” or “you only feel that way because of the chemicals in your brain. It’s all circumstance.” Through remarks like these, humans— and patients in particular—are reduced to soulless, frequently malfunctioning biological robots. This outlook places a burden on the mind and spirit, slowly eroding a student’s appreciation of the diversity of human experience and the value of peoples’ rich lives.

I’m hardly immune to these potent narratives. Although I’ve never been satisfied with this

reductionist view, I can’t pretend like I know for certain that a soul exists or say where it lives in the body. But maybe the antidote is simpler than that. The idea that we are no more than the sum of our parts is simultaneously over-reaching and myopic. It ignores so much of what actually happens in daily life that keeps us living. Nothing has convinced me of this more than Ben’s story.

It is immediately apparent in talking to Ben that his pancreatitis is more than just a physical ailment. A simple “tell me about yourself,” reveals a battle against spiritual and existential malaise. In the quiet, convalescent voice of someone who has had plentiful time to reflect on his life, he recalls to me what has happened to his body. His career as a mechanic has allowed him to understand the technical and

medical aspects of his condition in so much more detail than my fledgling knowledge of the GI tract could comprehend. Beyond that, Ben’s pancreatitis is: alcohol to cope with the crushing deaths of his parents and wife. It is a nadir in his life, his Sisyphean boulder having become too heavy to handle on his own. It is gratitude to his wife’s parents, who help him with his 6 year old son Jason, and his coworkers at the auto shop who support him in more ways than can be expressed. It is a rekindling of his resolve to live the best life he can, in the hopes of teaching Jason to fish and hunt like his father taught him.

Of all the things we have learned that come out of the pancreas, I did not expect to find all this. From a description of his pancreatitis, Ben showed me his heart. He is a true community man, wanting the best

for his son, in-laws, and coworkers he supervises, and we agreed at the end of our conversation that he deserves to put the same energy into himself. No level of pathophysiology knowledge could have given me access to this person, defying the reductionist view of human personhood. Maybe humans are more than the sum of their parts, just like weather and traffic transcend the behavior of wind and individual cars to become unpredictable. Ben’s battle for his own spirit has helped inoculate me against the bleakness of the reductionist worldview. I still can’t say for certain if anything like a soul exists. But if it does, maybe Ben’s soul lives in his pancreas.

ARNIE GORAN, M.D.’58

He/Him Staatsburg Taxi

the attic

ANGELA RUSSO

Class of 2025, She/Her Devika Singh, M.D., PCR Advisor

i didn’t put my safety goggles down we’ve been masked in our homes for eighteen months, the last thing we need is to see less everyone looks the same in a half snapped hospital gown

it’s khakis and a button down a plaid skirt and collared blouse in seventh grade buttoned over a My Chemical Romance t-shirt

the armor we build over the years is like a bird’s nest it takes so much time to gather the twigs yet one strong wind can blow us apart we look around at our home scattered on the ground and say “damn, I wish I could have seen this coming”

the only people called to help are the architects they ask how many rooms are in the house and try to rebuild but nobody thinks to count the attic the attic is a messy place

the books in there have pages so thin you could dig to the core of the Earth with one flip the picture of you in 1992 well-oiled like a Model T that’ll never stall they don’t even look at the walls

of the living room

a curated museum of your hard work three quarters of a bear leaping out but the deer do not run to the kitchen

a bottle of Burnetts by the toaster a burn to look forward to even after earning your one way ticket outta Hell

“you look well”

you wait all day to hear those words only to hear them again the next but nothing changes the best part of the day when you escape to light a fire on the end of a half-smoked butt nobody ever asking what lights it beneath yours then we snuck in through the scuttle with no warning babbling like the river leading your arrow to wherever it needed to go

we don’t need to have a destination to know we’re going the right way

the storm inside us so strong it’ll blow your roof clear the sky for your little boy yelling “Papa, I got one”

and holding a bare dandelion to the sun the ground around him scattered with wishes his heart spilling out after them it is so soft

you pick it up and hold it close to yours it heals the poison better than any drug

you lie awake at night with your eyes fixed on the clock knowing there must be more to it than what they can see there just must be

ARNIE GORAN, M.D.’58

He/Him

Larner College of Medicine Watertower

The Red Wheelbarrow

THE 2023 LITERARY AND ARTS MAGAZINE OF THE UVM LARNER COLLEGE OF MEDICINE