I Can't Let Her Go

She's the mother I loved, hard working and strong.
She cared for my father. My decision was wrong.
I can't let her go.

As her memory fades and she just can't think clearly.
I will fight to the end for her. I love her so dearly.
I can't let her go.

As her kidneys both fail and she has renal cell cancer.
To keep her alive, dialysis is the answer.
I can't let her go.

As her gut becomes stuck. Her bowels will not move.
An operation will cure her. Surgeon, that you must do.
I can't let her go.

As she grows weak and her blood barely flows.
If I could just feed her, I know her strength would grow.
I can't let her go.

As she chokes on the food, the life-giving meal.
She passes in the distance. This just can't be real.
I can't watch her go.

Andrea Cavey
Class of 2014

Walking From The Car

The hospital sleeps, as only a few scattered room lights pierce the dawn

The air is still, quiet, and calm.

During this walk from the car, take a few moments, to find those simple pleasures, and natural beauties, that make you say, "man, life is beautiful", and "it’s going to be a great day."

The blades of grass list to and fro, as the nourishing morning dew glistens on each strand,

The trees reach for the sky, proudly showing their lush collection of summer greenage.

The stars begin to dim, as the sun casts out it’s warming rays

And as you walk from the car… realize… that we are lucky my friends

What will come today?  Surgery? Clinic? Rounding? Will you work on a beating heart? Remove a diseased Colon?  Excise that cancer? Take out that gallbladder? Reroute around the stomach?  

Who will show up in clinic today?  That patient you scrubbed in on two weeks ago should be doing well. 

How is everybody on the floor?  I hope they have been eating, walking, gained bowel and bladder function, and have their pain under control.

But as you walk from the car, remember… that we are lucky my friends, for we have been privileged to wear these white coats.

 As you go about your day, remember… that these white coats are a portal to think critically…. To be compassionate…. To save lives…  to be trusted by complete strangers…. And, well, they are a portal to care for others.

So as you walk from the car….  stand tall….. hold your head up high….. keep a smile on your face…. play a joyous song in your heart…. And take the time to say good morning to a complete stranger.

For this is it my friends… this is the big league… we’ve made it… for we are "student doctors"…. And……well…..“it’s going to be a great day.”

Clark Brewer

Class of 2014

Old Spice

After bedside rounds on the other side of the hospital, I followed Dr. Lantra in the next patient's room.

"How are you today, sir? Has any one shared with you the results of your imaging studies?" he asked upon entering.

The man in the bed raised his head and lifted his wooden garage-door eyes to address the questioning doctor.  His coarse silver and gray hair took the form of the impression left on his pillow.  In another setting I imagined his hair spiking off the top of his head in all directions, reaching for more room to stretch out.

"No, doctor," was his strained reply.  He swallowed.  "No, doctor," he repeated more convincingly.

"The chest x-ray showed a shadow that is suspicious for cancer.  They found a mass on bronchoscopy and sent a piece of it to pathology.  We are still waiting for the results.

He smacked his lips together in a way that made his tattery and tapered beard jiggle back-and-forth for a couple of seconds.  "Okay, then.  We'll wait."

"How's your appetite?"

"Not too good.  I've been sipping on my water; I never did like Jell-O." he said matter of fact.

We felt his belly.  It was firm and full but it wasn't tender.  His bowel sounds were normal.  The abdomen was starkly contrasted to his skeletonized chest wall.  The hospital gown barely stayed on his shoulders, but it didn't seem to bother him.

"Have you ever smoked, Sir?"

The yellow-blonde discoloration of his otherwise silver mustache was evidence enough but he dignified the question anyway.  "Since I was 13 years old.  That makes it, uhm, a little over 50 years." he said to his dutiful grown daughter listening patiently by his side.  Then he looked out of the window.

Taking advantage of the silence, I briefly surveyed the room of this man who was so different from myself.  I noticed his deodorant on the bedside table was only partially capped.  The familiar red cylindrical tube was unmistakably the same brand of deodorant that I had used to freshen up earlier that same morning.

I took a moment to consider what I had just observed and then leaned forward, inching up to the bedside to listen a little closer.

-Brad Schow, 2012

Schizo

“This patient hasn’t been here in years, and I’m going to read over his record before I see him,” said Dr. Smith. “Would you like to go in and talk to him until I come in?” “Sure,” I responded. I knocked and entered, introduced myself as a medical student and asked the patient why he’d come into the clinic that day. While he responded, I realized there was something different about this man, though I couldn’t put my finger on it. Our conversation was normal enough, but his mannerisms and appearance seemed strange. After a short time Dr. Smith entered and our conversation ended.

As the visit continued, I found my mind being dragged back to the Kerrigan Auditorium – back to a Medical Neuroscience lecture! This patient only left his apartment if absolutely necessary – social isolation. He was unshaven, unkempt, and wore ill fitting clothing – poor hygiene. He used to be very active in sports and other activities, but is now very inactive – lack of motivation and anhedonia. He avoided coming to the doctor for years because he believes something bad will happen to him – paranoia. Social isolation, poor hygiene, lack of motivation, anhedonia, paranoia – these are all symptoms of schizophrenia. As it turns out, the patient had been diagnosed with schizophrenia and major depression years earlier. After some impressive interviewing/motivating performed by Dr. Smith, we left the room.

Dan Cieslak
2014

Fifteen Dollars

December 31st, a quiet night planned at home. Pizza and ice cream, Dick Clark, and the Waterford ball’s gleam will make the night complete. My afternoon is spent standing in line at the pizza shop and the custard counter, cheerfully exchanging wishes of “Happy New Year” while ordering pepperoni and sausage. Without much thought or attention, I pull two crisp bills from my wallet to fund our appetite. Fifteen dollars is a small price to pay for an evening of enjoyment, is it not?

Five hours before a new year begins, and the slate is again wiped clean, a shrill beeping sound interrupts the festive atmosphere. “Trauma alert,” the pager reads: “GSW to the thigh, times two, twenty-two year old male.” We stand by the doors of the trauma room, waiting to greet the incoming patient. A whoosh of crisp December air hits our faces as the doors to the ambulance bay open; a young man in bloodied clothes, appearing barely old enough to drive a car, lies listless on the stretcher. As in a well-choreographed dance, the perfectly synchronized team moves the body in one graceful motion to the bed. While the doctors peel back the bandages on his right and left thigh to reveal two gaping wounds, the sheriff recounts the details of the scene. “The patient and a friend were hanging out in his house; they got into a fight over fifteen dollars. The friend grabbed a rifle from the home and fired two shots into the patient.” Two crisp bills from his wallet. Fifteen dollars. An exorbitant price to pay for a youth’s vibrancy and innocence, is it not?

-Julie Owen, 2013

Knowing

I remember it like it was yesterday
10 AM, and I didnʼt know my way
It was my first time and my heart was racing
I entered the room where everyone was pacing

I quickly realized that I wasnʼt alone
the room was packed, there were people on the phone
But maybe it would be better if there werenʼt so many
Cause now theyʼll all know that Iʼm not worth a penny

I donʼt know what Iʼm doing. Have I learned anything?
I hope so ʻcause here comes the patient and Iʼm on the left wing
Heʼs moved to the bed, and that is when I see
True Fear, its in this boy, now Iʼm glad that Iʼm me

Then it all begins the shifting the clatter
Saving this young manʼs life is all that matters
But is that all I ask as I look in his eyes
Heʼs scared not knowing whether he lives or dies

And thatʼs when those words came so loud and clear
“Am I going to be okay?” He had let out his fear
Knowing is what really mattered to him
What was happening ?, was his future bright or dim

Truth is, the small stab wound to his back
was not life threatening, just a small pneumothorax
So we continued our work and started to place,
a chest tube on the left, now the fear increased in his face

And thatʼs when two people came to his side
Trauma nurse 1 and 2 were there if he cried
They gave him their hands and told him to squeeze
Their other hands were placed softly above his knees

I even remember when their foreheads touched
It was almost as if this boy was never loved so much
He now knew that he would be okay
His fears had fallen like the sun at the end of day

Physically everything was performed just right
And as important, he now knew his future was bright
Iʼll never forget that very first time
A teenage boy too young for such a crime

He taught me what matters and what he wanted to hear
It was anything, anything that could wash away his fear
So never forget what things really matter
And before all the chaos and all of the clatter

Talk to them softly, and let them know
Youʼre there and youʼll help them, you wonʼt let them go

- W. Austin Smith, 2012

3 Poems from the Wards

Can I Have a Moment of Your Time?
Running, running, running.
On five hours of sleep
Awake before the rise of dawn,
Beaten and brutalized
From the day before.
A long day
In surgery for 4-8 hours
Then on the wards
With minutes on infinity
Draining like the sand
In an hourglass.
But what am I doing here?
Why doesn’t anyone
Explain? Explain? Explain?
It’s dark
And I feel alone
I feel pain
Inside and out
Confident that no one cares
Because no one will explain.
But alas, I’m wrong.
The medical student cares
She checks on me everyday
Sometimes more than once
Sometimes to listen to my heart
Sometimes just to talk.
She listens to my pain
Because my pain is her pain.
My loneliness and confusion are hers
My heart is her heart.

Non- Accidental Trauma
I don’t want to die.
They don’t want me to live.
You go away!
Please don’t leave me!
I want my mommy.
My mommy did this to me.
I can feel my heart failing.
I can see the light.
Please save me!
I will save you!
I want to live.
In you, we will live.
Thank you for my life.
You’re welcome.

The Interior Decorator
Run down old building
Still inhabited by original tenants.
It’s dark to enter
Need light to start the work.
We need a coat of fresh red paint
To brighten the walls
Or to keep the lung adherent to the pleura.
Take out the old,
The gangrenous gallbladder
The calcified valves.
Tidy up what’s left
By getting rid of debris
And tossing out what no longer fits-
Edematous, inflamed, and neoplastic.
Rework the electricity and the plumbing
With nerve grafts
Arterial bypass
Gastrointestinal anastamoses.
Furnish it new
With gortex, mesh,
And the heart of a donor.
All in a day’s work
For the interior decorator.

-Sharon Chow, 2012