Adam Wilson, M4, Class of 2026
Ninety percent answered correctly I read,
I roll my eyes, inhale, and count to three.
One…
Two…
Unheard but felt— nails on the board,
Hands cup my face to play the chord.
Continue reading “In Your Head”In Your Head
Tag: Poetry
No Longer the Patient
April Ascher, M2, Class of 2028
I knock on the door,
clipboard in hand, heartbeat racing.
The cold, hard plastic chair remains—
but I no longer sit in it.
Rooted in Both
Anonymous
I once believed
what mattered most
was the knowledge I’d secured—
not the pleasantries of weather,
nor the gentle “How are you?”
I clung to decisions
etched in stone,
a great tree fed by facts
and logic alone,
its roots crowding out
the soil of empathy.
Shelter | Hashkiveinu
Brian London, M1, Class of 2028
The sailor seeks the harbor’s hush,
Storm-drunk skies in twilight rush;
Hands wear soft with salt and rope,
Anchored gently, held by hope.
Heart is compass—battered, brave—
Pulses tide through calm and wave;
Veins trace currents, azure lines,
Charting truths in coded signs.
Snowdrops
Sheridan Scott, M2, Class of 2026
A child smiles softly, toy reflex hammer released
a plastic stethoscope still donned
as pudgy fingers fight to apply a Little Mermaid bandaid
over thick, black fur
where Mr. Snuggles’ heart would lie.
A girl counts silently, bag-valve-mask squeezed
a plastic stethoscope no longer sufficient
her hammering heart unwilling to still
as breathing for two people
leads her to wonder
how the woman became so ill.
Older now, naivety removed
like fallen autumn leaves
she knew the burden of illness
and the cruelty of disease,
reflected in patients’ eyes and
mirrored in those who held them dear.
The fragility, unpredictability of time
that causes a loved one’s screams
to overshadow outside noise and etch
a permanent mark in memory
as compressions neglect to replenish
ink into a pen–
unwritten chapters forever blank.
Yet, older now she knew that snowdrops bloomed
despite winter’s unforgiving chill
and knowledge mixed with compassion
achieves incredible feats
and gratitude in patients’ eyes
leaves her feeling unable to speak.
For medicine is most complex
and indescribable at best
to be entrusted with patient care
is an honor above all the rest.
A Home for Baby
Taylor Knowles, M3, Class of 2025
Do you hear crying?
Demanded to move, she
Swallows belongings
And cradles her womb.
”This property is private, or didn’t you see?
You don’t belong near people like me.”
Without help, she scrambles alone
Packing the items that make up her home.
An ache finds her spine like the ache in her heart
For a place to exist and create a new start
But the feet in her womb push her on
Down this path.
Two miles pass and she drops to her knees, crying
In pain as she falls on the street.
Without any medicine, what can you do for a pain so engulfing it hurts just to move?
And yet, in the stillness, the baby won’t rest.
Do you hear crying?
As she’s helped from the ground, the pain overcomes her
But, also, this sound is the cadence and chorus of
Something so sweet—the sound of a battered soul
Finding relief.
I enter her room, my notebook in hand, noting the
Name on her hospital band.
She shares how painful recounting can be, and as
She details her past miseries
I remember we all are just human.
Blood tests and images unfold the truth:
Infections are sprouting in scars from her youth.
Bacteria runs from her heart to her bones and, just
As she does, continues to roam
In search of someplace a new life can survive.
when does the work end?
Aroog Khaliq, M3, Class of 2025
8 o’clock in the morning watching a red moon
blossom on a woman’s neck, holding open the
edges for the carpenters to saw and scrape, to
heal the way they know how—tiny blades, tinier
forges. the small, hurried movements of their
wrists a dance i cannot mimic with any grace,
and there is no room to stumble, not here.
10 o’clock in the morning, my own gloves stained
with blood from my little blunt efforts, retracting
that little moon into fullness, then snipping it into
an eternal crescent. the case is not yet over, even
when the deft hands still and away. still, there are
my bloody gloves, a woman under blue drapes,
wet and dry cloths on her sweet, slumbering face.
10:07, and i find my own deftness in the gentlest
touch, cloth wiping away orange iodine stains
around even the nares. good morning, ma’am—
you were here, and i, too, took care of you.
Love your Patients
Simon Longhi, M3, Class of 2025
Love your Patients.
Her voice shakes
Gaze averts down, slowly,
hiding welled-up eyes.
But she takes a deep breath,
and states
for me:
“I feel like I’m falling apart inside… but, no.
They’re my kids, they’ve got their own lives,
… I can’t put that burden on them.”
I glance down, quickly,
at my quadrant-folded, wrinkled sheet of paper.
Lurching for an anchor– the right thing to say next,
from my scrawled, inadequate
pre-charting mess:
Myra M., 59yo lady, hx MDD moderate in remission, GAD
HR rep, three adult children, married 33 yrs
Lives w/husband (restaurant mgr, stopped working)–
recent frontotemporal dementia dx.
Myra was losing her husband, quickly.
She was becoming alone, slowly.
Her wrenching words,
yet suppressing outright despair.
Self-aware weakness,
yet wearing strength for others.
Devastating dichotomy.
I know this. Feel this.
My lips quiver, my own space behind the eyes
wells up,
because…
I saw my mom, in Myra.
My mom sacrificed everything,
for my sisters–
Autistic. Aggressive. Screaming.
Incontinent. Inconsolable. Seizures.
Innocent. Utterly un-independent.
Too much.
Worry constant, peace extinct.
The whole story feels untellable.
As a kid, processing this,
Puts the proverbial tip of the iceberg
To shame.
But Dad worked, paid the bills,
And really, I got to live free
without that wrenching responsibility.
Because, my mom insisted on it.
… Well, not in words, mostly unspoken
But I promise you, she lived it,
for me.
She may as well have said:
“Simon, I love you, do all that you ever want
with your life – Don’t worry about your sisters, please.
Keep going, don’t hold back, this is not your burden,
I got it. The world is yours, and this burden is mine.”
All of that past
is here now
in this clinic room.
In the span of a second or so, I feel everything
for this patient I just met.
I fold and re-fold the edges of my paper
Grip my pen more tightly,
as if it can absorb my nerves,
and contain a shudder in my chair.
Myra… mom… meaning.
Beautifully blurred lines in my mind.
I know where my compassion comes from,
and I’m proud of that.
But, I’m the healer now.
I have to be strong
this time– for my patient
For Myra.
FOCUS, on taking deeper history,
FOCUS, on forming treatment plan.
Love your patient, sure,
but don’t fall off that cliff of transference.
Yes, take in the view
That harrowing expanse.
But teeter well
on that cliff’s edge
Stay standing.
It’s your solemn duty.
Okay, deep breath–
next questions,
but still, keep listening.
Watery eyes are fine,
but no tears,
not right now.
Guide Myra on.
It’s my calling, my honor–
what my mom
Selflessly
imagined for me
all along.
I love you.
“Oh. Okay. ‘Burden’. Tell me more about that.”
Two sides
Ryan Asauskas, MS3, Class of 2025
So one of them is gone
She just stared ahead
She had one child left inside her and could not dwell on
But, Her face, it grew cherry red
But, Her eyes swelled with tears
But she had tried so hard to make a life
But come to pass was her greatest fear
She would see her child in the afterlife
So long had she tried to make a child
So long had she waited for that new baby’s cry
Now her new life will have to be reconciled
She said goodbye and thank you
She left
So I have another one of them
She said with glee
She had one less child inside and one more outside a new gen
With 5 children now she could not believe her happy reality
Her family thanked and cried tears of joy
All her pregnancies were happy stories in the end
Each one ended with a boy
With only happiness did she have to contend
She said goodbye and thank you
She left
One patient lost a whole world
One patient gained a world unique
One patient after another
One room after another
One emotion after another
One life and one death after another
One face after another
Just one day after another
How do you do that when all you hear is:
Don’t you know that, you’re a doctor
You went to school for so long
I expect you to know biology
I expect you to know chemistry
I expect you to know anatomy
I expect you to understand me
I expect you to help me
I expect you to consul me
I expect you to comfort me
I expect you to save me
I expect you to save my child
Why did you fail
How do you stop this vocation when you hear:
Thank you for listening
Thank you for talking to me, that’s all I needed
Thank you for taking care of them, we couldn’t
Thank you for helping me
Thank you, I feel much better
I trust you doctor, do what is best
I trust you to make the right choice
I trust you with my family, my child, my wife
I trust you with my life
Sonder: A Call to Kindness
Hunter Hiegert, MS3, Class of 2025
A mob of doctors, an entourage of studentsEager to impress, chock-full of prudenceAs rounds persists, patient rooms fly byDespite their smiles, we don’t even say hi
And in the midst as I begin to wonderIn creeps the feeling of immense sonder.Countless lives unique from you and me.Limitless moments of hope, sorrow, and glee.
Stories untold, with lives unknownDreams fulfilled, yet candles unblownThe realization experiences are infiniteA potent sense of overwhelming belittlement
These fleeting thoughts, quick as a breathStill time marches, inevitable deathYet in this vastness, a purpose revealedTo live with kindness, a weapon to wield
Each life in need, a beacon of opportunityAwake each day, emit positivitySo no matter the duty, large or smallEmbrace humanity, our selfless call
Med Intima 