Prayer #1

We gather here together
pitting
what we know
against the inevitable
in hopes of causing Him to stumble, mis-step,
fail.
But how can we succeed?


What do we know
of plans or promises
made in back rooms for Faustian treasures
or momentary bliss.


You thought I should know
but I didn't
not because I was stupid
or uninformed
but because
somethings just aren't
in that realm.


Pleading ignorance though is
no excuse
in the eyes of the law
or the patient.


We measure salts
in body juices to ridiculous accuracy
cradled in false senses of security
as if we understood from where these rivers flowed


You must understand that
to transfer information,
learned in panic
to avoid failing
an endless series of sweated tests,
into modern miracles of salvation
is difficult work
requiring talents long forgotten
hidden among dreams deep below.

Daniel J. Brauner, M.D.
University of Illinois
College of Medicine-Chicago

---

A Part Within

Adjacent we stand, yet worlds apart. We shall never meet.
Before you I stand content; you stand wanting.
A smile upon my face for all the world to see,
And with your twisted face you smile and laugh at me.
"Ignorant boy, you know not the true nature of the world."
I feel no desire to respond though my thoughts differ greatly.


As the two sides of a coin, together, we see the world apart.
I thirst for knowledge; you hunger for money.
You draw power and pleasure through others' pain.
Powerless, I can only observe your actions.
"Simple young man, see what you are missing."
I am not tempted by your life of deception.


In a mirror, I see your image, but it does not speak your words.
I stand before you dreaming; you stand before me dying.
As you lived your life off others, a tumor now lives off you.
There is nothing I can do, and there is pain within us both.
"Foolish man, this darkness was your own doing."
Together, silent, we sit surrounded by our pain.


As free men, we are free to bring this upon ourselves.
I stand at peace before you; you barely stand at all.
Together in a weakened state, we stand facing one another.
Old and stubborn we do not embrace.
11 do not hate you old man though you've brought this on us both."
And death unites a sadly separated existence.

Paul S. Nourbash
University of Illinois
College of Medicine-Chicago, 1992
Third Place Winner

---

The Lost Urine Sample

From hand to hand it went

that lost sample of someone's body,

At first warm to the touch

it felt wet and leaky

after so many hours on desk- and counter-tops;

So much information in a few ounces of yellow

of filtered, sterilized, refiltered human debris, forgotten,

Lost because someone failed to

Be sure to label the bottom;

When it finally settled, and was found,

It couldn't be used but a new, fresh one was ordered

The same way the dying patient ordered extra french bread.

Frank Papatheofanis, Ph.D.
University of Illinois
College of Medicine-Chicago, 1991

---

I Do It For The Dough

I've been up all night and the night before that
I can't remember the last time I sat
The bags under my eyes have merged with my beard
My patients' eyes say this guy is weird
I've got grade six stomach rowls
Nurse please hold all of my calls
My car's been towed, my rent is late
My lawn's not mowed, my stuff's in crates
I have no drapes or shower curtain
But I'm never home so that's not certain
I think I have a wife and kids
How many? do I hear and bids
I'm over my head in overhead pages
We're out of beds? how about cages?
My beeper is on overload
It's even got too hot to hold
Did I hear someone call a code
Am I really twenty-six years old
There are six different body fluids on my scrubs
I've been this slopped on before but only in pubs
Five more admits just hit the floor
Am I ahead? who's keeping score
I'm starting to get a little H and Peed
Especially when they have to bleed
I'm off at six only two hours to go
This job is tough, but I do it for the dough

John Burton
University of Illinois
College of Medicine-Urbana
Medical Scholars Program

---

The Last Dance

My patient was a dancer
the contour of her face
infinitely delicate
set in hardened determination
her sunken eyes
betrayed the fire behind her fight
She never spoke
but told me of her pain
with each examination
and injection
her cries filled the silent music
echoing through her room.


Last night
on rounds
I saw her dance
against the shadows on the wall
her gown fluttering
with whispers of bittersweet peace
so exquisite
her tiny feet lifting above the sheets
I turned away at the orchestra . s finale
closing the door on her final bow
—the monotone wail from the EKG machine
followed me down the hall.

Julie Pease
University of Illinois
College of Medicine-Chicago, 1991

---

One Heart Beat

I'm watching one heart beat at a time
Nothing I do changes the fact that this man is dying
I'm watching one heart beat at a time

I have my routine I know it all too well
I treat the rhythm, I don't let thinking interfere
But this one is so young
why won't he respond
I take over- compressions myself and I pound
Maybe my touch, Maybe my hands can hold him here

I'm watching one hear-t beat at a time
It's not my fault I can't save this life but I'm trying
I'm watching one hear-t beat at a time

I sweat, I shout orders, I'm out of breath
our ages are so close, I'm trying to save myself
We've given this guy every chance
The time for something to happen has long been past
I'm not fighting the odds, I'm fighting the facts

I'm watching one heart beat at a time
God help me save this one, please show me a sign
I'm watching one heart beat at a time

The room has taken one that certain sanctity
They all look at me with eyes that know
Soon they'll be saying it out loud
I should have called this code, but no
It's so easy to say when you're not in control
I'm the one that has to give him up
and I'm watching one heart beat at a time

I'm watching one heart beat at a time
One heart beat at a time
One heart beat
One heart beat
One heart beat

John Burton
University of Illinois
College of Medicine-Urbana
Medical Scholars Program
Second Place Winner

---

Re-Birth

As the smoke drifted slowly over the field only
the mumblings of the team - barely audible
could be heard.

The language was somehow foreign, filled with
obscure references, quotes and an
occasional joke.

The smell was equally unnatural - like
something burned, seared
and dead.

The work had just begun and already the
quiet, sterile atmosphere
was overwhelming.

The purpose and meaning of what was happening
had been lost, it was a
technical game now.

Methodically, almost rhythmically the team burrowed
their way into the field - the tools of their
trade heralded at their fingertips.

A battle had been waged - the foe unknown as yet
with a bystander as innocent
as yourself.

"Time to close" - slowly, deliberately the field
passed away and an individual
re-appeared.

Once again the necessity of their action was
apparent - the ritual
was complete.

The traces of the day's work
would heal -
in time.

This person, with a life his own, was
born again - the same,
almost.

Robert Lewis
University of Illinois
College of Medicine-Peoria, 1989

---

Family Practice

After years of their ten minute visits
with complaints and disorders,
then you begin to know this family.
Now they hold hands in your office,
breathing out hope with their worry.


With her back tensed and knees pressed together,
she grasps the red ink
charting tides of her temperature,
a calculus of fertility laid out on a grid.


His belly holds a sensation
that comes on quite slowly and goes out with a kick.
His appetite's been good (very good, really),
but the mornings are spoiled by nausea.


He's gained weight in six months,
his new roundness spills over.
The stretch marks tell of his rapid expansion.
His dreams of a son to play ball with
are now sketched in the lines of a graph.


They have tried it all:
the specialists,
the acrobatics,
the vitamins,
the prayers for conception.


Now a few words of comfort,
never learned from a textbook,
can bind psyche and cell,
and help heal this family.

James Black
University of Illinois
College of Medicine-Urbana
Medical Scholars Program

---

EDITOR'S NOTE: Although our policy in the past has been to print poems and stories which solely deal with medically related topics, we have allowed the publication of "Stepping" as an exception to this guideline. In light of "One Step at a Time" on the following pages, the two images of stepping provide an insightful contrast when juxtaposed. Since illness and disability are at the core of the medical professions, a simple act such as walking can be perceived with new meaning, as demonstrated by these two poems.—J.P.

Stepping

She creates unique rhythms
beaten out in double-time
as she steps, steps, steps down the street.

Dusky hair braided in corn rows
African beads swinging to and 'fro
She just steps, steps, steps to a beat.

Keys jingling in her hand
hips a tockin', to beat the bdnd
dS she steps, steps, steps down the street.

It's the kids who're having a ball
rocking to her- rhythm one and all
they go step, step, stepping to her beat.

Grown-ups passing didn't stop or stare
it was her rhythm made them aware
that she was step, step, stepping down the street

Sometimes she'd laugh, no telling why
she even smiled at passersby
as she stepped, stepped, stepped down the street

She was rhyming to some inner song
making her happy and loving and strong
as she stepped, stepped, stepped to its beat.

Her joy's contagious it will make you strong
help you to find your own inner song
as you step, step, step to her beat.

When you see her, don't be shy
woman's got a beat, don't need to wonder why,
just go step, step, stepping down the street.

Juanita Elizabeth Carroll
University of Illinois
College of Medicine-Urbana, 1992

---

One Step at a Time

                  Stand?! 
                      They want me to stand up with my back brace on. 
                          I have been lying flat for days, 
                              or what seems to be an eternity. 
                      My nervous system has been fooled and now rebels. 
                          I am now dizzy lying flat. 
                      I have been rolled from side to side in order 
                              to restore my body's sense of equilibrium. 
                      Yesterday, I first sat up 
                              feeling too dizzy.  It seems that I cannot win, 
                                  sitting up, but I cannot lie flat forever. 
                          I am too nauseated.  I cannot eat or drink. 

                  Stand?! 

                      They want me to stand up with my back brace on. 
                      I move to the edge of my bed, slowly, to sit. 
                              The room is rocking. 
                              Someone stop the rocking please, I think 
                                  I may throw up. 
                          My heart is pounding, racing. 
                              I cannot breathe fast enough. 
                              I am one mass of cold sweat, shivering. 

                      They watch and wait with their wheelchair. 
                          "What is wrong?" I'm dizzy. 
                              I feel tears welling up in my eyes. 
                          "What is wrong?" I'm dizzy, I said again. 
                              Can't you see? 
                              Can't you see the room rock? 
                              Can't you see how sweaty I am? 

                                  No, they cannot see 
                                      the nausea 
                                      or the tears welling up. 
                              I look around the room at them 
                                  helpless in helping me. 

                  Stand?! 

                      I must stand.  I cannot lie in bed forever. 
                              The dizziness  has followed me there. 
                          They prop me up.   My legs are weak. 
                          What has happened  to my muscles? I am 
                                  a spindly  rag doll 
                                        with a back brace on 
                                             about to fall. 
                          I stand, my heart  racing, my body sweating, 
                                   my head pounding. 

                   "My, you're so tall!" Of course, 
                        they have not seen me except in bed. 
                I shuffle three steps to the chair, falling into it. 
                        I want my bed. 
                   My back is sore.  I am dizzy. 
                        I must calm myself down, 
                              breathe slowly and deeply or 
                                  I might throw up. 

                Stand?! 

                   Physical therapy instructs me in how to stand, 
                              using a walker. 
                        How could I have taken walking 
                              for granted? 
                   I am taught how to walk forward 
                                  one step at a time. 
                              I manage ten feet ... what seems to be 
                                  ten miles. 

                              The nausea, 
                                  the pounding in my head, 
                                       the cold sweat 
                                           are greeted by 
                                                a stiffness in my back. 
                        I appear to the outside world as if 
                              I am being tortured, in extreme agony. 
                                   That is how I feel. 
                   How could I have taken walking 
                              for granted? 

                   So I am taught. 

                   One step at a time. 

Mary N. Gerard
Loyola University
Stritch School of Medicine, 1989

---

The Children I See

Dedicated to Brandon Lee Robinson
9 West, St. Louis Children's Hospital

Children ...
laughing, loving, playing, being.
So simple, innocent, and carefree.
jumping brooks
splashing in mud puddles
fingerpainting colorful pictures
saying, "Hi!" to all who pass by
eating hot chocolate chip cookies
as many as they can.


A chosen few...
Hurting within. Growing more silent as the days pass by.
Refusing nourishment and unable to sleep. Disappointed
with restrictions that they must adhere to—hoping for
another day. Longing for the comfort of Mother.
Fearful of strangers who inflict pain to save him—
only to live as so few children do.
Fearing needles and painful procedure, instead of the dark.
Playing quietly in bed, instead of swinging in a swing
in the park. Facing death and separation at a young,
innocent and seemingly 'unjust' age.
Watching their parents grieve at the sight of their pain
and over the anticipation of losing them. Hoping to escape
from hospital walls to return to the comfort and familiarity
of home. Longing to play with friends and to be surrounded
by family. To be free from pain—to be free to live.

Sheryl Wiegand, R.N.
Bethaltho, IL

---

Too Small

The hands too small to clench his own palms
Feet too tiny for the smallest of shoes
The feeble legs and more futile arms
In a miniature greenhouse with grow light in view.


And with each breath 1 see every rib
The picture of a most emaciated man
But against the ventilator fights,this child
Who weighs merely 600 grams.


And the creature's head—misshapen and wrinkled
Has a severe hemorrhage inside
For each painful moment releases
A silent, yet definitive, cry.


Staring at him in sheer wonder ...
In amazemerit-as I ponder his fate
The struggle the auspices under
Technology-rendered hellacious state


But for his parents attends my greatest chagrin
"When can the baby come home?"
They've brought oversized clothes to dress him in
Can only ask "What did we do Wrong?"

Mark Dawson, M.D.
Resident, Internal Medicine and Pediatrics
Cook County Hospital, Chicago

---

Hydrocephalic Susie

The fluid fills. Your head
is huger daily.
Wringing hands pace worry
into your eyes, back-and-forth.
They roll. Like my china doll,
you have a house, here.
I'll come play.

Dipali V. Apte
University of Illinois
College of Medicine-Urbana
Medical Scholars Program

---

The Great Pediatric Myth

Kids. Delightful little kids. Warm, playful, happy little kids.
It was time to start my pediatrics rotation. Yes, it was time to have some fun.
I would be the wise, confident medical student in the dazzling white lab coat, gently reassuring distressed young mothers. I would calm the crying infants and toddlers with Mr. Rogers-like compassion. Before their tears even had a chance to dry from their pudgy cheeks, I would have diagnosed and effectively treated their illnesses. Then those adorable little rug rats would wave goodbye to me affectionately, heading home to their land of Fisher-Price-induced happiness, presweetened cereals and Saturday morning cartoons.
At least, that's the way I had always imagined it would be. Then again, I'm the kind of naive, starry-eyed guy who believes President Bush when he says he won't raise taxes in the next four years.
Early in my pediatrics rotation, I learned the disappointing truth—ill, cranky children do not view the student doctor as a savior and a healer. No, instead he is the EVIL ENEMY, a Darth Vader-like force whose only life's mission is to torture innocent children with his cold stethoscope and dreaded tongue depressors.
But not to worry. Every child instinctively knows of his own innate ability to defend himself against the white-jacketed giant. Even the smallest infant possesses a secret arsenal of assorted weaponry, so perfectly suited to making a medical student's life miserable.
First, before even stepping foot in the examining room, I would be met by the infant's first line of defense—the MEGA-DECIBEL CRY. This high-frequency, unremitting shriek travels through the air at the speed of sound, savagely ripping holes through the eardrums of unsuspecting health care workers.
But I am not to be turned back. I open the door to the examining room and find the infantile warrior in his mother's lap. He follows me with an icy glare as I enter the room.
I move closer, and he counters my advances with his second line of defense—GERM WARFARE. He emits a series of hurricane-like coughs in rapid succession, scattering droplets of highly infectious organisms throughout the atmosphere, predominantly in the direction of my face. I wonder to myself whether I remembered to take my vitamins this morning.
"Hello, Mrs. Ramirez," I say. ullm the medical student working with the doctors here. Can you tell me what's wrong with your baby today?" The mother smiles and nods.
I wait for a reply, but she says nothing. "What brings your little boy to the clinic today?" I ask again. Mrs. Ramirez just smiles.
Then, sensing my growing impatience, she provides me with some critical information that is always useful to know when taking a good, thorough medical history.
"No hablo ingles," she says. The baby looks at me with a smug satisfaction, knowing that I now must call for the Spanish interpreter before proceeding with my assault.
The interpreter arrives, and after some brief conversation with the mother, tells me, "The mother says that the baby has a bad cold and has also been vomiting."
The world's most common pediatric symptoms. No problem, I say to myself as I extend my arms to take the baby from the mom. After all, I know the importance of establishing early rapport with your patient. But the baby interprets my well-intentioned gesture as a sign of aggression. As I gather him into my arms and cradle his head against my shoulder, he struggles, screams, and repeatedly delivers surprisingly powerful kicks to my ribcage.
The little guy cries loudly and persistently, but I gently pat his back and assure him that there are no hard feelings. Miraculously, he stops crying.
"See, sometimes you just have to know how to handle these kids," I boast to the interpreter. But before I have even finished this statement, the baby has expelled a large volume of yellow-green vomitus onto my previously white jacket. The little warrior wins another battle, this time with short-range ballistics.
His mother says something to me in Spanish.
"I suppose she's apologizing for her son's very rude behavior," I ask the interpreter.
No, she says that this is exactly the same color vomit that the baby is having at home."
"Thank her for that very enlightening information," I say as I remove my jacket.
Soon it is time for the physical exam, a tremendous feat requiring both the strength of a Rush Street bouncer and the manipulativeness of a Chicago politician.
With one arm, I pin the little bundle of atomic energy to the examining table, while with the other hand, I place my stethoscope on his chest. As he screams incessantly, I try to make an accurate assessment of the infant's heart and breath sounds, the equivalent of trying to hear your watch tick at a rock concert.
In one final gesture of unbridled hostility, the infant reaches up, grasps the tubing of my stethoscope, and yanks furiously. Which is no big deal, except for the fact that the other end of the instrument is snugly positioned in my own very delicate auditory canals.
I wince momentarily and begin to consider geriatrics as a medical specialty.
Well, my eight-week pediatrics clerkship is just about finished. But still, whenever I talk to family and non-medical friends about it, they inevitably make comments like, "I bet pediatrics must be so much fun!", or "I'm sure those kids are the cutest things in the world!" When I hear that, I just have to smile to myself, remembering my own idealism before I started.
Anyway, lately I've wondering. How on earth does George Bush ever think he's going to balance the budget, anyway?

David Dvorak
University of Illinois
College of Medicine-Chicago, 1990

---

A Street Scene in Lebanon, or Ireland, or Iran, or India,
or Just About Anywhere

The camera's merciless eye
Watches coldly as the water
Swirls across a drain
Disposing of blood and brain.
Smallest elements of a person
Who recently disintegrated
In a flash of energy.
Larger fragments collected
In a sombre plastic bag.
Thus disposed, a loved one
Who laughed and cried
And behaved just like the rest of us
But above all, was innocent.
Their only crime to exist for that
Brief instant of time and space
Unique to coincide with a device
placed by heroes determined
To claim another course.
Oh camera, turn away
This isn't fit for viewers now.
God help these unhuman angels of death
But it is God's matter, let him decide.
The destroyed and their destroyers
Must be united by their Maker
In some unique time and place.
With human instincts we can only hope
For justice.

Michael J. Groves, Ph.D., F.P.S.
University of Illinois at Chicago
College of Pharmacy

---

Homeless

Cold climbs my legs.
A man carries his house.
He waits under an awning
for the rain to stop.

Dipali V. Apte
University of Illinois
College of Medicine-Urbana
Medical Scholars Program

---

Case Study of a Burnt Offering

The scalded flesh chronicles the disaster
His body lies rigid and reeks of burnt pagan offerings


What crater was he dropped into,
Screams of pain charring his soul and leaving his body
the Dorian Gray witness?


And just when the soul was ready to flick its ashes at life
An eruptive puke flung him back to be resurrected.

Feiruz Shehadi
Admissions and Records Officer III
University of Illinois at Chicago
College of Art, Architecture, and Urban Planning

---

Silent Rage

There is one
Who is many
Who are only one


Together they stand apart
Apart they are together


Never knowing
Or caring
How with others
They are sharing
The burden
Of desire
To be more than
Less than human


Always they are
Listening, never speaking
Dreaming, never doing
Seeking, never finding
Satisfaction in just being
Angry shells of empty men

Joseph K. Gerwin
University of Illinois
College of Medicine-Chicago, 1992

---

Last Year ..... Last Week

LASI YEAR ...

"Good night, honey." A tender kiss.
"Good night, babe. Don't study too hard, OK?"
"OK."

The door to the other room shuts. Click—first the overhead light goes off. Click, click—the one next to the bed. I look through the open door of the room where I sit to the closed door of the room where she sleeps.

Shit—if I wasn't in medical school I'd be in there with her. This used to be my favorite time of day. We'd hold each other close, share what happened today and what we hoped would happen tomorrow. We'd kiss and make love or just kiss and doze off in "the sleeping position."

If I had a normal life I'd be in bed right now instead of sitting here exhausted with sore eyes, sore butt and sore elbows from leaning on them. Lonely, this is lonely. I give up on biochem. I don't see why I have to learn the crap anyway. Let's try physio for a while. Three co-ops and you can check out the refrigerator. God, I want to go to bed, put my arms around her, be warm and forget all this. My head hurts. Three co-ops and you can take a break.

What the hell am I doing in medical school? Twenty-eight years old. There is a whole other world out there and I used to be in it. I used to have money, evenings free. We used to do fun things like movies and dinners. We'd watch the Bears game and read the Sunday paper in bed. We'd still be in bed in the fourth quarter. Three co-ops and you can ...

LAST WEEK ...

"Bye."
"Bye. I'll be in and out to get more stuff, OK?"
"OK."

She left with a pile of clothes over her arm. This place used to be perfect for the two of us. It got smaller and smaller. Now it seems huge. I look through the open door of the room where I sit to the open door of the room with the bed we used to share.

I wonder if we could have made it if I wasn't In medical school. Maybe, maybe not. Now I'll never know.

What could possibly be worth this? What AM I doing here anyway?

Pathology ... three co-ops and .....

Anonymous

---

The Shirt Off My Back

I climb upon the hospital bed,
Stretch out my arm,
lay back my head.

Nurse arrives with cheerful face,
Preps my elbow,
Holds my arm in place.

One stab, two stabs, three's a charm.
She smiles politely,
"I mean you no harm."

Clenching my fist again and again,
I count the minutes,
It ends after ten.

This deed heroic, kind, and brave,
Giving of myself,
Countless lives I'll save.

The gift may help a pregnant lady,
My Aunt Louise,
Your Neighbor Grady.

Though it really doesn't interest me,
Where goes this blood,
From my artery.

Facade of altruism I now desert,
My only true care,
The free T-shirt.

Jon S. Citow III
University of Illinois
College of Medicine-Chicago, 1992

---

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