I had a cold that day, I remember. I'd taken one of those "non-drowsy" cold-relief formulas, which had lived up to its claim so well that I was feeling hyper-alert. All of the details of the encounter are imprinted in my memory—the colors, the sounds, the smells.
    I was warned about her by the nurses.
    "She's totally wild," they said.
    "ADHD—bouncing off the walls."
    I took her chart from the door. Numerous visits, all with different doctors. Various colds, aches and pains; a sprained wrist. I summoned up my courage, knocked on the sliding wood door to the tiny exam room (I remember the coarse, unyielding surface against my knuckles), and entered.
    She was sitting a few feet from her mother when I walked in. Naturally, that didn't last long. As soon as she saw me, she sprang to meet me, singing, "my stomach hurts HERE," throwing up her patterned exam gown and pointing dramatically to her midriff. I introduced myself and took her small, nine-year-old hand with the (I learned later) still-bruised wrist in my own. I sat her down in a chair, and, sitting opposite, I concentrated every ounce of my attention on her.
    "What I need you to do, sweetheart," I told her, "is to sit right here and tell me everything you can about your stomach-ache." I will never forget her long, tousled black hair, her brown doe eyes as she stared at me and tried, in a rush of words, to describe it. Her eyes told a different story. I knew the diagnosis, saw it in the hunger those eyes expressed.
    I turned to her mother, inhaling the stale smell of old cigarette smoke, which hung in a veil around her, dulling her skin and deadening her eyes. "How long has this been going on?" I asked. She answered me, hardly changing the sullen, resentful set of her mouth, "About a week, I guess. I just figured she was playing one of her tricks to get at me. She's always doing that. I decreased her meds on my own because she was falling asleep in school." I asked her about family counseling. "Yeah, we go, but it's real boring."
    The little girl had started to bounce. I turned from her mother's apathetic figure and put my hand on her thigh. "I need you to sit quietly now so I can examine you," I said, cutting off her mother's impatient will-you-shut-up remarks. "But I'm Tigger," she told me.
    "I know, and that makes you a Very Bouncy Animal, right?" I grinned. This threw her, and she sat still for a moment.
    "How do you know about Tigger?" she asked.
    "Well," I replied, "you're not the only one who reads Winnie the Pooh."
    I remember completing the exam, asking more questions, always with my hand on her arm, her thigh, as if, through the laying on of hands, I could make her whole. I remember she seemed almost to burrow into me, starved for touch.
    I left the room and went to present her to the attending. "This is a nine-year-old female with ADHD who presents with a one-week history of abdominal pain, located in the periumbilical area . . . "
    Attention Deficit Hyperactivity Disorder.
    What inadequate words to describe her illness.
    She was suffering from an attention deficit, all right. But how do you tell a mother that her child is dying inside for something she may simply be unable to give?
    I tried, of course. I spoke of the importance of continuing family therapy, of spending time together, of choosing one doctor for her daughter so she could begin to build a relationship ("I want YOU to be my doctor," the little girl piped up at this point, giving the knife another twist). But in the end, as I looked into those dead eyes, I felt I was speaking a foreign language.
    That night, as I lay in bed once again in the throes of my own illness (the cold-relief formula having worn off hours ago), I remembered something else about Tiggers.

    They're one of a kind.

    I majored in biochemistry and minored in ballet. I still wonder how this union came to be. Anyway, I miss ballet like mad. I find myself in relévé or doing frappés while in the elevator, at the bus stop, or in the kitchen while cooking dinner. As for biochemistry, I wonder if it will ever be put to sleep, so I too can go to bed.
    This weekend is the Washington University Dance Theater performance, a perfect reason to go to St. Louis and visit old teachers and friends. I especially want to see the piece choreographed by Angel, Washington University's newest artist in residence, and my modern dance instructor. For so many reasons, I'm curious and anxious to see his piece—his choice of lighting, costume design, movements ... and who he chose as his soloist.
    Yet I keep debating with myself. "Jules...Julia,"one voice says. "You've put off studying for the past two weeks." My other voice replied, "It's a national holiday...it's the first annual ball...Geoffrey's in town...Dallae's leaving town... You'll only have three weeks of material, Jules, and you never get much done on the weekends anyway."
 
 
But the weight of my books and co-ops combined,
a tall and massive redwood draws itself to mind.
A brief but patient pause, to ask what is true:
If Amtrak can go to St. Louis, then, Julia, so can you.

Much to my own surprise
that part of me—its unfortunate demise—
Now seems more a quiet slumber
'Til asked to write and sleep no longer.

In hopes that years spent
will do less of me than I with her
To remember the why and what it all meant
a plead to look hard, and do more than endure.

The grind neither stops nor is heard
focus which grips, intentionally blurred.
It teaches to push and care for but one.
The will of the heart, is it also done?

Pack fast and take leave
while the sun is still enough
To feel rain yet believe
that to dance among friends—is still, still enough.

Such a warm feeling
As I lie watching my
Grandchildren, like dandelion seeds, drifting.
They play, I watch them
Watching me, like a fish in a fishtank.
They can't hear me.
Their mother tends to them, and
Strokes my hair,
Worried look on her face.
Please smile, my dear.
Smile like me.

 
Familiar friend, come back to me,
Looks and speaks.
But there is no sound,
She thinks the needle hurts, but
It is not my arm.

 
Such a warm feeling, as
I lay in darkness, my life before me
Now, like the sweet scents of
Baked goods and childhood,
Images melted and swirled.
Not at all like I thought.

 
Floating in my room, the
Nurse is back, laughs, never stops,
Come and goes, ne'er a word.
Will she be still?

 
Can't they see
I can go now.
I am free!
They will see.

    Medical School is a series of trench battles which must be fought until the last drop of blood spills. A true soldier slash medical student must fight, must study, or death will come for him in the depths of the Gross lab and slice his internal jugular with the letter F. There are times, though, when the Grim Reaper, dressed as a grade report, stands near. These times are when studying simply brings the festering professors, the cancerous lectures, and the mind- throbbing schedule too close to reality and the student must stop studying in order not to die by friendly fire. At the end of the first semester, this assault of friendly fire had become a constant in my life until, one day, it overwhelmed me. In order not to surrender to the barrage of bullets, I read my mail.

    A letter from my high-school English teacher, Mr. Talarico, was the first thing I read. As I had just had a five-hour lunch with him at the weekend, I was surprised to find a letter from him. Frankly, I wondered what else he could possibly have to say. It turned out that the letter was just a thank-you note for my taking time out to see him while he was in Chicago (little did he know I simply wanted to eat something not cooked in a microwave). However his note consisted of more that just a simple thank you. At the end, he placed a reminder, "Nicholas, do not forget the passion you possess for medicine. Passion is cool!"

    All of a sudden it struck me that I did not know where my passion was. The enemy robbed me of it. Had the enemy made me into what I was warned not to become? I never stepped in the ring with myself or battled against friendly fire in undergrad. Had I metastasized into a studying machine, a burnout? I told myself that I was not one of those soldiers who suffered from shell shock. I was no machine. Nevertheless, a machine was exactly what I had become. No longer did I ask myself if I liked anatomy; I just studied it. I did not pay attention to whether I liked histology or not; I simply had to know it so I could pass. I no longer enjoyed class; I simply waited patiently until it was over so I could make myself study more. Worst of all, I did nothing for enjoyment, for life.

    I was shocked at my attitude and lack of enthusiasm for what I was studying and how I was living, or rather not living. I was so disturbed at my realization that I went down to the student lounge to ask some fellow students for their thoughts on the matter. "No time to indulge in idle chatter," was the general response. "I am much too busy to think about such nonsense," was one person's response. " I am not going to be a psychiatrist. I want to be a surgeon. That stuff does not matter to me," was the response of another. At that moment I realized that not only had I become a passionless machine, but so had most of my fellow students. The terror grew when I was unable to recall my last in-depth conversation with any of my friends or classmates. After just one semester, had I lost the battle?

    My histology professor had said that medical school was nothing but coping. I had not thought at the time that coping meant giving up the reasons I entered medical school. I was stunned to realize that since the very start of medical school I had not taken the time to remind myself that I am here because of my passion for the mind and for helping those afflicted with mental illness. No wonder I did not feel like studying: I had no reason to study, except brute perseverance. I had betrayed myself, I had unconsciously despaired. Gone was the passion that once resided in my chest. I thought that I had handled the pressure of thirty hours of lecture a week on top of thirty hours of homework. I thought that I had conquered the fear that a patient would complain while I was examining him. I thought that the callousness of the professors had left me none the worse. I thought that the lack of sun rays on my face would not bother me. However Mr. T's comment made me realize that I missed windows and the sun on my face. I then remembered all the times when I would come home and sleep just to escape the pressure. I realized how angry the professors made me. I was finally being honest with myself.

    The friendly fire died down as I continued meditating on passion. I thanked God that I had this experience as a first-year medical student. The choice between passion and hard work or just machine-like labor was still mine to make. Nevertheless, I wondered how many medical students must get lost in the choice or never even realize it lies before them. The wrong choice creates passionless physicians who see patients as fellow machines—it creates perfect fighting machines. The right choice makes life hard but sweet—it allows for life while the other choice robs us of it. More importantly, the right choice creates a physician who communicates life to his patients, not one who just wars with disease. Going through medical school is like fighting a battle. Any medical student will tell you that. I just wish more of us knew that our best allies and our worst enemies are our own selves: not the work, not the professors, not the boards, not the patients.

When I passed out on birthday cake
            mama rushed me to the hospital
And I awoke in her lap,
She kissing my chocolate face
Crying "Oh cookie, my honey—
            You're too sweet for this place,
Your blood is like sap."

And so God took me back,
            but not all at once.

My feet went from under me in years and a day,
But not before walks:
Through sand and through swamp,
            the mud and the moss 'tween my toes
As way led to way
To lead me to you.
By then ulcerous feet had no more walking to do—
            and thereupon ceased.

After, I guess, I'd fingered enough,
Enough silk and feather,
            enough crystal and leather,
(And enough of your skin?—
            never enough of that!)
My hands up and prickled
Like I'd slept on 'em for years
'Til one day it stopped
            and then I couldn't feel.

And how can I, without crying, talk of my eyes?
He left them for tears though they be cataract blind.
Awhile they screened my stored-away reels
Of ball games and road trips,
            of weddings and meals.
But now just a steady photo of you
The only candy for me left to chew.

Enough, what you've stolen's enough!
So why this last trick?
Cruelly depriving—oh mama forgive me—
            and love, now depart,
For I am an impotent prick.

So play the last card,
            and affect the last part;
I don't care for its beat.
It's learned all too well
of Sugar's treacherous sweet.

    Frigid grey light streaks into the corner of my room. My tweaking alarm clock shrieks at me: get up! Groggy, with dried drool on my left cheek, I slumped over and bypassed the snooze function. I had a great dream that I don't remember. Dizzy from the pale glare, I managed to stumble into the shower. I can never stand in there long enough. Steam is my morning friend and masseur. Crap—outta coffee—I guess I'll just sleep more during Pharm. lecture today. I have that lumpy feeling anyway.

    Isaac chattering away with his front row groupies. Who chatters at eight-thirty in the morning? I'm always amused when my lips chap and my boogers—I mean mucous membranes—freeze. Is November always this cold? Well, it doesn't matter—the stuffy ninety-degree lecture hall has now made my nose watery and drippy. Modern temperature control has eluded us for months—it's nice to know modern technology has given us PCR, MRIs, and genetic mapping, but keeping the lecture room at seventy-two degrees has eluded the scientists and engineers at this "modern" institution. Ah—what progress and a janitorial staff can not accomplish.

    Morning lecture was uneventful; renal path became a blurring nap. My cafeteria lunch lost its hint of bland taste as I gaze out through the windows at the clouds puttering eastward. I can't wait until exams are over. Hmm... at least there's nothing like an afternoon small-group session to cheer up my week.

    I saw Bob smoking on the corner, and we started to rip on Professor Graves's insistence that we memorize his research project for the upcoming quiz. A few choice words later, we trudged into our conference room to find our bright-eyed mentor. Dr. DelRey is a psychiatrist with too much time on her hands, but at least she was concerned about students. The discussion topic of the week was "Stress and the Medical Student" - hmm...so why did it take the mighty scheduling gods a year— to finally give us this topic? DelRey gave us some background about her internship year— you know, fun and intern are not synonymous—not even for DelRey. Then the mother of all mentor questions landed: "How do you guys handle stress?" I seized the chance and got in my shot: "I run around the track in the gym." Just like a hamster in its wheel toy. With those seconds of participation I knew I could just sit back for the rest of the session and float into another daydream. With a curt nod from shrink central others chimed in. Some worked out in the gym, others went shopping, some lost weight, some worked out in the gym, others went shopping, some lost weight, some gained, two smoke, most engaged in social drinking (drunkenness) on the weekends. The blah went on. Lonnie the loquacious got on his own soapbox: I get ulcers, I get constipation, I get nauseous, and he whines on and on into the next century. After Lonnie's personal pay-attention-to-me speech, Cherie the ex-computer analyst cleared her throat only to do so again. C'mon Cherie, say your damage and let's get outta here so I can catch Oprah. But the room became ice as Cherie begins to sob. She flubbered out, "I got the divorce papers from him this morning." Somebody got the Kleenex to her in Indy-car time as a muffled "he doesn't understand" was repeated over and over. DelRey's glassy gaze was searching for a black hole in the corner of the room. Say something, shrink! Comfort her or something! I guess DelRey had fallen through the same ice in the past. Sometimes I think I'm just an observer in the demise of my fellow classmates. A "That's enough for today, stress-relieving workshop tomorrow—with Dr. Wallace—don't forget" was all DelPsych could master as the color came back to her face—you know, there's no oxygen in outer space.

    My escape outside led to darkness. A Chicago winter at four thirty in the afternoon makes you wonder who invented daylight savings time (I'd like to make a sunlight withdrawal please) or if it even mattered. A soft lazy snow had started only minutes ago. Dinner and studying—what an agenda! Of course I knew what I was getting into. Doesn't everyone who goes into medical school?

    Darkness had come early on this late December day. The sun no longer offered any protection. Night had swallowed it whole.
    Now, it was frigid. Absolutely frigid. The entire city was frozen. The high-rises huddled next to each other for protection; however it was to no avail. The wind quickly sliced through their gaps and channeled through the street with ever-increasing force.
    Nothing dared face the wind. Except us. There we were, standing at the bus stop waiting for a bus that would never come.
    On us, the wind unleashed its fury. It slapped our faces until our cheeks were bright red. It brought tears to our eyes that blurred our sight. It created the rivulet of slime that flowed out our nostrils.
    He went to blow his nose. The ring on his left index finger caught the light cascading from a nearby lamp. For a brief moment, the ring fluoresced. Under the moonlight, it also had fluoresced. On the night I first gave it to him.
    "It was only silver," he always told me.
    I gave him much more.
    In an effort to brace myself against the cold, I placed my gloved hands on top of the garbage can in front of me and lifted my body off the ground. I arched my back and head and felt the tension in every muscle. I looked straight into the street lamp; its orange light suffused me. It was the same glow I felt when we had held each other's naked body for the first time. It was in the same glow that I made my promise to him.
    "It was only words," he would say.
    I gave him much more.
    And when I finally lowered my body to the ground, all was silent. Nobody walked by on the sidewalk where we stood. No cars moved in the street in front of us. No bus could be seen. I had to tell him now. Here, in the silence.
    "Remember the infection I had."
    "The one you gave me. It was only herpes."
    "I gave you much more."

The tiny Korean nurses in their soft pink gowns
and marshmallow white shoes are afraid of him
He is big, black, and probably insane.

At the nurse's station they whisper words they do not understand,
Not because they are foreign, but because they whisper that quietly,
Their babble as incomprehensible as the buzzing of flies.
That is what they seem like now as they gather around
his hospital bed stuffing the clear plastic back up his nose,
making sure he hasn't loosened his restraints.
And we want to cry, "He's not a monster!"
But even if words somehow tumbled from our lips
there would be little conviction behind them.
We both know that.
So guarding ourselves with silence we step quickly into room 332.

We are frightened by what we see.
A man being fed life by half a dozen machines
The bleeps and squiggly lines are the only sure signs he's alive until
He turns over, Lips swollen and purple like some exotic fruit,
Jaundiced eyes too weary to blink look at us
And you know you want to spit at the poor fool
who doesn't know that killing himself means critically wounding all those he
claims he cares about,
But of course we don't spit.
First, because we are ladies.
Second, because we our mouths are desert dry, tongues as rough as sandpaper.
Instead we smile, stupidly like you'd expect lovers in a pre-war bomb shelter to
smile, for no good reason.
And I speak first because it is expected.
What I say is of little importance because it is out of necessity.
She says nothing except "Goodbye" as she turns to leave.
I do not resist being left alone.

He grabs my hand for comfort like I knew he would,
the desperation in his grip bringing tears to my eyes,
And I know he is saying, "save me! Save me!"

But I release his had to say first softly, then louder
"I'm not your Jesus, I will not be sacrificed."

It's 8:00 p.m. and visiting hours are over.
Through the open blinds I see nurses getting restless.
They want me to go.
It's obvious that they pity me so I hate them in return.
He is still and I can see them wondering what powers I could have that could tame the giant they fear.
The one they fight with needles and evil side glances.

I leave because to stay would mean nothing.
I leave because I have done what I came to do.
I'm not his Jesus, I will not be sacrificed
I came only to save myself.

    It was while studying for the U.S. Medical Licensing Exam, in downtown Chicago, at Kaplan, a private educational center in an old run-down office building, high above the swarms, when I would go into the bathroom, standing at the fixture that, I noticed a mark on the whitish wallpaper, sort of a comma just some long dot. I didn't think much of it.

    So this happened several times that day, then again for a few days more...until I happen to notice that, upon closer inspection, this may not be a "mark" on the wall at all...it is..an insect, perhaps hit by the army of chemicals permeating the bathroom at the hand of the multi-chlorinated cleaning staff, or just a whole skin shed during some metamorphosis. Or maybe he died right there of old age, or starved, and just —stuck.

    So, I had to prove to myself it was in fact dead, and I reached my hand up toward this thing I now see to be a tiny dark brown elongated beetle, with some shadings of brown and tan, and the tiniest little antennae no longer than the width of a crack in my palm and having several pairs of legs smaller yet, and...it moved! It sort of jiggled...I'm sure! Or did I just think it did? No, it had to have flinched just a bit when my hand was coming close (a finger tip)...but then it "acclimated" quickly and would no longer respond. I was afraid to touch it for fear of killing it, so very, very tiny that it was.

    So that was the major point of interest on the map of this bleak, tired old downtown Chicago hi-rise office building, where I am stuck eight to twelve hours a day, most every day, the majority of the offices on most of the floors unrented, desolate, no view to speak of even at thirty stories, with hot water pipes hidden by modern camouflage, and with the unimaginative decor of "Chicago beige" everywhere. It was not hard to imagine how he got there...the window was always left wide open to fight the heat that held the bathroom its prisoner. Or maybe he was born there, in one of the many cracks in the baseboards and ceiling tiles.

    It was significant, he was, an island of life...an oasis in a desert of death. A desert of old diseases in old books with new copyright dates, in an old office adrift in a sea of dead buildings, of dead skies, of a dead climate, of a dead culture. Of brick and steel and glass and concrete. Of bodies with dead souls who inhabited them. Of the Midwest. Of Chicago.

    But for the next week I would anticipate a full bladder...maybe even welcome one...so I could go see my friend, my little imaginary friend whom I could easily crush with absolutely no effort, but whose life I spared day in and day out. I was sure nobody else even noticed him. He was my own. I owned him. But he was free to go. I was a good owner.

    Then, one day, I came in, and the "mark" was "erased." It was a plain white wall. Had someone washed him off? Hardly, I thought...these walls could not have been washed since Al Capone visited. Could someone have crushed him? Flipped him off and killed him at the same time with one casual ping of the fingers? How terrible, how vulnerable the little beast was. But, I could not save him. I was too busy to watch over him all day. I could only hope he used the open window to escape to a new home.

    I looked the next day, and the next, but he was not at his station. Looking at his little "place," I noticed the wallpaper actually peeled from the wall slightly. One could hardly notice, but it formed a tiny, itty bitty little curl, almost invisible with the faint pattern, now faded to more shades of white, under which...well..could he? I didn't dare lift the curl with my finger—that minuscule force would be multiples of that necessary to turn beetle into smeared guts.

    So I turned my head about, stretched my neck up and around to glimpse beneath the curl of wallpaper, looked and looked, and ..Yes! There he was! My little buddy, who never asked me impossible questions about rare autosomal dominant diseases, who took nothing from me, but was simply there for me...he had not left at all, but was only waiting for me to solve the puzzle which he had laid. I dare not breathe too hard lest I blow him off his new perch, only millimeters from his former rest.

    Later that day, the new home was still his. But upon the morrow, I found him absent once again. I took this with a bit less grief, having lost my friend once, only to find him hovering nearby..."you won't fool me again!" I thought. But he was gone. The rest of the wall was the Pacific Ocean on his scale, and all white. He must have taken all the night and half that morning to get past it, but he managed. I knew he was safe, but I missed him. Never to be seen again. How sad. I wondered if I should have snagged him in a jar for display to the kids. They love bugs. But I had no jar. And that would be wrong, to capture him.

    So there I was, a few days later, letting the nitrogen balance re-equilibrate...when, to my amazement, he was...he was walking! He was in motion, walking along, right before my very eyes, as if nothing had happened! His pace made a snail seem like a jackrabbit. How dare you play games with me life that! I was worried sick about you! But he ignored me. He kept on walking...and walking...as if he were on autopilot. A straight line. I finished up and left, sure he would be out of sight, and that this was a last, chance, fleeting glimpse I would have of him in his wide travels.

    Believe it or not, he was back on his "spot," when he wasn't under the little curl of wallpaper, for a total of about three weeks altogether.
    Then when I fully expected never to lose him I did.
    And he has not returned. For days now. Maybe a week. I am afraid I will never see him again! My little friend, did he even know I was his friend?
    He's gone. Gone gone gone. To where? The window? Flushed down the drain? Crushed in the tissue? Sprayed with Raid?
    How could I care at all about a stupid little bug? Surely there must be other bugs.
    I saw a fly a few days later, but it just didn't interest me. He was special. I should have bagged him for the kids while I had the chance. What could I do now?
    Nothing.
    Back to the books.

Everybody is in a frenzy
because a child is screaming.

"How many weeks is she?"
The mother of the child replies, "27.
Just take the baby. I'm sick of it."
The bitter scent of alcohol engulfs the room.
"It's coming," the child wails.

Now back in the delivery room,
the child ages with the lines of pain.
A boy snickers in the corner,
preparing for fatherhood.
A girlfriend no older than sixteen
tells the child, "I told you it would hurt."
The child is not comforted.
Her eyes filled with regret
plead for help as she writhes in pain.
As the contractions come closer
the child climbs up the head of the bed,
running away from what might come out of her.

"It's coming," the child screams.
It seemed within seconds besides the wise young girlfriend
and the snickering boy,
the room was smothered with people,
peds, nurses, residents.

Everybody is in a frenzy
because a child is coming.

The door is wide open
exposing the child's innocence and shame.
The resident screams, "Open your legs!!"
The child closes them tighter.
I grab her hand and look into her frightened
eyes stained with tears.
"It's going to be okay. You are going to be fine."

The child stares at me blankly
            opens her legs,
                a child is born.

"Ma'am your baby is under 2000 gms
so we are taking her to ICU."
The child shrugs her shoulders and turns
her head— joys of motherhood.

"How old are you? " I ask the child."
Curled up in the fetal position
she whispers, "Fourteen."

A new family begins.

 

Lisa Cullins
Class of 1998

When the falling autumn turns to winter in descent
On early December nights that see urgent rains
settle silently as snow,
Do you know—
As certain as this snow that announces, "The winter is upon us,"
As surely as this
Comes the aching like a recurring arthritis in nostalgic bones,
Comes the squeezing of my brain,
            leaking the long ago.

Lying in the stillness, looking at nothing above
And you arrive in droplets from a distant land
Like memories of a childhood summer vacation
To fill the emptiness again.
But different now than in that summer—
Diff'rent me, diff'rent emptiness.

...to dust ye shall
Now as the Book foretold you find me.
But Eve rose not from bone, nor from dust did Adam
And this is no return to whence we came.
No, nothing like the glis'ning soil your fingers sank into,
The fertile earth that received your spade—
Black moistness that awaited the first planting of seed.

Oh you, do you know—
Inside me you kicked my navel out,
Stirred grasping, growing, bug-eyed life within.
And when I felt that stirring,
            first stirring where nothing had moved before,
I gasped
"Jesus!" When you asked me easy as pond ripples
About love, (the Lord's name
What I dreamed, in vain
And this, how's this feel? "jesus! Oh God")
In pleasurable ecstatic vein!

But the snow comes down and covers the tracks
That skidded you off the edge of the world—
Those tracks like cords that screamed away,
The lines cutting and running my insides out
As they ripped up the garden we'd laid.
And now there is only the ranking of you,
Haunting the ghost town of my hollowed-out womb.
So who dare come in,
With you guarding like a sphinx,
            sole possessor of my mystery?
The one who unriddles you must be sicker than me....
So who can come in?

Oh sometimes still your voice I hear,
But there is no breath against my ear.
Worse than this is your disappeared kiss
Which falls a solitary snowflake
That I reach up with my lips to catch
Yet dissolves to water with warmth or touch,
And keeps me checkmated to this frigid night
Caught in a worse freeze than you.
Oh what good are snowflakes
Alive only in air
But dead upon my lips?
Oh what good...are the memories of a kiss?

    The three-year courtship was slow-paced, gentle, and caring. But he often indicated that he wanted more.
    "Let's work on our chronic problem before it develops into something worse," he would say kindly. He set his jaw at an odd angle when he spoke. His caring words soothed me, made me believe in him.
    Trust is essential in any relationship and especially in one so intimate as this. But he had earned my trust. He had cared for me with sensitive hands, with gentle touch, with soothing words. He had expressed his concern for me again and again, as much as one can expect from any man. So why not? Why not take the leap? Why not let my faith in him take me that one crucial step farther? "Okay," I fumbled my words out, "I'm ready, let's do it."
    "Good, I'll take care of you, you'll see." He pushed away his tool tray. It swung away gracefully to a gentle stop. How smooth. "Airman Adams will set a date for us. Check with him before you go." He smiled warmly, and gave my hand a strong, confident, and warm handshake.
    I saw Airman Adams. The date was set. Only three days from today? Gee, that's kind of soon. It must be a fluke. Someone must have just canceled minutes ago.
    I returned to my squadron. My boss wouldn't mind my absence too much. There weren't any anticipated crises or alerts. Things had been relatively calm the last few weeks. The planes would fly without me. That I was sure of. Besides, almost everyone else in our shop had been though the same procedure. They had had their wisdom teeth removed too.
    The next few days passed quickly. I was back to see my friend, my dentist. I had my overnight bag and something to read. I didn't look forward to staying in the hospital overnight but I guessed it would be all right. Everything in my personal life was set. My girlfriend would care for my dog. My "fifty-thou" life insurance was up to date. But of course that was irrelevant. And luckily, I didn't have to work that weekend following. So when I would be released the next day, Friday, I could have the weekend to rest.
    "Sergeant Pinc," the intercom snapped, "report to room fourteen." In one quick moment I picked up my bag, got up, and stepped through the heavy metal door to the counter. Even in the hospital, some people appreciate my "military bearing." This time they didn't just want my I.D. they wanted "all valuables, your wallet, your bag, just keep your dog tags on and sign this."  A consent form was slapped down in front of me. Why hadn't they given it to me before, when I could have had time to read it? Now, if I stood there to read it, I would delay a doctor, an officer, a procedure, a department, a hospital. No, I'll just sign it. Down the hall I went, room 4..., 7... 11...12...no 13, how curious...room 14.
    I entered, I sat. Someone came in and said, "I need to start an intravenous line. It allows us quick access to give you the sedatives and medication you need." She pulled out an alcohol pad, rubbed my arm with it, a needle, stuck me with it, a bag of clear fluid, hooked me up to it.  She walked out.
    When would I see my doctor, the man I came to see? He entered through a side door. He washed his hands, he gloved, he looked in my mouth, he asked me if I understood the consent that bore my signature.
    "Yes sir," I replied.
    He pulled out a syringe, a needle, a vial. He filled the syringe. "This will dull your sense of pain." He injected. I waited for an effect and just when I thought there was none my head spun...then cleared slightly. When was he going to greet me to give me his warmth, his reassurance, his friendship? He filled a second syringe. He injected. "This will knock you out for about ten minutes," he stated.
    "You'll be done by then?" I slurred in surprise.
    "Yes..." he said in a tunnel of my vision, then nothing.
    I awoke, pain, crunching grinding sound in my bones, pain. Something twisted in my mouth, pain, pain, fear! I opened my eyes. He was here. Surely he will help. I tried to talk...My mouth was clamped open. The clamps screwed into my gums, my jaw. Pain. My mouth, stretched wider than meant to be, pain. He came at me with bent pliers, fear. He came at my open mouth, panic. I tried to talk but couldn't. I tried to move my head. My head was strapped down. My neck was strapped down. Alarm. I reached to grab his hand but my arm was strapped down. Both arms, my chest, my legs, my ankles, all strapped tightly down. My shoes were off.
    I bit, harder, I bit with all my might to bend the clamps. One clamp slid. It tore my gums and now held my jaw crooked. The clamp, strong clamp, pain, fear, agony, desperation, pain, humiliation. His hands in me. His tools in me. His breath on me. His work to be done. I sank deep into that chair, as deep as my soul would let me. I gagged on my blood. I swallowed it. There was nothing else I could do.
    I spent the next day in the hospital. I bleed for the next week. I never saw that man again. I never want to see him again. But if I were to ever meet him again, I would say to him, "You raped me."

    Room 613 E. Room 617E. Room 621E. Room 623E. Room...Halt!
    I stopped and glanced at the crumpled sheet of paper in my hand. Yes, this was it. This was where my resident wanted me to go. Tormented, I paced the hallway in front of Room 623E. Should I knock? Should I walk in? I should run! Finally, I took a deep breath and knocked on the door. After a painfully long moment of silence, a voice within the room asked me to come in.
    Propped on the bed was a young woman. The midnight blue silk scarf with white lilies that covered her head stood out in sharp contrast to her drab, standard-issue hospital gown. A smile of amusement twinkled in her brown eyes. She already had guessed who I was. My short white jacket stuffed with instruments gave me away.
    Run! Run! Run! The words pounded through my head. However, my feet failed me. They were stuck to the oak floor.
    "Hello," she whispered.
    Her voice broke the spell. I stammered a greeting back. As I pulled up a chair next to her, I introduced myself. Then, I sat down and asked her why she was in the hospital.
    She sighed. Staring at the white wall in front of her, she told her story once again. The headaches had started before winter break. Then, she woke up on Christmas Day to find her right leg had run away. So, she got a surprise gift: an MRI showing the octopus that was swimming in her brain. Now, it was the New Year. All she wanted was to make it to the next New Year's Day. She paused. I thanked her for her patience and left. As I tried to write her tale in the chart, I struggled to find the right words.
    At seven o'clock the next morning, I gently knocked on her door.
    "Come in," she groaned.
    I opened the door, stuck my head in her room, and whispered, "Good morning."
    She arched her head toward the door and slowly opened her eyes to see who was there.  When she recognized me, she smiled and waved for me to enter. As I fumbled to pull the chair next to her bed, she propped herself up against the pillow, straightened the scarf on her head with one hand, and smoothed the blanket which covered her legs with the other.
    "Sorry to wake you up so early, " I apologized.
    "It's okay. I had to get up anyway," she replied as she yawned and stretched her arms.
    "So how are you doing?" I asked.
    "Fine, " she smiled in response.
    And, so marked the beginning of our daily ritual. During the first week, we talked about her body. How are you sleeping? How are you eating? Any difficulty breathing? Going to the bathroom okay? Any problems with radiation therapy? Any fever? After we finished talking, I flipped though her bedside chart and scribbled down her vitals. Then, I shined a light in her eyes. I asked her to follow my fingers, to smile, to stick out her tongue, to shrug her shoulders, to lift her arms and legs, and to tell me if the toothpick felt sharp or dull. I checked if her legs kicked when I struck her knees with a hammer. With the stethoscope, I listened to her heart, lungs, and belly. Finally, I asked her if there was anything she needed. When she said no, I thanked her for her time. Then I rushed over to her chart at the nurse's station so that I could finish my lengthy, detailed note before the start of rounds.
    As the weeks progressed, though, we talked about her.
    "How are you?" I would say.
    She would tell me whatever came to her mind. The pleasure of brushing through the tangles in her long, brown hair before going to sleep. The Saturday morning cartoon fights she used to have with her older brother. How she totaled her father's car. Her crush on her sixth- grade math teacher. Flunking her first college exam. Her senior prom dress. The innocence of Disney movies. Dancing in a summer rainstorm. The beautiful colors of the leaves in the forest preserve near her house. How it felt to be kissed on the lips. Sometimes she would laugh at the corny punch lines of the "knock-knock" jokes I would tell her. Sometimes, she would cry as I silently held her hand. My chart notes got smaller. My understanding grew deeper.
    Yesterday morning, I went to see her as usual. When I knocked, she did not answer.  When I poked my head through the door, she did not look in my direction, As I pulled my chair up to the bed, she continued to face the wall.
    "How are things going?" I asked.
    "Fine," she whispered back.
    "You seem tired. I won't take much of your time today. Is there anything you need?"
    "Tell me who you are."
    "What?"
    "I have been doing all of the talking."
    "That is why I am here. To listen to you."
    "You are a man of few words. Please tell me who you are. I want to listen today."
    "I am only a medical student."
    "You are more than a medical student."
    And there was silence. A painful, uncomfortable silence that I could not break no matter how much I wanted to. The words would not come. The words had disappeared.
    "Well..." she inquired."
    "I don't know what to say. Someday I'll write it all down. In a story. You will be the first to read it, I promise," I replied.
    She turned her face toward me and looked softly through my eyes.
    "I don't think I will have a chance to read your story," she sighed.
    She let go of my hand and turned back toward the wall.
    I put the chair back and walked out of her room. I stumbled to the nurses' station to complete my daily note. My tears smudged the words my pen wrote in her chart.
    How could I tell her who I was when I did not even know myself.
    For twenty-five years, I have traveled around a crystal lake. I have hiked along the winding rabbit trails that encircle it. On my journeys, I have witnessed bumblebees sipping the nectar of newly blooming lilies. I have heard the crackle of the golden maple leaves as they are crushed beneath my feet. I have smelled the raindrops in the sky long before they drenched me. I have tasted snowflakes settling on my tongue. I have sensed the razor sharpness of thorns as they pierce my shins.
    Days have come and gone along the lakefront. I have felt the mud of its bank slither between my toes. I have drunk the cool sweet water from my cupped hands. I have skipped stones along its edges and watched concentric waves crash into the shore.
    While the edges of the lake are well known to me, the center is a mystery. Its depth I have not plumbed. Would the water just lap around my ankles or would I drown in its immensity? Its temperature I have not gauged. Would it be comforting as a womb or frigid as if fed by melting ice from a faraway glacier? Its richness I have never known. Would it contain vibrant forests of coral with fluorescent tropical fish or would it be a murky mud bog that sucked life out of its surroundings?
    The only thing I know about the center is its crystal surface. Here I have seen the sun split into multiple rainbows and stars shine like diamonds on black velvet.
    Many years ago, I dreamt of catapulting my naked body from the bank on a starlit night and splashing into the center of the lake. That dream has disappeared; I no longer have the strength. It would be too painful. It would be too risky.
    Keep the mirror clean and smooth. Let it brilliantly reflect the beauty of its surroundings.
    Do not shatter its outer coat to reveal its inner secrets.
    I forever will roam along the crystal lake's known edges. The center will remain a mystery.
    My story is done.
    I went to deliver it to her today.
    Room 623E was empty.
    Her chart was gone.

Crisp, white, clean
I notice, as I place the coat on me

Confident, bold, powerful
Feelings that fill my heart with glory

Interns, rounds, call
Words top add to my dictionary

Children, earaches, playfulness
A rotation that made me very happy

Pregnancy, STDs, late night deliveries
The demanding hours made me sleepy

Voices, Hallucinations, pressured speech
I learned the true meaning of the word "crazy"

Scalpels, attitudes, sleep deprivation
I forgot what it was like to be lazy

Procedures, clinic, continuity of care
Encompassing all aspects of the family

Gomers, chest pain, Ob consults
I contemplated our effect on society

Exhausted, restless, unmotivated
Emotions that envelop me

Ragged, soiled, dirty
I notice, as I place the coat beside me

Trupti Gokani
Class of 1997

Her eyes never even focused on us,
They were looking far away
To a place where nothing hurts,
And rectal cancer doesn't exist.

 
Her body moved automatically
Spread her legs, moved the sheet
So her naked flesh adorned with tubes
Was sprawled for all the white coats to see.

 
A neatly formed tuft of wired blond hair
Framed a Foley catheter taped in place
Above the rectal tube, the culprit
Leaking yellow-brown feces to soak her bed.

 
That face, the face of cancer
No expression no connection
to the sickly pale body violated
By mutated cells and human hands both.

 
No sound or touch or pain
Could move those eyes from where they gazed;
Those eyes, the last part of her life
The cancer could not reach
Because they're gone, already moved on.

 
And we worked over the carcass
And we fixed that rectal tube
And we held her on this earth one more night
And we signed out, proud we did our job,
a Victory, no one died on our shift.

The door slammed behind me. I stopped for a moment and closed my eyes.

I can turn around and go home...No...I'll be okay.

My feet seemed to progress forward in a bold stride, though I felt like a timid child inside.
I noticed the beautiful marble tile as I walked down the corridor. Had I not looked up I would have walked right past the office. There it was, right in front of me; the sign read "Dr. Joseph Jacobson, Obstetrics & Gynecology."

I'll be okay, really, I'll be okay.

I pushed the door open and immediately noticed all of the young women sitting in the waiting room. Why were they here?
"Good morning, Can I help you?" The wide-eyed secretary greeted me pleasantly. Little did she know what I was here for.
"Yes, I have a ten o'clock appointment," I replied. "My name is Mrs. Freemont. I called yesterday afternoon."
"Oh yes," she stated, as I noticed a complete change in her demeanor. "Um, the doctor will be right with you."

I saw the look of sorrow in her eyes.

I went back to the waiting room. I sat down next to a young Asian woman, who couldn't have been more than twenty. She must be here for her annual gyne exam. Another woman, sitting directly across from me, probably around six months pregnant. She must be here for an Ob check. Was anyone here for the same reason as I? I doubt it; no one else could be as unfortunate.
The young woman next to me smiled. Of course she was happy. She had her youth, her whole life to live, unlike me.

I'll be okay...I'll be okay.

Maybe I really didn't feel a lump in my breast yesterday. Maybe it was just my imagination. I should just go home. I shouldn't waste the doctor's time. I got up.
"Mrs. Freemont," I heard my name and felt a shiver down my back, "the doctor will see you now."
I slowly walked towards the nurse. She was waiting, with the door wide open, ready to tell me my fate.
This wasn't going to be a simple office visit.

Trupti Gokani
Class of 1997

Eighty-seven years stern and old,
Mr. James hid within my fold.
Not prepared was he for death,
So he cried with every breath.
"It was his time, not yours yet" I said.
The roommate lay still, dead upon his bed.

Grumpy, rude and with contempt Mr. James had been to me.
While nine full days I cared for he.
"I'm sick of needles, knifes and meds,
Get away from me," he often said.
The only time he wilfully talked
Was when I asked him with who he walked.
"With God, with Satan its all the same,
'Cause all you do is cause me pain."
Anger, resentment and frustration flowed from him,
Cancer in his bones and organs ate within.
"I don't want your help," he would say,
"Just leave, scat, go away.
I'm an old man who had his day,
I have no debts left to pay.
I will die. I am ready to go,
This I see, I hear, I know."

He asserted his ability and his independence,
But here he sat in utter dependence.
His mask fell down, his truth clearly told.
Mr. James now hid within my fold.
Most ignored him in full disgrace,
But I held him with full embrace.
I had no cure for all his ills,
No surgery, medicine, or magic pills.
But I saw a need that I could fulfill,
So I held him with all my will.

I saw the looks, the peeks, the glances.
As if Mr. James and I had romances.
Their lack of emotion was all consuming,
But to me it was completely appalling.
I held him for minutes that turned into an hour,
When I left he begged "I want my friend, my doctor."
I saw my daughter in him, her scrapped knee, bleeding oozing just slightly.
And just like her, fear overwhelmed, omnipotently.

The next day I again asked him if there was anything that I could do for him.
"Yes," he said for the first time, "give me a hundred dollars."

Once we met in a field of green,
Where with a blossom he crowned me King.
All in sight is mine he said,
To rule, to command, to triumph he said.
I ran across the field with joy,
Caressed and counted new blossoms I met.
With arms outstretched I felt the wind,
As I closed my eyes to look within.

But soon I turned in disarray
To see where my friend had gone away.

But before I thanked him for the joy he brought,
He struck my head with a heavy stalk.
Embracing my head in pain I fell,
First my knees and then my torso fell.
As he dragged me across the muddy plain,
He laughed and rejoiced at my shame.
He tied me then to a giant tree,
Uncovered a mirror and pointed at me.

In gloom I raised my muddy face,
To inspect what the mirror was brought to face.

And then, and then I see!
That the field had thorns I never saw!
And then, and then I learn!
That tears count the wounds one earns!

With Death as my guard he left me to mourn,
Displaying the mirror before he turned.

To remind! To remind! To remind!
That I am a prisoner of my mind.

But soon you shall see: I shall break the shackles that bind,

Of darkness, death and kingdoms of mind.
And soon I shall climb the mountain-top,
And waving my flag for all to see
shall SHOUT, and SHOUT, and SHOUT!!
"No more shall I be a prisoner of my mind!"
"No more shall I be a prisoner of my mind!"

And then, and then you shall see!

In all its glory you shall see!
The soul that is really mine.

*This poem attempts to portray some of the frustrations of a manic-depressive patient. Classically, the illness consists of episodes of unrealistic euphoria (mania) followed by episodes of debilitating depression. F left untreated, some 20% of such patients commit suicide; but fortunately, manic-depression is one of the most treatable psychiatric illnesses. —R.M.A.

Three hundred miles of Arizona desert
Winding up to trade saguaro for pine trees;
We drank it in, became one with each other
And the saguaro and the Canyon at the end of the road.

The painted desert our bedroom, the echoes of pleasure
Lost in the wind lifting off the Canyon floor;
And sunset, the silent knowing prophet of what would come
After we left that place, once again among the saguaro.

The pressures of life like the desert sun
Melting even that passion ignited on Lake Shore Drive,
Forged in Arizona desert somewhere between Tucson
And forever—just another mirage passing with the desert cycles,
Rain and drought; night and day; here and gone.

But will you ever return, or is a temperate midwest love
Destined to wither and die in the harsh southwest internship?
The patients need you, those in your care now, and
Those to be cared for later by your training in surgery.

Are your needs forever lost in that one-way give and take?
Is hope, too, a victim of this oppressive residency?
You have no answers, glassy-eyed pre-post-on-call,
And what could you say to make two thousand miles hurt less.

The greatest pain is that the memories we made together
Now seem to live only in my head, in the quiet of my heart.
And your internship stands as a barrier to any future we might
Have, long after the year is past, your memory of the pain, of our parting.

I write my statement full of impressive words and correct punctuation.
I buy a suit of subdued tones.
I get a haircut.

You scan the thin file comprising four long years of my life.
You glance at my photo.
You show me in.

We begin the dance,
"You're an excellent candidate—you'd fit in well.
"I like your program—your residents seem happy."

How very strange,
I'm supposed to be defining my career, planning my future.
Yet it feels like some mating ritual I saw on Wild Kingdom.

Can you tell whether or not I'm worthy of your esteemed program?
What kind of doctor will you turn me into?
Neither of us know.

I wonder at the lack of thought analytical minds use to make decisions.
You glance at your watch.
We move on to the next partner.

To awaken to the weary crackling of your bones
must have been a shock. Did you think it would last
forever? Negro socials and "Miss Ippi" (said as if
it was the name of some young belle) evenings with
egg yolk yellow setting in the sky and backyard full
of wiry dandelions that your five brothers picked to win
your allegiance. The ash brown girl from Roosevelt High,
who could shoot a jumper better than any boy, went to town
on Friday evening to be christened "Nigger" for the first time. She
left because there had to be something more than pressed hair and fried
chicken and weaving cotton and lilies of the valley and tent revivals
and chasing boys and orange soda and foolish white people.

To lose your virginity on your wedding night must have
smacked of freedom. Did you think you would never be lonely
again? Near celestial nights at brown and tan clubs, plans for "adding
to the family," pound cake and coffee late on Saturday. Now, you are a
woman. "So act like it": cook and clean, and make him proud and then a
job in your spare time. You must have expected more than forty years at
the Reflector Hardware Company and polyester slips and backs of buses
and picking collards and frying catfish and World War II and your very
own baby boom.

Your husband died too soon.
Leaving you to retire alone
To me
who would try to explain
all the things you never had
like leisure time, babysitters, second chances, or enough of anything
All the lucky numbers which never came up
all the ships which are only mirages to inlanders like you
all the days I wanted to touch you, but thought it would not have been enough.

The surprise is
you are satisfied;
Oddly content.
I will take your word as gospel,
though I cannot help but think
You must have expected more
than a poem.

Usually it comes like IV drip drops
And only when my blanched palms I see,
When I am limp but not too weary to think,
Only then do I know how I've made this fist, clenching to resist.
My spouse, my wife—oh she's a strong one—
Under her starched white sleeve, forearm muscles (she could name them all)
Taut,
Her hand on mine to keep my grip.
But yesterday...driiip—

That twenty-something whose mammary glands I saw as breasts
My stethoscope slipping aside the red hair
that fell to her heart's base
While mine grew tachycardic,
Raced
For such a face, for such a way of loving that I'd once known...
        but since outgrown.
Yes, my spouse, my wife—oh she's a jealous one—
Has enforced divorce from that youth.

The mounting days' pressure helps keep the nostalgia infusion stopped
But at night sometimes...droppp—
There was the oldest man I'd ever met,
        made baby by me:
"Prune juice with this pill to pooh
...And yes, you will need that tube to pee."
"How old are you son?" his voice from above
As I put shoes and socks to his complaint feet.
Old enough to be your mother I suppose,
I thought to say
And felt sadness as its truth.
"Why at your age, son, I was like a wild stallion,
        immortal in this world."
I know too much I cried, and gagged from knowledge
        that rose like bile
But my spouse, my wife—oh she's a matronly one—
Hushed my tears and was quick with anti-emetic.
Anniversaries of our coupling
        have passed

And I am more with-you
While before-you stagnates in that bag
        from which my veins now barely sip.
These years will overcome the infrequent...driiip—
A fledgling human, a school physical
And I offer to hold her as the nurse
Approaches with sharp love.
I forage reprieve in that clutch,
        the momentary reprieve of a barren parent...
But no more wailing, my dear, my spouse
I chose you wife and I chose this house
Whose walls reek of urine and the sheets of bedsores.
Ours is a different issue.

So here's a vow not to fuss
And prayer against a bolus.

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

This thirteenth issue of Body Electric would never have been completed without the time and effort of many people. Our thanks go to:

 

• Suzanne Poirier, our advisor and mentor, for "cracking the whip" and keeping this project on track;
 
• Raymond Hart and Robert Molokie for making the tough decision of selecting our prize winners;
 
• Hyman Muslin for his long time support of Body Electric who probably is now arguing with Shakespeare about the meaning of Hamlet somewhere in the blue skies above;
 
• Maia Schmidt for typing, re-typing, corresponding and re-corresponding; and,
 
• our contributors for their courage to share a piece of themselves with all of us.
 

Without all these people, Body Electric would be a collection of blank pages.

Sincerely,   Editors

 Editors:        RAJ SHAH
                        College of Medicine '97

                        KIM BROWN
                        College of Medicine '98

                        RICH MARTINOFF
                        College of Medicine '99

Advisor:       SUZANNE POIRIER, Ph.D.
                        Department of Medical Education