The beeping of the monitor fills the silence as I stand at the bedside of my patient, a
middle-aged woman awaiting test results that could confirm a devastating diagnosis. Her
eyes search mine for answers I do not yet have, and in that moment, the weight of my
new white coat feels heavier than ever.
You may imagine that this story will be about how poetry heals. And poetry does heal, but this story is not about that. Rather, it is a story of healing made possible by the relationship between physician and patient—of the power of words and metaphor, of being with and feeling seen, and of the human potential for posttraumatic growth.
We met on the eighth floor of the university hospital, after I was admitted for neutropenic sepsis (a serious infection coupled with low white-blood-cell count and often linked to cancer treatments) and a pulmonary embolism.
My pain is a cruel and jealous lover. It dictates my days and dominates my nights. It sulks and whines when it feels ignored. It consumes me.
I bargain with it. “Just give me one night, one night to sleep without you, and you can have me tomorrow.” Pain acquiesces. I nestle myself in a barricade of pillows and heated herbal packs that soothe my twisted limbs and drift gratefully off to sleep, only to have Pain invade my dreams. I cry out, though the torture is phantom. I awake, exhausted, to find Pain perched by my bedside, gleefully prepared to exact my promise.
Grimacing, my middle-aged patient described a somatic pain radiating out from a deep-seated void. This decades-old ache manifested itself as intractable muscle tension or tenacious migraines or debilitating heartburn and was always accompanied by emotional anguish.
At the void’s root lay existential angst, exacerbated by dark skies, loneliness, major decisions, and life’s transitions. Her genogram revealed deeply entrenched generational trauma. Her lab workup was normal. She sought out various modalities—medication, acupuncture, psychotherapy, psychic readings, herbal remedies. Her flares were fewer, but they struck randomly, disrupting her life for days.
Wisdom from Her Younger Self Read More »
“In my life supporting my chronically ill partner, we often hit infrastructure that either ignores people with mobility challenges or doesn’t understand their needs. This fountain-pen-and-ink watercolor of an abandoned wheelchair depicts our feelings of defeat when we reach a point in the path where we just can’t go any further.”
The End of Mobility Read More »
Sitting before me
I measure his scars and record the beatings
He is broken
Not just his teeth and back, his will is shattered
I ask his plans should he be granted asylum
He has none
Like everyone, I was taught as a child how to walk across a room on my own and how to hold a spoon to feed myself. As an adult, I never paused to marvel at these ordinary acts, while strolling to the mailbox or eating dinner with my family—until they slipped from my reach, replaced by chronic pain and deformed limbs.
Now, a week before my sixty-fifth birthday, as my home health care aide gently drapes a towel over my chest so I can attempt to feed myself, my embarrassment over the mess I will undoubtedly make of my cottage cheese and baked beans on that towel reminds me all too sharply of what I’ve lost.
Enduring the Invisible Read More »
The hospital CEO asked me to accommodate a new patient in my pain clinic, a young woman visiting for a few days, granddaughter of his colleague. “Of course,” I said.
“Jessica” was sixteen-ish, thin, athletic-looking, brunette. As usual, I addressed my questions to her, expecting her to tell me about her pain. But she replied, “Mom, you tell her.”
Brrring!
The landline in my call room trills, jolting me awake. I have a consult. I’m a third-year medical student on my internal-medicine rotation. This is my second overnight call and second week of clerkship.
“Hi, Keith!” the caffeinated resident chirps. “I have a consult for you!”
The patient is Ms. Carrera: a young woman with a history of diabetes, renal disease and a recent heart attack. She’s here because her legs hurt. Cardiology and nephrology have no explanation, so they called internal medicine—and by extension, me. My shoulders slump.
Medicine by the Books Read More »
My husband and I had COVID right around Christmas last year. Thanks to the vaccines, I didn’t feel extremely ill—just some aches and pains, coughing, sinus pain, and shortness of breath. I called my primary care provider, and the person on call said to just treat the symptoms. She prescribed cough medicine and an antibiotic for the apparent sinus infection.
A week or so later, I saw my primary for something else, and I told her, “I don’t think my leg is supposed to look like this.” It had become swollen and painful, and my foot was dusky. The ultrasonographer in the practice was gone for the day. So my primary called a colleague in the ER who said she should bring me down there. My husband was waiting in the car, since we had planned to go out to dinner after my appointment.
COVID Complications Read More »
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