The Sin of Silence
When I was twenty years old, I read Elie Wiesel’s 1966 book, The Jews of Silence. I learned that silence is a sin—that passively watching something heinous happen without actively speaking out against it is almost as bad as participating in the negative behavior. While this lesson did not result in my joining marches or writing letters to political leaders, it did make me more cognizant of the necessity to speak up when I witness injustices.
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July More Voices: Speaking Up
Dear Pulse readers,
The July More Voices theme is Speaking Up.
I think most of us would like to be the one who speaks up to right a wrong or to call out an injustice.
I’ve done that on occasion, but I can remember other times when I’ve remained silent.
Here’s a time when I spoke up:
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I Would Like to Call It Beauty
Gearing up for my night shift in the COVID-19 intensive-care unit, I don my personal protective equipment (PPE)–a white plastic air-purifying respirator (PAPR) hood. The hood connects via a tube to a large battery pack that I strap onto my waist over my scrubs. I turn on the battery and shiver when the rush of cool air blows past my ears. I walk into a bright white antechamber where a safety officer inspects me.
“You’re good to go,” she says. “Stay safe.”
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Bone Loss
Whisper me
into the chambers
of bone,
honeycomb of marrow,
talisman
bleached,
rib of grey dove,
Pulse is moving
June 23, 2020
To our Pulse community,
For the next few days, Pulse will not be able to accept website submissions, comments or donations. This is so that Pulse can relocate to a beautiful new home on the Web.
By the end of the week, you should be able to make your submission, post a comment and make a donation on our brand new site.
At any time over this period, you can always reach us via email.
Thanks for your patience.
All of us at Pulse
We Can No Longer Remain Silent
A patient walked in with her child, who was probably about four years old. I greeted the child, but he wanted nothing to do with me. He said, “I don’t like her. I don’t like that color!” I thought maybe I’d misunderstood him. Then he said, loud and clear, “I don’t like Black.” His mother, obviously embarrassed, told him that wasn’t a nice thing to say, and I had to carry on with the visit as if nothing had happened.
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I Am a White Woman
I am a White woman with privilege. My parents preached that all people are created equal, but we lived in White communities. Talk is easy. When I was in high school, my father was transferred and we moved. With many more Black persons in Virginia, Maryland, and D.C., my mother’s true views emerged. It was 1962, and as we drove places, her talk was a stream of stereotyping racism.
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Life With Father
After forty-three years as a nephrologist-internist and teacher, I recently retired from medicine. This final stage of life is a time of reflection. Was I a good physician? On a more fundamental level, was I a good friend, husband and father?
Despite its many challenges, I have never regretted following my cherished vocation. There were far more rewards than regrets. By contrast, my record as a father feels a bit less exemplary.
During my first three decades as a physician, the prevailing professional ethos could best be described as “macho medicine.” When I trained as a resident-fellow, and later, when I practiced full-time as a nephrologist-internist, my colleagues and I were routinely expected to work sixty or more hours per week.
Extracurriculars
If harsh words fall, but no patient is around to hear them, do they make a sound?
This particular night on my trauma-surgery rotation as a fourth-year medical student, the question weighs heavily as a page alerts the team that a patient with multiple gunshot wounds will arrive in ten minutes.
Everyone’s kind of excited. Anxious, too. Jittery.
1:00 am. Down in the ED, the main actors stand masked, gowned and ready to go. ED Cowboy stands at the head of the bed, Surgery Senior stands to the side. Alongside them, the throngs of people without obvious purpose who always seem to show up just in time for the evening’s episode of “drama in the trauma bay.” Everyone’s done this a thousand times before. Well, maybe not everyone.