fostering the humanistic practice of medicine publishing personal accounts of illness and healing encouraging health care advocacy

Who Am I Now?

Jeremy Pivor ~

On my first day of medical school, my father, a dentist, told me he’d just been diagnosed with stage four pancreatic cancer. Cancer had crept back into my life–except this time not into my body.

At age twelve, I was diagnosed with brain cancer. After an aggressive surgery, I was tumor-free for ten years. Then, at twenty-three, I received the news of an inoperable recurrence.

While going through radiation and chemotherapy, I struggled with how to move forward in the face of endless uncertainty–until I realized that, with or without cancer, everyone lives with uncertainty. Since I never knew what the next day would bring, I decided that the most important thing wasn’t where I wanted to be in ten, fifteen or twenty years but how I wanted to live now, in the present. So I applied to medical school.

Given how long it takes to become a doctor, this decision may seem absurd. For me, however, living in the present meant fostering human connection, and I felt I could do that best as a physician.

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Come out, Pedro!

“Pedro, come out!”

It’s three years ago, and my father is on his hands and knees, peering under the bed, where the cat has hidden. My daughter is two and loves animals, but Pedro–a fluffy, ten-year old house cat–has decided he doesn’t want to play with her. He has retreated to safety back in the dark underbelly of the bed. The two humans crouch down together, side by side, toddler copying grandfather: “Come out, Pedro! Come out! Everything will be fine! Pedro, come out!”

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cowscall

The Cows Call

Stephen Heptinstall

About the artist:

Stephen Heptinstall is a cardiac rehabilitation practitioner and researcher at Hereford County Hospital, Hereford, UK. He strives for a holistic approach to practice, which involves listening to the voice of his clients’ “lifeworld.”

About the artwork:

“I undertook a series of reflective pieces as part of my research into farming couples’ experiences of living with angina pectoris. These featured both imagery and and senyru (human haiku) intrepretation of client narratives. My aim was to capture emotional high points, so that my findings would reach the hearts of readers, and not just their heads.“

Visuals editor:

Sara Kohrt

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Jipper

In the summer of 1972, I worked for an oncologist at Yale-New Haven Hospital, assisting with research and animal care, and drawing blood on cancer patients. My boss was working on what was then called granulopoietin, a substance that helps white blood cells recover after chemotherapy-induced marrow suppression. He took bone marrow from dogs under general anesthesia and then sampled their blood daily to identify and extract this substance. One such dog was “9557,” a border collie who had lived at the lab’s animal facility for two years; they kept careful records and knew he had been a two-year-old stray when this stint began.

I fell in love with 9557.

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Love Handles

I rocked back on the plush bedspread, leaning into the weekend. I was alive. I filled my chest with her lavender air as if I had just stepped outside.

And then suddenly she spoke, from the place where she faced the bathroom mirror. Her voice drifted across the hall: “My love handles are gone.”

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Ichi

My dog Ichi (rhymes with Peachy) reminds me of God, and I mean no disrespect to God. The willingness to love each person totally, in the moment, completely and sincerely, is the defining trademark of both Ichi and God.

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The Look on Your Face

Priscilla Mainardi ~

Your skin pale with worry,
your mouth a straight line,
the fear in your eyes–
all this told me,
more than the nausea,
more than the fact that I couldn’t move my head,
that something was really wrong.

You thought I wouldn’t see.

I looked up at the ceiling,
at its pattern of dots,
white, and brighter white,
that could mean anything, or nothing,

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The Needle

 
She’s the first patient of the afternoon at the pediatrician’s office where I work, here for her annual check-up. She’s fourteen. A straight-A student. Taking lifeguard lessons this summer. She’s yearning for maturity, in her four-inch gray suede pumps and billowy striped romper. She’s been doing well, has no health problems at all, but it’s time for a routine immunization. The moment we mention the word “needle,” however, her face crumples, she starts to cry, and her cheeks redden. 

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The Photo Gallery

 
By the time I met Leslie, Huntington’s Disease had wreaked its havoc: every part of her body jerked and twisted uncontrollably, robbing her of the ability to walk or speak. But that didn’t stop her from communicating, and she came as close to talking as she was able when she saw me, along with my dog Kobe. Following some very animated but indecipherable sounds, she used sign language to make herself understood. Her rocking motion let me know that she wanted to cradle Kobe in her lap.

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Wounded Healer

Jamie Sweigart ~

It was a sunny Sunday afternoon on my urban college campus. I’d been sitting on the grass outside a lecture hall where my premed classmates and I would study together on weekends. This particular weekend, I was alone. Campus was empty, except for a man with a backpack who occasionally passed by.

Finished with studying, I started walking down a deserted sidewalk back to my apartment, a few blocks away. On the way, I dialed my best friend from home, Laura, and we began chatting.

“Hang up the phone,” said a man’s voice behind me. I felt the cold blade of a knife against the side of my neck.

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Yin and Yang Levenberg 1

Quantum Tunneling

Kate Levenberg

About the artist:

Kate Levenberg is a second-year medical student at Penn State University.

About the artwork:

“This painting speaks to that mysterious understanding that there’s energy around us that we can’t quite perceive. The energy that we just know we will never be smart enough to accurately describe. That faint idea that time might not be linear, that our perception is imperfect, and that the earth will keep revolving long after my energy has dissipated.“

Visuals editor:

Sara Kohrt

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