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

Metaphorizing My Pain

 
My chronic neuropathic pain is a physical reality, not a product of my imagination. It is the result of a spinal injury sustained during a “simple biopsy” of a spinal cord tumor detected through an MRI. The operation was performed by an eager neurosurgeon in 2004. When I woke from the anesthesia, I could hardly breathe; I felt like a tight band was around my lower chest wall. I also couldn’t move my legs, and they were extremely sensitive to touch. Since then, the pain has expanded and intensified.
 

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Why Aren’t You Depressed?

Tess Timmes ~

“Please walk slowly,” cautioned Sunita, my interpreter, as I crept down the stony switchback trail towards the rural Nepali village of Dhulikhel. Sunita, in her petite navy ballet flats, hopped down the rocks as easily as the speckled goats grazing nearby.

Emboldened by her speed, I stepped along eagerly, only to catch my size-ten neon running sneaker on a root and splat face-first into the dust. Looking up, I saw four women standing outside their clay-walled homes, their hands pressed to their mouths, their eyes sparkling with stifled laughter. Talk about making an entrance….

After finishing my third year of medical school, I was taking a year off to pursue my masters degree in public health. Through my research that year, I’d learned of an opportunity to spend a month in Dhulikhel, located in the Kathmandu Valley, south of the Himalayas, interviewing the region’s women about their use of primary-care and mental-health services. Passionate about women’s health, and eager to escape another Boston winter, I signed on.

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exhale

And Exhale.

Hillary Mullan

About the artist: 

Hillary Mullan is a second-year medical student at the University of Massachusetts in Worcester. As a student and former research assistant, she often finds herself inspired by the beauty of human biology. Through hand cut paper images she hopes to share this appreciation with others.

About the artwork:

“I created this piece at the very beginning of our anatomy course. Working on the pair of lungs provided me with an opportunity to process the unique and challenging experiences of anatomy lab. I have always found creating art to be therapeutic and hope to keep this a part of my life during and after medical school.”

Visuals editor:

Sara Kohrt

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Too Close for Comfort

Andrea Eisenberg ~

Many years ago, on a busy day in my obstetrics-and-gynecology office, one of my partner’s patients came in for “bleeding, early pregnancy.” Since my partner wasn’t in that day, I saw the woman, whose name was Sarah. After we’d talked a bit, I examined her and did an ultrasound. As I’d expected, she was having a miscarriage. Feeling sorry that Sarah had to hear it from me, rather than from her own doctor, I broke the sad news.

We discussed the options: Did she want to have a D&C, or let nature take its course?

“I’m not sure,” she said. “I need some time to decide.” I agreed that this was understandable and left the room so that she could dress. Having notified my partner, I thought no more about it.

A month later, I received a letter from Sarah accusing me of callousness and insensitivity in our encounter.

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Difficult Decisions

My parents made their end-of-life decisions long before they needed to by signing an advance directive. Dad was lucid until the end, but things were different for Mom. After his death, she moved into a nursing home where her slow, sad decline from Alzheimer’s disease continued for seven more heartbreaking years.
During her last winter, mom developed aspiration pneumonia. In the emergency room cubicle, she gasped for breath and tugged on the oxygen mask as her eyes darted to the scrub-clad personnel who hovered around her: a lab tech drawing blood, a nurse starting an IV, a respiratory therapist getting an arterial blood gas. A red emergency cart drawer filled with endotracheal tubes was left ajar. 

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Disempowered

 
“So, what do you want to do?” asks the man with the pointed nose and the stethoscope around his neck.

Hmmm. Swim with dolphins? Eat a steaming bowl of spaghetti? Dance with the sun on my face? Yes. All of those, I think to myself. But, no. They’re not the options on offer, not any more. My interrogator’s nose is waiting. His grey eyes assess me from under folded lids.

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The Dark

Francie Camper ~

Parkway, three a.m. Ambient light.
Try to shake off the sleeping pill.
Open car window. Rock station 104.3
Watch the divider, the white line.

Count the other cars on the road,
make up stories to stay awake.
Don’t miss the exit for the Interstate.
Don’t miss the Willis Avenue Bridge.

Twenty-six minutes to a parking space.
Forget to read the parking sign.
Shoulder heavy bag: water, apple,
book, journal, healthcare proxy.

One desk and three doors into the
emergency room. Ask the first
person. Ask the second. The third.
Oh she’s in X-ray, it’ll be a while.

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