The Color of Tears
“Hey Doctor Curly!”
“Hey Hungry Hippo!”
“You still haven’t gotten a haircut? Have you had one since your Bar Mitzvah?! What nice Jewish girl’s gonna go on a date with you with your hair that long?!”
The Color of Tears Read More »
A Mother’s Son
Hugh Silk
“Why do you want to go into family medicine?” my internal-medicine preceptor asked.
It was an innocent enough question. I’d known from day one of medical school what I wanted to do, so I answered with confidence, and perhaps a bit of a chip on my shoulder.
“I love being with people and getting to know them,” I said. “I’ve always been this way, so it makes sense that’s what I would do for my career. I’m looking forward to having the long-term relationships and seeing where they go.”
A raised eyebrow, followed by his knowing Irish brogue: “I applaud that. My own father was a GP in Ireland. But I’m afraid you won’t find much of that in one month on the wards. This will be a chance, however, to learn your medicine well.”
Listening to Light
Donna Doyle
About the artist:
“My work as a poet and as a photographer is inspired by experienes I am unable to let go of–images, thoughts and feelings. These reflective practices help me grow. A year-and-a-half ago, the medical library where I work relocated from a building (with windows) outside the hospital to a windowless space in the center of the hospital. The transition has been challenging for me. As an introvert and a highly sensitive person, I experience the hospital environment most often as a kind of sensory overload. Writing poems and making photographs are my way of looking past and deeper…creating a different sensory experience by transforming it into art.”
About the artwork:
“Late afternoon in the cafeteria is one of the few times and places in the hospital where I can enjoy quiet and window views–even though I still feel surrounded by darkness.”
Visuals editor:
Listening to Light Read More »
Witness
I am the product of a couple hundred years of Western European immigration to the northeastern United States. My parents were left-leaning but square churchgoers who were inspired by the Civil Rights movement and the Reverend Martin Luther King, Jr., in particular. My father began a career as a Methodist minister. However, being a rather cerebral introvert, he soon realized the ministry suited him poorly. When he left the profession suddenly, we landed in Poughkeepsie, New York, where he was able to secure work through IBM.
In a few years, we were financially back on our feet. But, much to the horror of friends and family, my mother insisted that we remain in the Poughkeepsie schools. About 70 percent of the children in the district were African-American. She rightly saw the rampant de facto segregation and, due to a combination of her political idealism and plain stubbornness, kept us where we were. The fact that this was viewed as a radical act in my parents’ social circle speaks volumes about race in America.
Black, Blue, Green and White
My life and experiences have been defined by contrasts. I am a physician and a military officer. Yet, in my presence and out of ear shot, I have been called such names as Nigger, Oreo, Tutsoon and Spear Chucker.
Black, Blue, Green and White Read More »
Prison Break
Jack Coulehan
I eavesdrop on the cells in your brain,
which are trying to bust out of a prison
surrounded by broken connections.
They make an almost inaudible hum
beneath mechanical whooshes and pings
surrounding your hospital bed. I listen
while sitting with your hand in mine,
not comforted by the confusion
of intensive care–I know your brain
is scheming, despite these machines
and my heartache, to escape. Its intention
is clear–get out while there is still time.
A White Girl Grows in Philadelphia
I grew up with my older sister and our mother in a fourth-floor walk-up in Center City, Philadelphia. Most of our immediate neighbors were gay and white, but Center City, like all of the city’s neighborhoods, abutted a diverse range of cultures, including an Irish Catholic neighborhood and a black neighborhood. South of the black neighborhood was a bastion of Italian-Americans–the home of Rocky and open-air markets. Fanning out from Center City were enclaves of African-Americans in West and North Philadelphia; Jewish, Polish, Puerto Rican, Chinese and Ukrainian neighborhoods; and several historic and hippie areas.
A White Girl Grows in Philadelphia Read More »
Race in the Advance Directives Conversation
Much of my work as a Palliative Care physician involves conversations with patients and their families for whom the medical outlook is bleak: to help them receive the treatment they want, not more and not less. Such discussions are best held in tandem with the primary medical team and with the nurse. Many times, both attending doctors and housestaff have said, “But it’s so much harder to get a DNR (Do Not Resuscitate Order) with African-American families.”
My experience differs.
Race in the Advance Directives Conversation Read More »
Bare Hands and an Open Heart
I am constantly obsessing over fingers and toes in the ICU. They can tell us so much about whether our high-tech machines and drugs are helping to keep our patients’ bodies perfused with oxygenated blood. Some patients’ fingers and toes are warm and pink. Some are cold and black, even falling off. A lot are dirty…really dirty. Like with actual dirt clogged under overgrown nails. I won’t lie and pretend that these nails don’t gross me out a little bit. Or deny that I typically wear gloves when I am touching these patients’ hands or feet.
Bare Hands and an Open Heart Read More »
No Retakes
I was midway through my internal medicine internship when elderly Mrs. Armstrong was transferred to our service for treatment of a pulmonary embolus (aka PE–a blood clot in the lungs) after a knee fracture repair. I remember thinking, disparagingly, “Surgeons should be able to treat a PE!”
The following morning, our team rounded on our patients and hurriedly wrote orders and notes because Susan, my senior resident, and I would be in clinic all afternoon. As we worked, another resident, Greg, stopped by and invited us to a party that evening. “I hope I can come,” I said. “If I finish early enough.”
A Conversation About Race, Fear and Connection
Paul Gross
In the wake of recent events, many speak about the need for conversations about race. In our country, the implications of race are a moral issue, a humanitarian issue, a justice issue and, yes, a medical issue. (One need only examine how racial categorization affects rates of death.) But what would this conversation about race look like?
Today, Pulse’s editor provides one offering. In August, we’ll invite all Pulse readers to join in with their stories, when Race will be the theme of More Voices.
I grew up in Stuyvesant Town, a middle-class housing development just north of Fourteenth Street on the east side of Manhattan. Built after World War II, Stuyvesant Town was a leafy and desirable place to live. There was a long waiting list to get in, and priority was given to World War II veterans, like my father.
A Conversation About Race, Fear and Connection Read More »