The Healer
Just beyond the parking lot,
my husband chases
our daughter through
the trails of the Rouge Valley,
as they await a break between
my cases—to visit the “hopstipal”
where she was born, where
I still work on weekends.
The Madonna
They must have given me something for sleep. My last memory was Madonnas, filled with tears in their eyes. Madonnas?
When I awoke, the lights were out and the door was closed. I could hear voices in the hallway but couldn’t make out what they were saying. I could feel my naked skin as it rubbed against the scratchy sheets. I started to get out of the bed, but I discovered that I was restrained by the side rails.
It’s Probably Nothing
As a third-year medical student, I’m used to being tired and stressed, and like many of us in training, I tend to neglect my own health. “It’s probably nothing,” I told myself. “I’m overthinking it. Illness anxiety disorder.”
But I’d always been unusually sensitive to cold. Since childhood, my hands and feet would freeze, turning pale, numb, sometimes bluish. I thought it was just a quirky trait. Then I learned about Raynaud’s phenomenon in class, and my classmates and I joked: “You totally have that.”
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Lady in Waiting
I’ve been a “lady in waiting” more than once. A traditional “lady in waiting” attends to royalty—which sounds like a pretty cushy job. But when you’re a lady waiting for the results of a biopsy, the task is a royal pain. Waiting for the phone to ring when you’re younger often means getting asked out on a date. Then years later, you find yourself waiting for a call from your doctor, to set a follow-up appointment to discuss your biopsy results. As anyone can attest, this waiting period can be a true test of resilience.
An Imagination Run Wild
I have had four breast biopsies. The procedures did not hurt since they occurred when I was in a twilight sleep. What caused me pain, however, was waiting for the results.
My imagination would run wild. Would I need a single or double mastectomy? Would I have implants or just live my life with a flat chest as I did through most of my teenage years? Would the cancer be stage 4 and have spread to lymph nodes? How much time would I have left to create memories with my beloved children?
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Ruminations on a Ruined Face
Right now, it’s dark red. With fifteen days of radiation to go, it seems it will get a whole lot darker.
At least they warned me about the sunburn. They did not warn me about the swelling and the mouth sores. And the red crusted-shut eyes and floaters. “It’s different for everyone,” they say.
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The Mirror of One’s Soul
It was the day after Christmas, during my third year in medical school. My mother and I sat in silence, the house still heavy with the remnants of holiday cheer. My two siblings had just left for their homes, five hours away, and she was visibly sad. Our family was scattered once more, each of us at different stages in our lives and careers.
Then the phone rang. My mother took the call right there in the room as the news played quietly on the television. I watched the TV screen, half-listening to her short, subdued answers. The call was so brief, and her responses so terse, that I couldn’t tell who had called, or why.
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Journal Entry 16-Jul-25
Today a patient died. Very usual for me as a palliative care doctor. She was seventy years old and very sick for a while. This really shouldn’t have surprised anyone, but her family still wept. I was sitting inside the hospice when the funeral home came to get the body. Her relatives watched outside as they loaded her into the vehicle. Then I heard wailing, loud sobs going on outside: a public display of grief that I had not expected.
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The Dreams That Bring Us Here
An aspiring doctor journeys from the West Bank to New York–via Jordan, Ramallah and Jerusalem–in pursuit of the American dream…
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August More Voices: Awaiting a Diagnosis
Dear readers,
It was autumn, and I had just started medical school at the advanced age of thirty. I’d always been in good health, so when my symptoms first appeared, I was sure they couldn’t be anything serious.
The first hint of a problem came in the middle of a seminar, when I had to leave the room to urinate. It struck me as a little odd. The next time the seminar met, I used the bathroom beforehand, just to be on the safe side, but it didn’t help. Halfway through I had to excuse myself again.
Hunh.
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