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Poems
Series: Patient Interviews
Alexandra Rosenberg
1. (PHQ-9: Screen for Depression)
“Depressed? Course I’m depressed.
My wife died ten years ago.
My son? Well…
He does the best he can for me.”
2. (DNR)
“What’s that you call it?
In-tube-ate?
No ma’am.
No way to die.
Just call my daughter,
give me some pills–
I’ll go easy.”
3. (Suicide Attempt)
“I’ve got two voices in my head
Chuck and Butch
Chuck’s not so bad, but Butch….
I like Chuck, I don’t want him to go away.
But things got bad,
My girlfriend left me.
My head was
a too-loud radio station
–can’t turn it off.
I took a bunch of pills
Bought a gun. I was going to do it.
But my mom got home early that day.
She took me here.
OR Tears
Anne Vinsel
Tears in the operating room are different from tears cried by civilians, by veals.
There are rules.
A single tear from one eye is unobjectionable.
Two tears, either one from each eye
or two from one eye
are permitted if they are unaccompanied by sniffles.
Three tears risks discovery and humiliation.
There are rules.
The mechanics of crying in the OR are difficult.
You may not brush a tear away.
Sterile and dirty may not touch.
Gloved sterile hands may not swipe unsterile eyes.
Best to let your tear take a quick dive into your blue pleated mask
which will blot it up before it can drop into the sleeping patient’s incision.
There are rules.
MRI of a Child’s Auricle
Blaise Allen
From this view of your ear
I see folds of fissures,
curves of shell washed
clean by briny tears. I see
Three delicate bones of
middle ear: malleus, incus
and stapes, the smallest
bones in the human body.
I see angular vestibules,
skull and sockets. Labyrinth
of tubes, tympanic drums.
But there is no pitch or timbre.
Not one note of a lullaby.
Not even one tiny rhyme.
Perfect Circle
Francesca Decker
“You drew a perfect circle!” she exclaims.
I nod and smile as I explain,
“Yes, well, thank you…
And now this circle is a plate.
Half is vegetables.
A quarter is starch or sugar.
A quarter is protein–meat, dairy, eggs, or beans.”
Now she nods and smiles.
We discuss her diabetes,
asking her son to help her do weekly foot exams.
She has lost weight.
I give heartfelt congratulations.
Before she leaves, my attending tells her
about a local food truck
selling fresh fruit and vegetables.
As she climbs down from the exam table,
she grins again and declares,
“Boy, I’m just impressed with you!”
Denial
Kendra Peterson
July first Fellow,
a pager blares announcing
my initiating consult, a 29-year-old
(just my age)
malignant melanoma
and a first-time seizure
while receiving an infusion
of experimental treatment.
When I arrive
she’s already gotten
two milligrams of ativan
dilantin load is hanging
and I examine
a somnolent young woman
now coming ’round,
could be my friend, my sister, me,
Descent….Variations on a Williams Theme
Martin Kohn
1.
No cold plums
just the leftover
chocolate ganache
that we left in the fridge
and which I falsely accused
you of eating
Forgive me
as I lick
the sweet plate clean
and look for a magnet
to post this note
First Language
Carl V. Tyler
In my clinic and in the nursing home
Every week I see it
That depthless hollow look behind the eyes
But this time it was your eyes
Sitting across the table
At a TGI Friday’s outside of DC.
And that all-too-familiar look to your face
Of knowing and not knowing
Of barely contained panic
Of quizzically furrowed brow
Of fear.
Lost was your rich and subtle language
The rapid-fire musical cadence
The effortless literary allusions
Of English teacher and poet.
The Circulating Nurse Enters the Operating Room
Cortney Davis
Let me not be blinded by the glare of the spotlight
or distracted by the tangle of plastic tubes,
the stink of anesthesia waiting in its multi-chambered
monolith of sleep. Let me stand beside the patient
and look into his eyes. Let me say, we will take care of you.
Let me understand what it is to be overcome by fear.
Let me secure my mask and turn to the counting and opening,
the writing down. Let me watch closely and, if I have to,
If it isn’t written in the chart, it didn’t happen
Christine Higgins
The doctor covers my mother’s hand
with his own hand. Her hand is
a speckled egg he is keeping warm.
The nursing assistant reaches out
to touch the yellow roses,
and murmurs, “Bonito.”
Several people come in and speak
cheerily to the bedcovers and the curtains,
but not to my mother,
who no longer makes eye contact.