In gaps between teeth

Ashley Li, 2T6 Fitz

Artist's Statement: As a daughter of immigrants, there is a lot that is unspoken in our household. The intergenerational gap between my parents and I is one separated not only by age, but also by culture, identity, and a sense of belonging. As children, we often see our parents as only that—our parents. The person who made us breakfast every morning as children, and the person whose dinner-table politics frustrate us as adults. We view them in the context of our lives and our worldview. But who was ‘dad’ before he was ‘dad’? And what was gained and lost in that process?

I have never seen my father cry. He’s done it before. Behind hospital doors and in the men’s washrooms at funerals, his spine had curled concave until there was nothing left of him to shield a family with. But never in front of me. Why is it painful to imagine that our fathers were something before they were our fathers? If I ask, he may tell me that he comes from a country where the river is so clear you can drink from it. Where you never wake up before the sun does. A place where no one is sick yet, and farm boys like him still dream of the world every night. If I ask, my mother may still remember what it’s like to kiss a boy who held a song in the gaps between his teeth. To fall in love with the way his red-tipped ears always betrayed him when they spoke. May tell me that once, my father biked forty-five minutes just to hand her a rose in a plastic bag and then bolt. She kept the rose in a book, never telling him that it had wilted on the way there. I never ask. Come home, he says. I wonder if it’s too late. If I have lost my mother tongue in too many foreign men’s mouths. He never thinks it a waste to pray for me to gods I don’t believe in. Never blames me for being worlds apart, with my entitlement and rapid-fire English. When I’m asked where I am from, I do not stutter like he does. My father cannot go home. Home is a place between time, perpetually half-memory. It is two ghost ships sailing antiparallel, suspended between age and country. Home exists before the funeral, after the birth. It is laughing with all your teeth because there is no one to miss. What I mean to say is my father cannot go home, so he becomes home. How do we forgive ourselves for what our existence has stolen? I do not call. I came home too late. My father is asleep in the armchair, upright, his phone is still playing old Mandarin songs. I forget why I left in the first place.

That’s Where She Was

Daisy Ren, 2T5 WB

In the middle of a green, grassy field 

Where you have farmland for acres 

That’s where she was

One of these fields from the movies 

Where the characters prance in slow motion

That’s where she was 

Silently looking up at the clouds 

At the sky so blue she felt like her eyes were deceiving her

With a breeze so light you would miss it if you weren’t paying attention 

In the background, she could hear the birds singing their morning songs

while not a single trace of human civilization showed for miles

And she sat there thinking 

Of all the beautiful things in her life 

Of all the beautiful people in her life

Of all the beautiful things happening in her life

And she couldn’t believe that she had ever been sad 

That she had ever been empty 

She felt so lucky for the friends who laugh with her until sunrise 

For the family who sits with her, so she never has to sit alone 

For the colleagues who inspire her to be better 

Because on that September day, she had finally collected all her pieces again 

For the first time in forever 

There she was

The Black Rose

MV Istasy, 2T6 Fitz

Artist's Statement: "From physically moving from one location to another.| From mentally learning about one subject to another."

The light in your eyes stirs my soul 

Languishing in Lethe, fallen from 

The precipice of ephemeral love. 


Broken, the darkness sees me whole:

Crying, distanced from tears; and 

In the pallid profounds I etiolate.


But a white rose blossoms

Next to me, enlivened by your 

Subsisting gaze:


Gaze so upon me 

Persistently.

I, the black rose, blanched.


Draw me nearer, until slivers of soul 

Unite, and tears abjure

My cheeks -


True, Thanatos ran 

With stifling fetters

Which then have been outrun;


But we have climbed the velds 

And are found wanting

By some aether or distant star.


Let us stop and stay, then, 

Gazing at that white rose. 

I have seen Sisyphe - and I am afraid.

Memories

Nishwara Tarannum, 2T5 WB

Every day, he would be greeted with a new set of questions that rolled off her lips like a poem, and with a heavy heart, he would turn away. A part of him wanted to spare her the pain. Yet the thought of her visage being illuminated by darkness and suffering was too much of a burden to bear. “Her obliviousness will be the death of her,” he had said one evening, chuckling to himself. How carelessly he had uttered those words.

It simply wasn’t up to him to answer her questions. Her world needed to reflect reality. All he could do was hold the mirror. And so, they lived their paradoxical lives, comforted only by slumber.

But even then, she found a way inside, warping into his dreams and reminding him of the moments they had shared.

They had settled into a bucolic area, where the flowers grew wild, and life seemed serene. She was hesitant to step into the sea of unfamiliarity, but soon tailored life to help her heal her wounds and begin anew. She was a woman who treasured every fabric of existence, every remnant of the past. So, she would keep with her little reminders of the life she had lived. Her favourite was a pair of sandals that she considered an heirloom with intricate floral patterns woven into the edges, dusted with gold glitter. It was passed down from her ancestors, and she had not let it out of her sight ever since.

“I like to think each generation walked around different corners of the earth in these shoes, touching human lives in the process,” she explained, back when he wasn’t the one living for the both of them.

Now they were just two souls just passing through, who simply existed together. Around her, he’d learnt to craft a new persona, one he would don on like a mask. But at its core it was a facade. A mere illusion of who he was.

Sometimes, he caught himself taking in the entirety of who she was. The way her luscious hair cascaded down her back and gleamed like gold when the sun hit at the right angle. The way her hips swayed as if she was eternally bound to dance, exuberating grace. The way her fingertips traced the strings of her viola to produce mellifluous melodies.

One night, as he was headed to the porch, he saw her under the luminous sky, looking at the stars whose light was nothing in comparison to her and trying to make sense of the world. The temperature had just dipped below zero, the coolness prickling his skin. The leaves rustled, the wind howling across the night, as they both stood in silence.

“Do you know why we call them memories?” she asked, stopping him dead in his tracks. He was always surprised at her sudden comments. He tread carefully around her so as not to break her frail state.

“Why?” he asked sheepishly.

“Because they serve the human race with a series of nostalgic moments that for a brief second envelop us,” she answered.

After that encounter, the questions simply stopped. He saw less of her every day, her image slowly turning into a distant memory. Her footsteps became less rhythmic and more urgent, as she walked around the house in her treasured sandals. The scent of incense lingered at the tip of his tongue, as she came and went, so distinct that he would crinkle his nose when he became too aware of it.

He grew so accustomed to her presence, so comfortable with her movements around the house that he truly never prepared himself for the worst.

It was a moment that he knew was long overdue, a moment he had come to terms with. He had never anticipated a farewell, a closure of some sort that would signify the end. As the rules of nature state, the kind of alchemy that presents itself as the giver and taker of things, he had to lose her.

Again.

His mind drifted to that night, where their lives collapsed, and she took her final breath. He had spent years finding a way to cope with the grief, as it consumed him from the inside. But it never did.

Loss can redefine an individual. To summarize her in a few poignant words would be to belittle who she was.

He would rather tell her the alternative answer to her question.

They are called memories, for they capture the essence of the past and form the foundation for the present.

She had attained the peace and liberty that only she could have provided for herself. She finally stepped out from oblivion.

She finally became a memory.

Clinic

M.A., 2T5 PB

A flurry of steps

Rushing down halls

‘Who’s here? What’s next?’

They gesture and call

From room to room

One case to the next

This patient needs meds

And this patient needs rest

Lists upon lists

Rows of seats never empty

The clock moves fast

But for patients it’s lengthy

Come the end of day

When all is done

The doctor leans back

‘Oh gosh! Where’s the sun?’

The days can drone on

Work can seem futile

Take some time to think

Feel instead of toil

What’s routine to us

To patients is daunting

But know you make a difference

In the efforts you’re making

Be proud of yourself

Honour the lives at your provision

Be kind and be brave

Find peace in your profession

The One Sentence Summary

Leighton Schreyer, 2T6 Fitz

I failed the first Case Report I had to write in medical school—although, I guess I didn’t fail per se (it’s pretty hard to actually fail something); rather, my report was deemed inadequate, which, according to the rubric, meant that there was either information missing (highly unlikely, given that my report was 6 pages long and took me 2 hours to write despite my tutor saying it shouldn’t take longer than 20 minutes), or that information had been described inappropriately, which was more likely the case because, although it wasn’t explicitly stated (most things aren’t these days), the feedback I received was to try to make the summary more brief, and, while I thought I’d been relatively succinct in my half-page summary of patient KB who came to the ER the previous week complaining of SOB and was diagnosed with PE following CT, then coded despite being started on UFH, at which point they were sent to the ICU where an IVC filter was later placed, and although I had only alluded to some of the social factors at play—that they had fractured their foot, for example, while they were on vacation in the Philippines a few weeks before, which meant that they hadn’t been able to go to Zumba class or frequent the Farmer’s Market the way they normally did on Friday mornings to buy fresh fruits and vegetables and fine cut meats (which also meant they’d been eating more processed foods lately that were high in sugar and salt and saturated fat); or that they had talked about being lonely, which I knew posed health risks as deadly as smoking up to 15 cigarettes a day—I still accepted the criticism and, when it came time to write the second Case Report, this time about patient CU, I limited my summary to a third of the page, which I thought was pretty brief but, again, my summary was deemed inadequate: challenge yourself, for the next case report, to make the summary just 2-3 sentences, the comments read this time, which made me think of Chuck, my Grade 12 English teacher, who passionately recited Shakespearean soliloquies each class and somehow found a way to make grammar lessons fun, encouraging us to apply our learning of punctuation—of em dashes and en dashes and commas and colons and parentheses and periods— by starting a class competition around who could write the longest, grammatically correct sentence (brownie points and bragging rights for the win), so when my tutor challenged me to write a summary in just 2-3 sentences (a suggestion that was surely meant to shorten my summary), I scoffed, defiant, and accepted the challenge, submitting my third Case Report with just a one sentence summary.

Life is a Koan

Kaesavan Selvakumaran, PGY1 FM Resident, formerly 2T3 MAM

Artist's Statement: Kaesavan has been practicing Zen for over four years. He doesn’t know why he does it but keeps returning to the practice again and again. Society says that if you “work hard” and “put in the hours,” you will achieve what you hope to achieve. That, however, doesn’t seem to apply to Zen. Many go on for years or even decades without any progress. For others, they experience an almost instantaneous moment of enlightenment. This is one of many reasons why Zen brings fascination to the writer.

I tried entering the Zendo

With various motives

First, for solace

If not, for profit

Yet, tension to achieve

And failure to not

Kept me running

For 30 minutes.

Techniques and tips

“shoulds” and “shouldn’ts”

Are keys

that open no doors.

Expectation otherwise

Is Groundhog day

So where to go?

How to be?

Zen is a game of clarity.

But I’m too prideful to see.

From Olive Trees (a modified excerpt)

எங்கள் சமூகம், 2T4 Fitz

We buy that olive oil

to cook, to eat, to live,

for taste, for joy, for life.

While the olive trees,

in relation with a people

and a people in relation with the olive trees,

are under _word has been censored_.

This is a people’s history.

Stories of children, families, communities,

Of relationality,

Of songs,

Of recipes, 

Embedded in the plant beings

Of those lands,

And of those waters.

And there, they will always be.

-In memory of Bilal Saleh. He was harvesting olives.

Between Two Worlds

Andy Dongkwun Lee, 2T7 WB

Artist's Statement: "From physically moving from one location to another.| From mentally learning about one subject to another."

From Alberta's embrace to Ontario's grand,

A journey of healing, as I understand.

In the world of psychology, I once did roam,

Now in medical school, I find my home.

In these halls of knowledge, I'll make my stand,

With a stethoscope as a collar, I'll lend a caring hand.

From textbooks and lectures to bedside and lab,

I'll learn to heal, to mend, with knowledge to grasp.

With tools of medicine, the wisdom of art,

I seek to mend broken bodies and heal every heart.

With skill and compassion, I'll make my decree,

To bring health and comfort, for all who trust me.

From paediatric wards to geriatric care,

A healer, a comforter, a helping hand to spare.

In this noble profession, I'll give my all,

To answer healthcare's compassionate call.

In the realm of medicine, my purpose is clear,

To alleviate suffering, to conquer each fear.

From Alberta to Ontario, and beyond I will roam,

A lifelong commitment to heal, to care, and to owe.

I see you

Renée Bailey, 2T5 WB

Artist's Statement: This short story, entitled “I see you” was inspired by a patient teacher who shared her struggle of navigating her breast cancer diagnosis while simultaneously dealing with racism and discrimination as a Black female patient. This short story is entitled “I see you” because it highlights the shared experience of racism, discrimination, and separation that both Black physicians and Black patients face in their roles. The underrepresentation of Black physicians, has had significant implications on the safety, comfort, and trust Black patients have in the healthcare system. The term “I see you,” marks the value Black physicians hold in deeply understanding and recognizing the struggles experienced by Black patients in medicine.

I see you. 

Even if it was in a room full of a thousand people, I would still see you. 

I see your tears. It is never easy hearing the words “you have breast cancer”. It feels as though the floor underneath you - that security you once felt about your life, your health, your future - was unapologetically taken away from you. Without warning. Without any certainty that it will be returned. 

But it isn’t the tears that make me recognize your face in the crowd. 

It’s the one trait we share that marks both our resilience, and at the same time, our collective struggle. 

It’s our Blackness. 

I see you. And I’m so happy that I finally spotted you in the crowd.

Navigating the journey of sickness and recovery is no easy feat. And doing so while facing racism and discrimination in the process is a struggle that no one should have to bear. This is the moment in your life where you desperately want to be seen. 

Heard. 

Validated. 

You sought through the crowd. Hoping to meet eyes with someone who understands you. And for a long time, there was no one in sight. 

But I see you now. 

And you see me.

And more than that, I resonate with your struggle as a Black person, and Black female, in this world. 

It’s interesting. Finding you in the crowd that day offered me just as much hope and encouragement as it did you. 

Because now, when I walk into an OR room and find that, yet again, I am the only Black person in that space, I feel strength because I’m reminded of you. I’m reminded of how happy you were that day when I spotted you in the crowd. Even as tears fell from your face, you smiled at the sight of me.

And so, on the days to come, when I feel discouraged for being the only Black person in a medical space, I will remember that a time will come when another, like us, hopes to be seen. 

Wants to be seen. 

Needs to be seen. 

And our eyes will meet. Even if it’s in a crowd full of a thousand people. 

And when that happens. I will smile. Tears may just flow down my eyes. Because in that moment, I will be so happy to know that I was there. That I was present to spot them in the crowd.