Drapes
Jonathan Zhao, 2T5 PB
Artist's Statement: I wrote this poem for my humanism assignment on my surgery rotation. It was inspired by some reflections on factors that lead to the dehumanization of patients in the OR.
As I step into the OR where healing takes place,
I am gowned and gloved, with a visor on my face.
We do a “time out” and anesthesia intubates.
Before I know it, all I see are drapes.
While drapes allow us to establish a sterile patch,
they may also be a reason why we get so detached.
As the patient falls asleep, their spirit is masked.
Before I know it, they’ve become a task.
They’re reduced to a project, something I retract.
As the operation goes on, I suture and I cauterize.
Suddenly I hear a voice that I do not recognize.
My eyes widen in shock as I remember and realize
that the “project” before me is a person who can empathize.
Before the operation is complete,
there’s a mantra I must repeat,
so my conscience does not retreat.
We must remember as we perform our surgeries,
that behind every drape is someone with hopes, dreams, families, and boundaries.
Although these drapes enhance our ability to perform,
we cannot forget the humanity we share and adore.
Let‘s always remind ourselves what, or rather, whom, we’re working for.
How weirdly this world works
Pooja Ravi Sankar, 2T5 PB
Artist's Statement: At first glance, the outlook of this piece is rather grim, but upon internalization, the reader can conclude on their own that there is beauty in sacrifice; there is beauty in commitment; and there is beauty in that passion!
How weirdly this world works
And how strangely we tread through.
Moving through the motions with time,
Passing by people and through many lives.
As if each of us are mere chapters in a book
To be read once or twice but seldom thrice.
Our narrative is our own, yet so intertwined
And forgotten as fast as we are remembered in time.
Medicine's Melancholy: A Journey of Self-Discovery and Sacrifice
Melina Hanna, 2T7 MAM
Artist's Statement: At first glance, the outlook of this piece is rather grim, but upon internalization, the reader can conclude on their own that there is beauty in sacrifice; there is beauty in commitment; and there is beauty in that passion!
When no one can hear my loudest thoughts, I sometimes wonder whether I chose medicine for myself or just for the plot.
Despite its initial seduction, it always felt like medicine and I were never going to amount to anything past mutually assured destruction. Together, we were like a toxic relationship that was never meant to be—I could simply leave it, but the 'what-ifs' would always come back to haunt me.
The more it rejected me, the more it consumed my thoughts. The more it told me I wasn’t good enough, the more validation from it I sought.
Then one morning, I got the email that would soon change my career for good. I was finally going to be a physician. But the joy slowly faded when I realized I lost who I was along the way, trying to contort and fold myself to fit their mission.
I’ve given up so much to come this far, but that’s what it’s always been about: a profession of evident selflessness and one large personality scar.
But when do I get to be a person too? When do I get to cry and not be okay and have a person rescue me from my own feelings that seem to be so taboo?
I’m afraid the answer is not anytime soon. So, for now, I’ll tell you it’s all okay while smiling, but if you don’t see my nose crinkle, just know that I’m lying.
The Starry-eyed Kids
Afreen Ahmad, 2T7 Fitz
All the starry-eyed kids
Keep dreaming in bed
Because the night can’t cloud
All the stars in their head
All the starry-eyed kids
With a heavy chest
Although can’t breathe now
Still see Saturn ahead
With the moon in their palms
And nothing to dread
Say all the clouds in the sky
Can’t block the stars in their head
They may be buried alive
Thoughts taken as dead
But the ground can’t hold
All the dreams in their head
They will sprout into a forest
Built on the ruins of their nation
A new life will come to fruition
Just keep searching for salvation
Please keep searching for salvation
This time.
Sabrin Salim, 2T5 PB
I journal when I have the time. It helps me spill my thoughts, my feelings onto a page.
It makes my emotions and narratives tangible. Like things I can hold, I can smudge, erase, rewrite.
I have always felt something, until I didn’t.
This time, I have no feeling. These days, I have none.
I wake up. I have no time. I run to the hospital. I have no time. I see people and write notes. I have no time. I snack. I have no time. I see my patient. I have no time. I see the next one. I have no time. I stop. I have no time.
Again. The next day.
I wake up. I have no time. I run to the hospital. I have no time. I see people and write notes. I have no time. I see my patient, she’s weak. I have no time. I see the next one. I have no time.
And again, the next day.
This time, she’s delirious. I see the next patient. I have no time.
And again, the next day.
This time, she’s coughing, she can’t breathe. I see the next patient. I have no time.
And again, the next day.
This time, she’s lifeless.
This time, she has no time.
I look in the mirror and wonder, why can’t I feel something?
I go home. I try to write. This time, I have no words.
Maybe it will come to me. Maybe I’m tired. Maybe I just need to sleep.
Again, the next day.
I wake up. I have no time. I run to the hospital. I have no time. I see people and write notes. I have no time. I snack. I have no time. I see a new patient. I have no time. I see the next one. I have no time. I stop. I have no time.
And the day after, and the day after and the day after.
When will I have time?
As I am about to lay in bed, this time, I cry.
This time, my sadness has made time. I feel every inch of everything I could have felt. Anger, sadness, worry, hope - grief. I wish I could share this with her family, her friends, the people who filled her time. I wish I stayed longer.
I
While short, I existed in her time. She existed in mine.
This time. Is the only time.