It’s okay to rip flowers outand to set fire to vines,to pluck petals off withoutcounting to love meor love me
This is a mixed media painting of Boromir from the Lord of the Rings series dying at the end of
This year, the University of Iowa Roy J. and Lucille A. Carver College of Medicine celebrated 150 years of excellence
About the Author Kristina Sevcik MD is a former medical student at the Carver College of Medicine. She is currently
Kristina Sevcik MD is a former medical student at the Carver College of Medicine. She is currently a first-year pathology residency at the University of Nebraska Medical Center.
It’s okay to rip flowers out
and to set fire to vines,
to pluck petals off without
counting to love me
or love me not.
It’s okay to let fruit spoil
without giving it a chance
to taste sweet.
It’s okay to have weeds and bees
and birdbaths full of June bugs,
to plant watermelon seeds
that will never grow.
It’s okay to cut the heads off roses
and to water the bush that will never bloom.
It’s okay to dance
in a garden of goodbyes
to let go,
to make room.
Hannah Erlbacher is a medical student at the Carver College of Medicine. Her favorite medium is poetry.
This is a ritual.
I know that because this practice now transcends the routine and embodies life itself for me. I began this pilgrimage in a different life, but its continuation in this one sustains me. I approach these days with the sacredness of a priest, but I see no salvation in them like a non-believer.
Slowly, my eyes refocus on the surrounding room. It is dark in here, except, a faint luminosity trickles in from the nearby room that is separated from me by a pane of glass. The only other room that I know of which resembles this one has one way glass, and the police use it to interrogate suspects.
In a way, I guess that is why I am here too.
I begin to slide into a familiar cylindrical opening. I can see the words, “Do not stare directly into the laser aperture.”
I always think that aperture is too big of a word to use for such a small space.
But, I do not design these machines, in fact, I never want to see one ever again. Let them use a five-dollar word where a one-dollar word would do. It does not matter. Nothing really exists in here anyways. Suddenly, a light whirring noise cracks the façade of tranquility, and a rhythmic electronic beeping noise interjects itself between my thoughts. I settle into the paper lining beneath me, and I lie still, stiller than I have ever been, but not as still as I will ever be. Sometimes, I think that if I am quiet enough, I will be able to hear the radioactive tracer coursing through my veins, riding the superhighway of my blood vessels to the farthest reaches of my being. I know where the road ends. The tracer always coagulates into an unmistakable pattern before the radiologist’s eyes. It always shows cancer.
I used to arrive here brimming with the anxiety that inexactitude and uncertainty create, but not anymore. I have begun to enjoy, even relish, this ritual in my interrupted life. The more time that I spend in here, this coffin, this ark, the more I realize that this is the only place that I do not have cancer. I had cancer when I began to slide into this machine, and I may when I get out, but right now, until they see the scan, this precarious existence that I have temporarily carved out is a paradise of unpredictability. For the fifteen or twenty minutes that I am in here, I exist outside of five-year survival rates. I tower above the looks of pity that I receive soon after their eyes meet my smooth skull. I am not cured either, no, but while the machine works, I am at peace.
Afterwards, I sit waiting in an exam room while the radiologist maps out my existence. Absently, a half-paid attention to high school physics lesson floats into my mind. That day, my teacher told us to visualize a cat in a box. We were asked to imagine that there was a poisonous chemical in the box with the cat that had a fifty percent chance of killing it. The catch was, until someone opened the box, we could not know if the cat was alive or dead. Until that time, it was both. The lesson was designed to teach us something about quantum theory, but I never quite understood it. How could something be both alive and dead? As I sit in my chair, neither alive, nor dead, I understand perfectly well.
My doctor enters the room and stands before me holding the results of my scan in his hand like an ancient Roman emperor whose thumb hovers parallel to the ground before he decides if the gladiator should live or die.
He looks at the paper, pauses, and then looks up at me.
If formerly society was founded on a renunciation of enjoyment for the sake of social duty, then the only duty today consists in becoming oneself (to appropriate Todd McGowan). This piece posits that mental health discourse today only offers a new injunction for its subjects: to become self-identical, to self-actualize. We are increasingly told to “normalize talking about mental health”, but isn’t this declaration already anachronistic? Our mental health seems to be all that we can talk about, a new mode of narcissism only thinly veiled as somehow political, progressive, subversive. But if we have already absorbed the platitudes of liberal mental health discourse, then why is the mental health crisis worsening? The piece contends that it is in fact the presuppositions of mental health discourse that are the environment in which mental health issues form, that it is out of a dissatisfaction with an individual failure to achieve the imperatives foisted upon us by mental health discourse that mental health symptoms emerge. The solution is in fact the problem, and it is only when we challenge the notion of the individual undergirding mental health discourse that we can contend with the current mental health crisis, by positing an alternate model of the subject as relational, rather than as substantial entity, in which such a project of self-actualization becomes meaningless, and find meaning elsewhere (through collective emancipation).
Will Moody graduated from the University of Denver in June 2020 with a degree in molecular biology and plans to apply to medical school in June 2021. In May 2020, Will was diagnosed with Hodgkin Lymphoma and after undergoing treatment was informed his cancer had returned in November 2020. Writing has been a much needed creative outlet for him during this time. Will is currently working on his first book and spending time with his family while he continues treatment. His writing also appears in Pulse – Voices from the Hearts of Medicine, Aspiring Docs Diaries, and his blog, The Rest of Your Life.
I had just set up my post at the volunteer desk and was midway through the process of screening a visitor, asking, “Have you had any recent fevers, cough, …” when one of the hospice nurses, Nyah, quietly interrupted me. “Excuse me, would you be willing to go sit with 12?” “She isn’t doing well.” My heart raced, but I responded with an unwavering, “Yes, of course I can!” I walked briskly to the end of the corridor and found the patient’s room. I was greeted with a flashy, yellow sign, indicating a positive C. difficile infection, so I took appropriate precautions prior to entering her room.
Upon entering, a CNA met my gaze and knowingly passed on what seemed like everything I needed to know, without even saying a word. Her face told me the patient unfortunately did not have long. I pulled up a chair and tried to get to know more of who “12” was. Glimpsing up at her care team board, I saw a familiar scene: in faded dry erase marker, there were multiple family members’ names and their phone numbers scrawled all over. Some left messages, “Get well soon, Grandma!” and “We love you!” others drew little happy faces, stick-figure drawings of themselves, or sketches of dogs and hearts. I gave May’s hand a light squeeze with my gloved hand. The board also listed May’s recent medications, her husband’s name, and Lutheran, as her religious affiliation. May struggled to breathe, showing signs of a Cheyne-Stokes breathing pattern, but I asked her if she would like me to pray for her. She attempted to respond, but her labored breathing allowed her only a nod. For a brief second, May was able to hold eye contact, and in her eyes, I could see that she wanted relief.
Immediately, fear washed over me. What if my prayer wasn’t what May wanted to hear? How do I know what her specific requests are right now? I squeezed her hand again, before praying for peace and comfort for May. My prayer lifted, and again, I gave her hand a light squeeze. This time, May’s eyes were unable to focus on me, and I could tell she was steadily slipping towards death. I wondered deeply who May truly was and wished I had a time machine, bringing me back to the highlights of her years. A septuagenarian, I couldn’t help but think how she was affected by the pandemic in her final year of life. Without knowing May and the intricacies of her life leading up to this precious moment, it was impossible for me to know just how profound of an impact masks, gowns, face shields, and other measures of PPE had on her life. I wanted so desperately to remove my glove and provide skin-to-skin contact in her last moments. Instead, I offered a few more words of comfort and solace to May, and mostly just sat in silence with her, as her breathing drifted and her skin began to pale. Her limbs grew limp. A tear rolled down my cheek, burying itself in my mask.
Suddenly, the door opened, and in walked May’s husband, Gene, bewildered by May’s lifeless body. His partner of almost 50 years had only just passed, and he was in shock. He abruptly dropped his cane, which clanged off the ground with a stark metallic pitch that reverberated through my bones. Gene’s words faltered as he looked towards me, “I, … Who…?” And then stuttered, “Mmmay?” I didn’t respond, knowing that his thoughts would assemble in time. I excused myself to give Gene space to mourn, and later that evening, I was approached by Gene and May’s daughter. She introduced herself as Sharon, and then she asked me if she could hear about my last moments with her mom. Her puffy, swollen eyes, and long solemn face peered into my soul, as I provided details of the experience, praying, squeezing her hand, and trying to comfort May with my presence. May’s daughter beamed with gratitude and burst into tears, stating that her mother had been isolated for months leading up to her death, due to COVID-19 restrictions at the nursing home she was in. I could tell she wanted nothing more than to be with her mother and to be the one to hold her hand, but she managed to say, through a river of tears, “Thank you for being there for her. And praying with her– that was so kind of you.” When I met Sharon’s eyes to respond, an outpouring of tears fell down our cheeks, almost in unison, knowing that an act of mourning had just brought us closer.
Grief is a nearly palpable feeling felt deep within, and after May’s death, I carried her loss physically, mentally, and emotionally. The staggering death toll due to the novel coronavirus over the past few years is a constant reminder of grief. With every number that ticks across the television screen, there is likely someone, somewhere, grieving their loss. Shared mourning may assuage fears of some, reconciling to others, and aggravate opinions of a few. The process of remembering individuals who have died, either to direct or indirect factors related to the pandemic can bring healing. The connection May and I had in her final moments revealed that sitting close, hand in hand, did not require a familial relationship, only a bond that unites us all — as human beings. As continue to move toward the resolve of the COVID-19 global pandemic, a cloud of enduring grief hangs low, and we continue to mourn. May we draw upon our shared experiences, recall the power of presence, and surpass traditional boundaries to create new connections with one another.
The patient’s name and other details have been changed to protect patient privacy.
Mikayla Brockmeyer is a second-year osteopathic medical student at Des Moines University. She enjoys narrative medicine, reading for pleasure, and trying new ice cream flavors.
I couldn’t understand.
How could I understand?
I couldn’t let myself understand…
For fear that if I let myself understand, paralysis would ensue.
According to Newton’s 1st Law of Motion I would be doomed if I stopped.
I’d already started and was the first in the group each day to grab a scalpel and pull down the gauze.
When teammates hesitated to chip away the frontal bone, I was the first to offer to perform the task.
But despite being first to initiate dissections on our donor, I also felt it my duty to protect him. I always maintained contact with a part of him, placing the palm of my hand usually on his arm or his abdomen. And yet, now I realize that keeping constant contact with the chilled and moist muscles beneath my double-gloved hand wasn’t protection for our donor at all, but for myself. It was a selfish act, a strange way to keep myself grounded. If I could keep my hands involved, then just maybe I could tether my mind to the current task and not allow it to rise up and reflect.
Now I realize my error and cowardice.
I took the easy way out.
Yes, it would have been more difficult to regain inertia if I paused to contemplate my actions
But maybe I would have taken a greater appreciation of the humanity of the situation.
For that, I admire my teammates who took the time to hesitate.
They are braver than I ever was.
This writing is a response to the piece “Gross Anatomy” by writer, poet, and medical student Hannah Erlbacher. Importantly, Hannah and I started our close friendship in the anatomy lab. This piece is dedicated to her, one of my dearest friends and inspirations. “
Lola Lozano is a first year MSTP student dedicated to integrating the arts and humanities with science and medicine.
This is a mixed media painting of Boromir from the Lord of the Rings series dying at the end of the first film/beginning of the second book. I assembled book pages from the relevant chapters of Tolkien’s series and glued them to stretched canvas. There are 9 pages outlined around the figure in this painting to symbolize the 9 members of the fellowship of the ring, with the chapter title “The departure of Boromir” arranged at the top. Above that, the title page “the breaking of the fellowship” is centered, with a rings of pages circling around the hero at the focal point. Trees that resemble the two towers encircle the painting, and also symbolize the ring and eye of Sauron from a distant view. There’s more to it but any way… 😂 this is my favorite painting I’ve ever made in homage to the GOAT film series and I hope you enjoy. Feedback welcome!”
Kael Hoflen is a dental student at the University of Iowa.
It’s been a journey, my friends, and as all cheesy sayings go, this is just the start. During this exceptionally strange and challenging time, we have so much to learn about our world together. But ultimately how we come together and make it better is what counts. So here is to the start of a new semester with you: may we connect more so because of this distance and find the pearls upon reflecting on each experience so that we might create something beautiful and new, to help our future patients and to help our world.
A bullet point reflection with some humor and some melancholy touches on what I perceive to be shared experiences from M1s starting at CCOM during the SARS-Cov2 pandemic.” – Anonymous
We all know someone who has struggled through cancer. Unfortunately, some people face it early in their lives. Tess Halbert just graduated from high school this spring but was diagnosed with lymphoma a few months later. She has been sharing her story on social media, and I found her positivity inspiring. But I found her candor about her struggles truly moving. So I decided to do a drawing of her on my iPad. I definitely spent more time than I should have since I started my first semester of med school, but it was worth it to me after seeing her appreciation. I wanted to share my drawing on Instagram as a reminder to myself of why I want to be a physician. I have spent 5 years so far studying cancer and trying to find novel treatments for glioblastoma multiforme (a type of brain cancer). My experience with that research showed me how debilitating cancer can be and why we need continual research to save millions of lives. I hope to continue doing research as a physician and help people get through this incredibly difficult disease. And to those currently facing this disease, be strong and as Tess says, “Make sure you take every opportunity to bask in the sun, feel the grass between your toes, and pet every dog you see because you never realize how much you take for granted until you can no longer do it.” – Zain Mehdi
Zain Mehdi is a second year medical student at the Carver College of Medicine.
Build yourself, do not erase it, the instructor says when she talks about beliefs, that a client’s or patient’s will differ from mine. Still, I try to be absent, void of opinion, as though my nothing will make room for someone else— everyone else, so I stacked steel beams and plaster. When she sees the bony structure, the instructor begs: what do you believe? I sand the popcorn ceiling, and I try to be considerate while her mouth seems to water, while mine is a vacuum that sucks and sucks until the cavity dries, I treasure this great blank canvas. So she asks about my childhood, my church, my enemies How I may see them in the frame. The mortal coil is design! How easy to say by clay sculpture, furnished with Calacatta. With no pennies and no eye, I sprawl across the cool tile, fingers in the corners, and command my vessel to leak.
This piece hopes to serve as an exploration of the self and responsibility as a provider in the medical field; in a system of people serving people, a provider must build a space for themselves and a client/patient” – Lexys Sillin
Lexys Sillin is a nonfiction writer that largely pulls from her own experiences with family, mental health, and grief as inspiration. She currently serves as a first-year student of Marriage and Family Therapy at Mount Mercy. Lexys lives with her two cats and her husband, Mason, who generously proofreads all of her work, including this bio.
With the eye being the window to the soul, I hope to connect the realistic with the imaginative in this piece.” Shappi
Shappi is a D.O. Student at Des Moines University.
