The C2S blog draws on the arts, the social and biological sciences to explore the many meanings of health and "dis-ease." Designed to be a locus where patients, their families and professionals can meet on a level playing field, it is the natural off-shoot of the Cell 2 Soul Online Journal. We encourage the submission of ideas, essays, poems, stories, humor, and timely reviews relating to the humanities and health care.
“Are you not giving me any medicine?” her patient asked?
Ms. Shahab was silent for a moment, and then said with a sympathetic gaze, “Medicine for you will not cure your abusive husband.”
"The therapist was born in the isolated Afghan village she still lives in, in 1987 or 1988 — she is not sure. Her father was shot and killed at his mosque shortly before she was born. The reasons for the killing remain unclear, but it shattered their family and forever changed life for Ms. Shahab and her two siblings.
Ms. Shahab and Client (NY Times)
"A marriage was arranged to a man almost 20 years her senior when she was only 13. But the marriage did not stop her from completing her education. She took two of her youngest children with her to school, placing them at the kindergarten as she attended classes."
She is now a therapist in the village, caring for women battered by family and war.
He was there every day, Looking at her from the other side of the window, Smiling at her as she handed over his little green pill. He wasn’t that old and she wasn’t that young; Neither had ever married. She was a psychiatric nurse’s aide who understood the inmates Because she had been abused as a child, pulling into herself To avoid punishment. He was there because he had been bullied as a little boy, Making it a habit of staying away from the big guys who could Beat him up. Now, they were adults, albeit imperfect ones, who Occasionally would sit together on her coffee breaks And tell light-hearted jokes. And forget their pain for a while. Their shrink had suggested they might have a lot in common. And truth be told, it had occurred to both of them.
One day, he was not at the window. On her break she sought him out. In his room, the bed was stripped. His toiletries and clothes were gone. Where was he, she wondered? She asked the nurses. They answered in soft voices with hooded eyes. They said they didn’t know. The next day in the obituary column she found his name. She went to the funeral with the little cup and a pillbox in her purse. After service was over, she pulled out the familiar little green pill, the one she had given him every day, and dropped it in the coffin.
Author Bio: Madelyn D. Kamen, D.P.H. is a free-lance writer and the founder of a document development and management-consulting firm. Prior to establishing this company, she was an associate dean and professor at the University of Texas Health Science Center at Houston. Kamen holds masters and doctorate degrees in public health. She has served on numerous boards in the community, particularly in the areas of women and children’s health and welfare.
My poem, "Rite of Passage," was written for my
fiancee's brother, a childhood friend.
She and I helped him get into recovery three years ago. At the onset,
he was hospitalized for some time. I
wrote this for him during that time to help him understand that I knew what he
was going through, that I had been there too, and that I cared.
for my friend, Brian
The only way back to the other side, Is through a swamp full of hell, It's a wicked rollercoaster ride, One that only the true can tell,
The bravest of men will try, But only the strongest will prevail, In a boxcar full of demons, Racing on a slick and evil rail,...