Cell 2 Soul: The Humane Health Care Blog

On Poetry

My Child: A Poem by Phil Delrosario

Note:  Because of formating concerns, this poem is better viewed as a pdf: Download My Child

The jaws of silver monsters found you,
disemboweled you, ferocious forceps leaving your tiny
chest eviscerated; mutilated your precious
head, and maybe brain asunder, you wonder
why you were squandered. Curetted craters of flesh reveal
unknown thoughts blackening, festering in quiescent
blood, lost postmen with nowhere to deliver. I quiver
as I purse my lips and blow a gentle wind to fill
your nose. And though your breaths are still,
I still want you to feel how tender air can be
as she caresses the recesses of your empty throat
with a gentle tickle. But life, like the wind,
is fickle. Yet somehow still, we will take
a million more breaths. And this, this is what
breathing feels like, my child.

In my hands, I envelop your disembodied arms, skeletal and torn.
I try my best to caress what’s left of your flesh so you
know how warmth lingers after fingers have touched you,
and not how silver, slivered serpents have rent you.
I don’t know why I try to put you back together,
you’re not a Barbie to be fixed. This isn’t playtime,
there are no fixes for the existence I’ve nixed.
Into your hips, I dumbly bump the stumps of
your legs as I shift them, animate them,
giving them motion, locomotion with my imagination,
granting them a shade of life. But I’m not a god
and God knows the days and days have pained me. Yet
somehow still, we will ourselves forward to take
a million more steps. And this, this is what
walking feels like, my child.

As I hold your head close to mine, my tears fall to places
in the spaces above your face, where they trace out
rivulets of silent cries and sighs onto eternally
lidded eyes. I imagine you cooing, sincere with cheer with
a voice that the world will never hear -- an unfinished
melody, a song that I penned, but ended before the impending
chorus. Crimson drops fall into my lap, from living rivers no
longer coursing. My coarse hands rutilant, ruefully stained by
your darkened Spring. I bring you closer, our foreheads nearly
touching. And I touch my lips to your lips so you’ll know how I wish
I could kiss you ‘good night’ every night. But Life is full of
heights and bottomless dips for it knows no scripts, and now you know
that living hurts. Yet somehow still, we will keep trying
a million more times. And this, this is what
love feels like, my child.

****************

Author’s Note: Dilation & Evacuation (D&E) refers to a specific second trimester abortive procedure. The fetus is first terminated with a lethal injection. Instruments such as forceps, vacuums, and curettes are then used to remove the fetus from the uterus. Since the baby may be too large to remove through the cervix, forcible dismemberment of the body is sometimes necessary. This poem is inspired by a true mother’s story, but remains a piece of poetic fiction.

Author Bio:  Phil Delrosario is a senior in Human Biology with a concentration in Psychological Development in Children and Adolescents at Stanford University in California.  He enjoys writing, making short films, and playing his violin/piano/ukulele and is a protégé of Professor Larry Zaroff.  Phil can be reached at pdelATstanford.edu.

 

Waterworld by Frank Cavano

wasteland of wood and
steel spaghetti, unwelcome
water everywhere
(but not enough to drink)
subway becomes canal
disease looks up from
endless pools of wicked
wicked water
nothing clean anymore
nothing clear anymore
and why does “Sandy”
sound so friendly

match stick houses and
front yard yachts
dolly without a child
mom’s wedding picture
things in wrong places
sad rescue-dog faces,
death-at-the-door
screaming,
children leaving forever
before kindergarten
and why does “Sandy”
sound so friendly

homeless hearts
homeless in an hour
homeless in an hour
words will not help
nor a god “too high
up and too far away”
reach out
from the security of
our untouched homes
the spared reach out to
hug them with wallets
and a single shared soul

Leave a Message

When the wind died, there was a moment of silence
for the wind. When the maple tree died, there was always a place
to find winter in its branches. When the roses died, I respected the privacy
of the vase. When the shoe factory died, I stopped listening
at the back door to the glossolalia of machines.
When the child died, the mother put a spoon in the blender.
When the child died, the father dug a hole in his thigh
and got in. When my dog died, I broke up with the woods.
When the fog lived, I went into the valley to be held
by water. The dead have no ears, no answering machines
that we know of, still we call.

 — BOB HICOK, the author of the forthcoming “Elegy Owed,”
which includes this poem  This appeared in the NY Times Sunday Review, December 16, 2012.  It can be viewed better there.

Quilted: S.A.D. Poem

This poem is also on OJCPCD and can be read as a PDF  Download Quilted

Persistent scratches ripping through the tranquility of the night,
and bedsheets dusty with flaked skin,
mingled with dried blood in the mornings.
Her skin stained with the purple sting of potassium permanganate,
burning from the relentless scorch of tea tree oil, smothered in topical corticosteroids.
Bandaged to retain moisture. Unbandaged to promote air flow.

A blur of diagnoses and “diagnoses” paraded by,
convictions by professionals and well-meaning relatives:
“No heat, no chlorine, no sunshine, no pollen. No butter, no wheat, no potato chips, no fat, no chocolate, no seafood, no meat, no sugar, no salt!”
Too much American food.  oxidized oils, pesticides, hormones-those damn Oreos, all to blame.
“This doesn’t appear to be a food allergy, but we can run some tests…”
“You see, the American doctors don’t study this. This is a question of inner body balance…”
A question of hotness and coldness of the body, toxicity, mystery, cortisone creams.
And a vicious cycle of irritation, scratching,
                                                broken skin, infection, itchiness,
                                                                                    crying, scolding, shouting, scratching…

And the mingling of voices of authority spilled over the reddened cracks in her skin
and filled her heart with guilt and inadequacy.
“You are the only one who knows your body. Only you can know what to do for yourself-”
And the bitterness of her condition was accentuated

with the bitterness of soups and broths and reductions,
darkly resplendent with Chinese medicinal herbs, kernels, stalks, and shoots.

Later, with disappointment and failures came desperation
Cycling through past attempts, various diets.  The doctors’ echoes weren’t very much help-
the relief provided through the prescribed creams and ointments was ephemeral.
Though some knowledge provided comfort - like the dreaded skin prick testing -

            her back gridded into a 5x7 rectangle and stabbed thirty-five times

to reveal her body’s weaknesses towards watermelon, shrimp, milk, Kentucky bluegrass,
            timothy hay, walnuts, chicken, turkey, sea bass, lobster, dust, mold, and cockroaches -
Her skin still burned and flared, cracked and red and dry and unforgiving, betraying her.

I’ve watched the parade of well-meaning people walking in and out of her life: smiling
 pediatricians, puzzled dermatologists, vehement relatives. No one is to blame.

I’ve watched her sneak Oreos away from the pantry, stealing bites of childhood innocence;
                        shopping for turtlenecks; being tormented by other children
                                                                                    for the ragged appearance of her skin.

Watched my father drive three hours to the only Costco that stocked unscented Keri Soothing Dry Skin Formula and return home with thirty cases of three bottles each
                                                                        (which by the way, also didn’t work).
And I’ve watched her grow up and out of her skin,
which still bears the scars and rough patches of struggles and treatments,
up and out of reticence, sensitivity, resentment, confusion, worthlessness.
Rising above the motley patchwork of voices to wholeness.

 

 

Author Note: Clara Luu was born and raised in San Jose, CA. She is currently a sophomore at Stanford University, studying Human Biology and living an exciting pre-med life. "Quilted" is drawn from a composite of household dermatological experiences from her childhood. This piece written for the "Becoming a Doctor" medical humanities seminar taught by Professor Larry Zaroff. It exemplifies the key motifs motivating Clara to pursue a career in medicine: the mutifaceted aspects of wellness, the importance of culturally sensitive medicine, the strong role of family in the healing process, and the mysteries of some medical conditions that are the catalyst for exploration, discovery, and compassion.

Intern 101 - Haiki

Intern Year Volume 1
By Dr. C*
Caitlin Stiglmeier, M.D.

* Kauai wahine -
Surfer, poet, tita, doc
Mahalo -- Email

A peds intern at SUNY Medical University, Caitlin comes from Omao, Kauai.  Her interests include: laughing, travel, running, yoga, photojournalism, 80's dance parties.

Tiny hand takes yours
Knows nothing of your test scores
Only sees your smile

Raiding the snack drawer
Crackers and peanut butter
Meal of champions

From a patient’s Mom
Homemade chocolate cookies
Like manna from God

Asleep: not enough
Awake: two hours too long
Night shift: 4 AM

More...  Download Intern Year Volume 1-1   .

Cavano Trio

I.  Fear Itself

Walking on tree trunks, pounding the wooden walkway until it shrieks, a pair of senior ladies discuss ways to improve their health, where to buy a good tomato and evening dinner plans. Behind them, walking on sticks, two men, slim with cardiac concern, worry about taxes and the hurricane season and argue about which liquid establishment makes the best dirty martini.

A bit farther back, an elderly couple turtles along helping each other, old bones groaning, take one sad step at a time while planning still another European trip and believing they will not pass from this orb with plans made and the trip not taken.

Ahead on a bench, pocket full of bottled pills, soft cervical-collared-me watches the parade of fears and denials snake through the morning on the wooden walkway. I greet them with empathic smiles and waves knowing I but see myself.

II.  James and Jude*

James and Jude, sadly gone of a sudden Sunday.
Crash. A lovely leaving as one, father and son.
Still, in this world of raging roulette we who
remain ever long for their ghosts.

Ah, but Heaven shall wipe away all tears when we
meet again, soul to soul, somewhere
somewhere out there in Rumi’s field.

III.  Bench Talk

On the bench where he had been sitting with the Live Oak late in the afternoon she took a seat. He nodded kindly. She began to talk: of the exquisite texture of the Magnolia blossom; of the Spanish Moss above their heads; of the lump in her breast, the biopsy and the waiting for the doctor’s verdict; of She-Crab Soup and her son’s close call at Virginia Tech where the mass killings had taken place; of how lovely the sun felt on her skin this day; of two marriages, now history, and her fear of another relationship.

With soft, soft eyes he answered each pain and with twinkling eyes each veneer of pleasure. She continued to speak going backwards in her memory: her first love, who loved her not; an unexpected pregnancy and how she disposed of it. To their left a Snowy Egret landed to fish at the edge of the lagoon. She pointed and commented on its white perfection. He nodded kindly. The Egret swallowed and she did likewise as she told of her daughter’s passing from a brain tumor before her twentieth year. Again he smiled kindly and knowingly. There were other things to tell and she told them, her story punctuated by the singing of birds, the wind in the trees, his smile and the ever-so-gentle nodding of his head.

When she had told it all she took a very deep breath and, for the first time, looked him straight in the eye. “It's been a long, long, hot summer”, she sighed. “Yes”, he smiled. And now, her burdens reduced at last, she thought as she left: “that man is a brilliant conversationalist.”           

Download PDF: Download Three Pieces by Frank Cavano

Author Bio:  Frank Cavano is a retired psychiatrist who writes because it is an enjoyable experience and, often, a healing one as well. His poems and other writings are often of a spiritual/inspirational/metaphysical nature. He tries to be a faithful, empathic observer of the human condition in all his efforts. Email.                                          

* James was my wife's nephew and Jude his son. They went out for ice cream on a Sunday about three years ago and were killed in an automobile accident. Imagine.

 

 

The Sweater by Katie O’Sullivan

 

 

I put your
sweater on
though it’s hot
as hell outside
and the street-flooding, thunder-busting
rain
did little
to relieve.

People  like me,
medicated with blood thinners,
run contrary to the thermostat,
especially when the AC  is belting away,
fogging  windows.

Pulling your sweater off the hanger
made me smile, not sad,
because it always amused you
that I wore it more often than you.

We bought it together.
I remembered a shop in London.
But I see from the label
that it was from right  here in Houston,
100% camel hair, camel color.
Comes  to my knees, big like you,
There's a tissue in the pocket,
probably mine, a button missing,
a moth hole in the sleeve.

I’ll put it back in the closet
with the rest of your things ,
after I turn the AC off.

Author Bio:  Katie O'Sullivan "is  late writer of poetry, essays, short stories and memoirs and one 10 minute play produced in Houston where I have  lived since  my husband's retirement. I received an AA degree from UCLA before our marriage and after our 7^th child was born I continued my education in Modern Near East History at the American University of Beirut, graduated and continued on a Master Degree program before we were transferred to the Netherlands. Living for 15 years in Lebanon was a beautiful and exciting experience and I spent much of those years as a volunteer at the American University Hospital. Between my family, studies and volunteerism, I didn't have time to write until we came to Houston."  You may contact her at K O'S email.

Medicine Men by Elaine Zeichner

I have an otolaryngologist
Who treats my sinusitis.
An orthopedic surgeon who’s
In charge of my bursitis;
A gastroenterologist
Who probes and writes Rxs
Whenever my complaints are lodged
Around my solar pìexus.
A trusted ophthalmologist
who sees to how I'm seeing,
A psychiatric expert for
Emotional well being;
A noted rheumatologist
To manage my arthritis,
And yet another specialist
For warts and dermatitis;
A leading cardiologist
To regulate the heart of me,
A team of radiologists
Who've pictured every part of me.
And yet, with all their wherewithal,
They heal themselves, I’m told,
With aspirin, tea, and chicken soup
Whenever they catch cold.

Download Zeichner Poem

Author Bio:  Elaine Zeichner was born in New York City and is a graduate of Hunter College.  While at Hunter, she honed her creative talents writing lyrics for “Sing.”  She and her husband lived in Fresh Meadows, Queens, NY where they raised their two children.  After 25 years as a NYC schoolteacher, Elaine and her husband relocated to South Florida. She continues to enjoy dabbling in poetry and creative writing.

Photo is on Jainworld.com site.

Ms. Zeichner's poem reminded me of the parable of the blind men and the elephant.  Each of her specialists sees only a part of her.  Where is the generalist of old?

Louis Simpson Obit

There was a moving obituary in the NY Times about Louis Simpson, a Pulitzer Prize-winning poet who told characteristically American tales of common people and often cast a skeptical eye on the American dream.

Simpson was born in Jamaica of a Russian-Jewish mother and an aristocratic white father who hid is African ancestry.  He moved to New York as a teenager and left Columbia College, as so many other young med did, to serve in World War II.  His life storyy is tailor made for a spell-binding book.

I had never heard of him.  My loss.  You can access his obit here.

Written in the early 1960s. his cynical poem “In the Suburbs” seems apt for today.

You were born to waste your life.

You were born to this middleclass life

As others before you

Were born to walk in procession

To the temple, singing.