I'm pretty sure you exist out there, somewhere. I refuse to believe that a heart would be made to long for someone who does not exist.
I wish you'd introduce yourself soon. I'm getting tired of waiting for you, hoping I'll find you in the eyes of everyone I meet. There's little bits of you in all I see, in all the beauty of the world, in the stories I hear and the stories I tell to my own heart.
I'm looking forward to that moment when I look in your eyes and know that you see me, and that you've been looking for me too.
Until then, I guess I'll just keep my feet on the ground and my eyes to the stars, letting the bits of beauty in each moment overwhelm me.
Saturday, November 12, 2011
Thursday, November 10, 2011
38 years
I love that look you give him when he's telling stories about you. The way you roll your eyes and snort, telling us how someone's got to set him straight, after all. You've been married for 38 years now, with one son and more memories than you can remember anymore.
You told me that you're scared, and that you wonder if it's even worth fighting anymore. You're afraid that you'll suffer through all these treatments only to find that the cancer remains. All the pain, side effects, uncomfortable procedures--all for nothing. You're more afraid of false hope than anything, afraid of what will be left if the treatments don't work, afraid of the weight of broken dreams, afraid that your heart won't be able to take any more bad news.
But I don't want to let you give up hope. Every time I see you, I want to make you roll your eyes and set that cancer straight.
And I watch your husband tell your stories for you, reminding you each day of the fight you've always had. Every day, even when you refuse to eat or get out of bed or watch the sun go down, he's right there with you.
Yesterday we took you outside to feel the sun on your face and the wind in your hair again, for the first time in weeks. I watched you smile as I sat at your side. And I hoped for you. God, how I hoped for you.
You told me that you're scared, and that you wonder if it's even worth fighting anymore. You're afraid that you'll suffer through all these treatments only to find that the cancer remains. All the pain, side effects, uncomfortable procedures--all for nothing. You're more afraid of false hope than anything, afraid of what will be left if the treatments don't work, afraid of the weight of broken dreams, afraid that your heart won't be able to take any more bad news.
But I don't want to let you give up hope. Every time I see you, I want to make you roll your eyes and set that cancer straight.
And I watch your husband tell your stories for you, reminding you each day of the fight you've always had. Every day, even when you refuse to eat or get out of bed or watch the sun go down, he's right there with you.
Yesterday we took you outside to feel the sun on your face and the wind in your hair again, for the first time in weeks. I watched you smile as I sat at your side. And I hoped for you. God, how I hoped for you.
Wednesday, November 9, 2011
The world's buttery sheen
Everyday, I try to find something to be grateful for.
Everyday, I try to create something to be grateful for.
My hiatus from medical school has been strange. I keep breathing in all of the third year emotions of my friends and former classmates: frustration, anger, joy, wonder, exhaustion. It's more negative than positive. Is medicine more negative than positive?
I realized today that if I had done either medicine alone or anthropology alone, I could have been better at them in that nauseating academic way. Sacrifice my soul for higher honors, spend more time in the ivory tower writing publications for 5 people to read and 10 people to skim.
For all my losses, for all my pauses, I am more human.
My sorrows have only led me to kindness, constantly trying to enact it, never knowing how, stumbling, fumbling awkwardly through my phrases and gestures.
Meanwhile, my buttery heart melts and oozes its contents all over my body.
These days, I like to breathe and wait for my thoughts to vanish.
Everyday, I try to create something to be grateful for.
My hiatus from medical school has been strange. I keep breathing in all of the third year emotions of my friends and former classmates: frustration, anger, joy, wonder, exhaustion. It's more negative than positive. Is medicine more negative than positive?
I realized today that if I had done either medicine alone or anthropology alone, I could have been better at them in that nauseating academic way. Sacrifice my soul for higher honors, spend more time in the ivory tower writing publications for 5 people to read and 10 people to skim.
For all my losses, for all my pauses, I am more human.
My sorrows have only led me to kindness, constantly trying to enact it, never knowing how, stumbling, fumbling awkwardly through my phrases and gestures.
Meanwhile, my buttery heart melts and oozes its contents all over my body.
These days, I like to breathe and wait for my thoughts to vanish.
Sunday, October 23, 2011
moments
I delivered a baby girl yesterday.
My hands were the first hands to hold her in this world--the first human contact she has ever had outside the womb. It's pretty crazy when you think about it, what a privilege that is.
The other day one of my friends was reflecting on how amazing it is to get to be present for these life-changing moments in the lives of others. To get to be there for those moments that change everything, both the good and the difficult.
But then came the question: are we making the time to be for those moments in our own lives?
My hands were the first hands to hold her in this world--the first human contact she has ever had outside the womb. It's pretty crazy when you think about it, what a privilege that is.
The other day one of my friends was reflecting on how amazing it is to get to be present for these life-changing moments in the lives of others. To get to be there for those moments that change everything, both the good and the difficult.
But then came the question: are we making the time to be for those moments in our own lives?
Tuesday, October 11, 2011
Resilience
When I'm in the clinic, part of me is there and part of me is wrapping my head around Arthur Kleinman. This is just a tribute to the humbling stories you get to hear in primary care.
Like the Ukranian woman who survived world war II; whose husband was sent to Siberia when she was pregnant with her first child, never to return; who endured the cold noodles, applesauce, and black coffee of the camps where others asked her how she was so pretty despite that horrible food when everyone else looked so miserable ("I am of good stock," she said); whose second husband, whom she met after coming to the US, promised her an iPad for their anniversary he didn't live to see; whose children remembered and bought her the iPad and got her drunk with joy and alcohol at a dinner overlooking the Mississippi River.
Still going strong in her late eighties, and despite her losses, she is a lively woman who refuses to be crushed by sorrow.
Today was one of the most beautiful October days I've ever felt, and I spent it in a way that a few years ago I thought I might like to. My gray skies are passing clouds, and nothing compared to the pain that these patients have suffered. But you can still drown in a drizzle.
Medicine continually reminds me it is but a drizzle; but I continue to create my own storm to drown in.
Like the Ukranian woman who survived world war II; whose husband was sent to Siberia when she was pregnant with her first child, never to return; who endured the cold noodles, applesauce, and black coffee of the camps where others asked her how she was so pretty despite that horrible food when everyone else looked so miserable ("I am of good stock," she said); whose second husband, whom she met after coming to the US, promised her an iPad for their anniversary he didn't live to see; whose children remembered and bought her the iPad and got her drunk with joy and alcohol at a dinner overlooking the Mississippi River.
Still going strong in her late eighties, and despite her losses, she is a lively woman who refuses to be crushed by sorrow.
Today was one of the most beautiful October days I've ever felt, and I spent it in a way that a few years ago I thought I might like to. My gray skies are passing clouds, and nothing compared to the pain that these patients have suffered. But you can still drown in a drizzle.
Medicine continually reminds me it is but a drizzle; but I continue to create my own storm to drown in.
Thursday, October 6, 2011
Durga
I am a warrior.
I have the strength of the elephant
you imagined I was after you took my tusks and fled.
But I need no tusks to conquer a coward.
I have the power in my bones to decapitate you with my hands alone,
I have the beauty of my skin to seduce a thousand predators,
the cunning to convert them to prey,
I have the love of an elephant's heart to forgive
the wisdom of an elephant's soul to never forget.
I abandoned your elephant on a train;
I have no need for symbols.
And the elephant I gave you
will never be more than a symbol.
A coward with ivory is
still a coward.
My tusks will not protect you as I did.
An elephant without tusks
can still crack a coconut under her foot.
I have the strength of the elephant
you imagined I was after you took my tusks and fled.
But I need no tusks to conquer a coward.
I have the power in my bones to decapitate you with my hands alone,
I have the beauty of my skin to seduce a thousand predators,
the cunning to convert them to prey,
I have the love of an elephant's heart to forgive
the wisdom of an elephant's soul to never forget.
I abandoned your elephant on a train;
I have no need for symbols.
And the elephant I gave you
will never be more than a symbol.
A coward with ivory is
still a coward.
My tusks will not protect you as I did.
An elephant without tusks
can still crack a coconut under her foot.
Wednesday, October 5, 2011
Overtime
You apologize for
the blood on your pants
the fading scars on, the size of your soft white stomach
your thin hair, graying at forty, that would curl if cut short
the cancer that left you with your left breast and an unfinished reconstruction
and then the cancer that stole your right kidney
(Ironic that the left side, the sinister, was so good to you)
You apologize for having dreams
for your mother, who died even when you gave them up
for your guilt
for your pain
in short
you apologize for
existing.
I apologize for
hiding behind a cloak of professionalism that says
I am not allowed to cry with you
I am not allowed to hug you
Instead I tell you
cold water and hydrogen peroxide will get the blood out
Instead I give you
my open eyes and hope you can feel my heart in my irises
Instead I send you
into an empty world where you are not only alone but lonely
an empty world where no one apologizes
but you
and me.
--Anita
the blood on your pants
the fading scars on, the size of your soft white stomach
your thin hair, graying at forty, that would curl if cut short
the cancer that left you with your left breast and an unfinished reconstruction
and then the cancer that stole your right kidney
(Ironic that the left side, the sinister, was so good to you)
You apologize for having dreams
for your mother, who died even when you gave them up
for your guilt
for your pain
in short
you apologize for
existing.
I apologize for
hiding behind a cloak of professionalism that says
I am not allowed to cry with you
I am not allowed to hug you
Instead I tell you
cold water and hydrogen peroxide will get the blood out
Instead I give you
my open eyes and hope you can feel my heart in my irises
Instead I send you
into an empty world where you are not only alone but lonely
an empty world where no one apologizes
but you
and me.
--Anita
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