ART-ery 2022

Inked Heart, poem by Wahajuddin Mohammad, OMS II, Dublin

I say I’m an open book with tales of faraway lands

On weather, stained, torn, and lost pages, I’ve placed my plans

Each chapter, carefully authored with the prose of my life

Penned with chronicles of love. Joy, sorrow, and strife

I crave to leave my austere solitude for the ease of your poetry

To join your masterpieces of beauty, tranquility, and serenity

You are my favorite poet, fill my pages with your art

Hold me in your arms, sign your name on my inked heart

One of Us, original song by Hannah Bachmann, OMS IV, Dublin

No More Pain, original song by Hannah Bachmann, OMS IV, Dublin

I Knew, poem by Wahajuddin Mohammad, OMS II, Dublin

Elegant mountains graced the whole skyline

Ascending to glance over endless distant trees

Yet, hidden by the dark of nighttime

I knew they were there, but I couldn’t see

Buffeted by March winds, I sat restless

Searching the sky for our destiny

But dim stars are good at keeping secrets

I knew they were there, but I couldn’t see

So instead, I said how much I loved you and why

Cliché things like, “we were always meant to be”

My intentions were never to make you cry

I knew there were tears, but I couldn’t see

You were like your love that night

Soft and gentle as flowing waves of a clam sea

Like California flowers, delicate in daylight

All that I know is there, but I can’t yet see

Hands, poem by Madison Rose-Malkamäki, OMS-III, Dublin

Holding.

Caressing.

Touching.

Warm and wrinkled from the decades they’ve seen,

Wiping tears from my eyes.

Hands shaking with intention, tension and fear of letting go.

Hands tremoring with age and rage of this time approaching.

Hands.

Brushing.

Cleaning.

What those hands used to do, but now another’s.

The labor of love.

The selflessness of caretaking.

Hands.

Hands that once bore so much youth.

Hands that held new life

Adorned with rings and history.

Warm flesh with warm blood.

Hands.

They are just hands.

A skeleton of the life that was.

Hands that have no soul.

Hands that have grown cold,

But they are the hands that I still hold

Stethoscope poem by Madison Rose-Malkamäki, OMS-III, Dublin

I have listened to your beating heart

Ears focused in on rate and rhythm

I have heard a broken heart and the wooshing of turbulent blood between valves

I have heard your child cry with deep wheezes and sharp coughs

But recently, I have heard so much more and so much less

I have heard lung sounds unequal after intubation

Agonal breaths of a soul hanging on to earthy life

I have heard gurgling of an OG tube balloon in a stomach

And I have heard silence

I have heard my doctor hold her breath waiting to hear something, anything

But silence.

I have been held in shaking hands

Filled with adrenaline, nervousness, and worry

I have been draped over a bed railing so that my doctor could do CPR

I have been slung over her neck with joy after hearing more beats

And despair after hearing none

And then I go back to the other patients for the rest of the day

Listening to the hearts of those who need care.

The Reason Why, a short story by Macie Matta, D.O. (’22)

In the midst of celebration, a gift was bestowed which provoked thoughtful reminiscence. Sketched into shiny metal read the words, “never forget the reason you became a doctor.” I used to think the role fell into my lap, by stroke of luck the first plan I drafted happened to be my absolute obsession, that I might allow to consume so much of me. Each encounter with the word would leave me love struck with adoration, feeling safe and at home.

Such that I commit spiritual idolatry every time I revisit my trade. It fills me up. It is well with my soul. Its distinct personhoods, it’s physical manifestations, its intellectually stimulating depth, breadth, and vastness. And that Likeminded individuals might share this same serendipity. But if it wasn’t by accident, and it definitely wasn’t a blinding revelation, then how did it flourish? What was the ignition?

It turns out that my passion was disguised in co-occurring misfortune and tragedy, and more gradual in nature. Like I didn’t realize it was working it’s way in until one day I did and now it is a part of my identity. You see, my innate compassion transcended from being confronted by great loss, my initiative from acquainting great responsibility, my tenderness from witnessing brokenness on the faces of those who had my heart

The first half of my childhood was sheltered. I was unaware and without trial, but I was blissful and content. I am a second generation Italian immigrant. He importance of close-knit familial ties was ingrained in me from birth. The Sunday scent of sizzling meat and pomodoro would emanate from the stovetop and pervasively fill the first-floor clinging to the curtains of our homey sanctuary. Our table was always full, with laughter, little sisters, homemade wine and hand-crafted specialties. This is the root of my sentimental tendencies and heart of gold that was modeled and subsequently instilled so effortlessly.

The bitter taste of heartbreak experienced as a young girl had somehow fueled me an energy to comfort and alleviate others with my spirit. Sorrow and suffering could not be prevented, but it could be mitigated. This is the gracious reason why I became a doctor. I remember our first meeting clearly. The melancholic desperation had led us to the literature. And soon enough a sublimated or logic coping mechanism had transpired

The words were foreign but somehow captivating. I was intrigued by unfamiliar topics. Redundantly, I perused and questioned the jargon that would one day become my mainstay vocabulary- proliferation, metastasis, angiogenesis.

As a university tutor, a student of mine once guessed my zodiac sign at random. ‘Aries is the brain sign’ she exclaimed. They want to enlighten and educate. It’s their superpower. In this moment it seemed a mere coincidence. It wasn’t until I was a medical student that I started to believe I could use my eager mind to be extraordinary, innovative even. Naïve maybe, but I still have this dream. The privilege of being privy motivates me to advise and to guide others zealously.

The onset of my scientific curiosity was glaringly non auspicious, but it pulled me out of the darkness and saved me from spiraling insanity. It gave me purpose. That is why I hold on for dear life and refuse deviation. Understand that the steadfast mind is protective for me. And that’s the part I chose not to tell the admissions director, the dean, or the program director.  Because I need medicine a lot more than medicine needs me; and this is the selfish reason why I became a doctor

That’s not to say it blazed through without destruction. It has left its figurative wounds and deeply ingrained habits that will require reversal for an enriched personal and familial life. Soon enough, when my days become long, and my exuberance shifts to jade. When I need to be reminded of why I become I doctor. I want to remember my non-selfish reason. With time and repair, I hope that the selfish reason will seize to exist. And all I will be left with is authentic motives and well-served patients.