senior essay...

so, for capstone, we were supposed to write an essay about something in medical school. after a few requests, i have decided to post the essay and poem that i wrote on my blog... so here it is:

The sun beats down on a coffee colored face. Eyes sunken in are a prelude to a tenacious journey, accentuating emaciated expressions on an all-to-tired face. A beard is half-grown, but more on the accord of half-cared for. His shaggy whiskers stretch from his face yearning for the celestial glow and the satisfaction of a nourishing consumption. He sports glasses that dwarf his temporal recession, reminding me of the way a child’s eye looks through a magnifying glass. Am I the ant here? The years leading to medical school and the encounters with patients and people up to this point lead me to believe in a façade of complacency that I was peering at the test-subjects of a medieval learning experience, as lab animals in an experiment gone arry for the purposes of a misguidedly glorified self-edification. It was this time-tattered individual that let me feel that I was the one under the microscope, the object to be scrutinized by the magnified eye of the patient and public. Just an ant to adhere to the needs of the hive; caring, working, giving, serving.
This man was trapped in his steel cage with wheels. Or so I wrongly thought. To be bound to such a contraption was and, to the point of writing this, is beyond my full understanding, but not my compassion. It doesn’t seem that one has to fully understand to have compassion for his fellow man. Understanding strikes me as intellectual and compassion somehow remains emotional, each existing independent of one another. In talking to this individual in clinic that day, I came to find out that he is a partial quad doing what he can to help trudge through the days with as much mobility as he can. Baclofen, a mechanism of release, a middle man that allows his movement to be fluidic enough to control his chair of freedom. This chair didn’t trap or confine in any of the ways that I had imagined, but in fact allowed the rider to see the world in a way that would not be possible otherwise. Here is an individual that 19 years prior was riding a motorcycle for freedom, the wind blowing through his hair, the feeling of flight in a head first trip down the concrete lanes of release. Now, although the wind might not be caressing his speeding locks, he is flying in freedom just the same from the wings that his chair bestows. Gratitude and gratefulness were his feelings towards his vehicle and were mine for meeting him.
Each encounter of a patient is typically a snap-shot of the journey undertaken and left to endure, a slice of bread in the loaf of patient care. I had found many bread crumbs from this individual to formulate a better perspective on his journey, far more reaching than any story that he could tell me would ever impact.
Baclofen clinic; wonderfully well and very swell. The name always sounded to me like it should be the name of a 1950’s lounge chair product, advertised with a classic black and whit e commercial. ‘Get yourself a tried and true Baclofen, and you will find your self ‘Back-Loafin’ in a jiff… isn’t that right Timmy? You bet sir… I sure am Back-Loafin’ swell!’. Putting that aside, it seemed ironic that perhaps what my clandestine mentor was riding in was indeed that product. However, apparently I came to find out a few months after this encounter that this Back-Loafin’ chair was not loafin’ enough for him. The pressure. No pain. Myriads of headaches later the emergence of a pressure sore showed it’s ugly face. Beefy and deep it bore through the tissue as if a donut were being filled with a gelatinous goodness. Although, instead of goodness, the filling of his bun was with that of a purulent puss.
He spent countless nights as an inpatient before and after the repair of his sore. Yet, it never failed that upon that service, as I served him and his needs, he was able to crack a new joke for me daily. In fact, it was I who looked forward to heading to his room to brighten my day and cheer me up. There I was with all my capacities relying on him for a capacity, a trait, a quality that I could not maintain; my spirits. Sure I could put on the typical fascade of feeling and appear all well and good on the outside [something that we all learn to do at one point or another because no one likes to show weekness or display the feeling of hopelessness for all to see] but reality isn’t always what it appears to be. Perhaps he felt similarly, or worse; I was unable to discern. However, the way he dealt with it and interacted with me made me feel inadequate in that I realized I wasn’t doing that for him. It seemed as if he was cued into me and knew that I needed a pick-me-up, a good laugh, or just some good non-medical conversation in brief. One of the duties that I feel that I take on is that of patient and interpersonal satisfaction and it was him providing me with that ever-so-important gift. It truly was a gift then and remains a gift that I strive to hone in on in a practical and individual basis.
But this isn’t about me. It’s about him. He improved and suffered his fair share through the fortnight or two and returned home and then back to me again, only this time months later. More headaches. More pressure. With a semi-pleasant surprise I cam upon him in the emergency department. I say semi-pleasant because it was second nature from prior encounters for a harmonious smile to be glued to my face, however I was saddened to worry whether or not he would have another long stay. Perhaps not this time, maybe another, hopefully none.
Although I do not know what becomes of him, I do know what becomes of the lessons he unknowingly taught me. His selfless attitude rubbing off on someone who homes to influence others just the same, it makes one take a step back, gather perspective and gaze through the looking glass, which now is not one sided, but two.


and now the poem:


Bodies in Motion

The human form dances in elegance as it sits solitary and stationary
The gyrations of small compartments that hand-in-hand form the synergy

Movements in physiologic normalcy
To counteract pathologic disharmony

Eyes do not see what ears do not hear what Pacini does not deem of palpable worth
Gaining balance in three dimensions while Scarpa’s ganglion exaults in the vestibule of mirth

The head spins while Pachioni formulates his place vaulted on high
Rhythmic and circular, draining and filtering in spider-like fashion with no legs in sight

Synapses made for rhythmic upper extremity Huntington appurtenances
Nissel liens and loans these movements in cranio-caudal distances

Dancer taps the ground in joyful agony breaking blood while breaking down
Left to the lien of the spleen to thank Heinz, Howell and Jolly for not being around

Dancing as still as time,
Everyone waits in line.



whomever reads this, i hope that you enjoy it. btw, happy belated b-day dad [april 9th] and 1 year anniversary to the newly weds april and rory hanlin [april 8th]. we all miss you... at least i do anyway.
love,
g