© Kushagra Kumar, BS | MSII

Too many clear IVs to count, I may as well be made of plastic
White and blue Kangaroo pump forcing purulent “nutrients” into my body
I wish I could go for a walk, hell, I wish I could sit up
I press the red nurse call button, ouch that hurt my chest
“Can you prop me up please and give me my cards?”

With effort, I sit up and she hands me my black pen
From my bedside, she hands me my stack of notecards
My multicolored vitality
My hand is shakier than before, it hurts to hold the pen
Try to scribble out a thought, the lines are shaky

Take a deep breath and try again, the line is smooth
Write out the first phoneme, this really isn’t easy
Power through a few Stygian letters and there it is
Romans 15:13
I did it!

Crack a smile and cough deeply into my pale hand
Brush away the tubing covering the rest of the yellow card
What do I want to write? Hmmm
Add a few notes and thoughts, the letters glide from my pen
Hand starts to cramp, maybe it’s time to read

Read through my cards, a blue one says Nehemiah 8:10
Oh! now that’s a good one
Chuckle as I read through my notes, let out a few shaky coughs
I have to show this one to Tom next time I see him
Reach for a green one, another classic

Explore the spectrum of thoughts and prayers
Immersed in the pigmented faith
I sit up a little more stiffly, that makes my back ache, I see black spots
There’s one more red card left on my side table the nurse didn’t notice
I forget what this one said, I want to explore the rainbow

It hurts to move, I do so anyway, all I can see is red
I look up and see the HR number get larger; the green rhythm line spikes, I don’t care
I reach and ache for the secret of the red card
Finally, I grab it and drag myself back into the original position
Excitedly I flip it over

Blank … oh well … I reach for my pen and uncap it
What inked vigor will I write next?

© Danielle D’Amico MSI, Chenee De Ment MSI, Jill Stachowski MSI,
Ksenia Varlyguina MSI, Morgan Voulo MSI, Michael Flanagan, MD
University Park First-Year Medical Student Class

What is this interweaving chaos?
An unorganized, yet organized depiction
Colors arise,
All ending in different places, but sharing moments.

How my mind tries to make sense of this!
Many connections, like neurons, communicating a message;
Life can be messy.
The end we seek isn’t always the end that is meant to be.

We are bound together
And cannot untangle alone.
Tangled, interweaving web of life experiences.
It ends how it should.

This piece of artwork and poem titled “Interweaving Chaos” was created by a group of MSI students at University Park as part of the museum-based MI Humanities Course taught by Michael Flanagan, MD. The students visit the Palmer Museum of Art at Penn State University. They choose a piece of art to inspire a group poem. Each member of the group writes a line that describes what they see. Students cut the lines into strips of paper and arrange into stanzas to create a poem. “Interweaving Chaos” reflects on the past year. Subsequently, the students met one evening in a learning center to create a piece of art to accompany the poem.

© Linda Amos | Patient

Feathery snowflakes
Fall gently upon the earth
Shrouds dawn in white bliss

© Stephanie Golub | MSIV

When the feeling fades
And you crave the touch
Of being human

But the feeling is gone
And the nerves are severed
I am only human

Then the healing starts
And you want to touch
But risk starting over

So you wait
And wait
For the scar

Of being human.

© Linda Amos | Patient

With just the mere touch
of his hand
to her cheek
he’d cause her
to forget everything
and everyone –
but him.

 

© Richard Cary Joel, MS, PT
Husband of Maria Joel, Department of Microbiology

One touch,
worth more than a thousand words on a page,
Arousing tender emotions,
so often hidden,
in a flurry of casual remarks.

One touch,
more articulate
than the finest orator in the world,
each nimble movement,
an intricate message in and of itself …
The mere stroking of one’s hair,
imparting more care, than any poet could.
A tender caress
serving as the sweetest of sonnets for the human soul.

No text or libretto can ever quite capture
the moving effect,
of the mere brush of a hand,
or the glance of a fingertip,
and certainly not the consequence
of a loving embrace …
that most intimate soliloquy,
more expressive,
than any manner
or style,
of speech …

© Joshua Ryan Dellinger, MD | Resident, Department of Psychiatry

we have no blades
we trade in the soul, scars
that linger there
circadian ghosts, shadows
sparks falling upon
fields that have never felt rain

a boy
not yet fourteen,
pulling his sisters from a burning house
scorched in the night
wind-lost timbers
60-years-old
rejoined, recalled by
the old nerves stinging
singing in their memory, still clear:
a daughter in the dust
scratching with birds
screaming in their memory, still new:
a daughter underground
her son left behind

four posts of a chair
compass rose of his prison

he has buried:
wife, father, mother, daughter, sisters

still he combs his hair neatly
still he checks the mail

another boy, 7
legs tight from the year
now begins to speak
five seasons after
he found his mother dead
face down in the morning
of an ordinary school day
tell me what would you cut from him
what would you bind
that could promise a remedy
to return what is lost

a woman
tearful in front of me
tells me her story
of lifelong neglect
then, as if in counterpoint,
the endless waves
of degradation and abuse

teach me the anatomy of the unloved

a man, outside
lifts a cigarette from the sidewalk
to save for later in the day

…

a girl, pregnant
bearing her father’s child
asks about vitamins

I hear his voice
see the words
pray to remove
or be removed

we have no blades
we deal in drugs and words
we have no blades
because we want to keep you whole
hole

© Corinne Laity | Patient

To feel the need
To feel a strong connection
A flow of energy shared by two
Being open to its possibilities
And allowing it to be felt within you

To touch the heart
To reach out on a different level
An emotional extension of you
To communicate a sense of understanding
To provide something real and true

To be touched
To feel on a different level
To realize you matter so much
To be open to receive the gift
From the warmth of emotional touch

To feel the need for support
Everyone has a story
No two are ever the same
Life’s journey is filled with countless events
The revolving door of change

To reach out when the load is heavy
It is not always easy to do
Bouncing in and out of isolation
Is there anyone out there who has been there too

There is help out there to guide you
No need to be ashamed
Reach out for the help that best supports you
So many are in pain

To touch the heart that’s broken
’Cause you’ve been broken too
To offer your umbrella
’Cause its now pouring on them and drizzling on you

Can you shine a light of hope?
Can you share what has helped you?
’Cause someone out there is in need
Of being touched by someone like you

 

© Makayla Lagerman | MSII

She is my age.
This is not her appointment.
She drove all this way, used her PTO, just to be here with her dad,
A man whose face is unrecognizable from only two seasons ago.
I ask him questions. Scleral icterus, reluctant eye contact. He is too tired to answer.
She looks to me, barely missing a beat.
“Dad’s been through a lot since this summer.”
She’s been through a lot since this summer.
She grabs his blue emesis bag and carries it to the trash can before I can even think to do so.
Second-nature caretaker.
She describes the alcohol with grace and without judgment.
I have spent years of schooling to become what she so naturally has become:
Provider.