© Angela Dishman | Mother of Patient

When they said the words
It took my breath away
For the normal baby I wouldn’t have
I grieved, I cried, and I mourned
Walls were built, my head hung in shame
Then May 29th, God gave me you
I didn’t know if you would breathe on your own
or be able to cry
I didn’t know what our future held
You, my precious angel, have shown me a new love
A love without expectation
A new joy, that comes with being patient
And the unknown
On that day when they said spina bifida
I could have never known how blessed
I would be
To be your mom

© Gloria Gardner | Mother of Patient

I am an orphan
An only child
And a widow.

A septuagenarian –
And in the past 30 days
I wish someone

Had held me,
In their arms
For just 30 seconds

 

© Judy Schaefer, RN  |  Member of The Doctors Kienle Center for Humanistic Medicine

Water steeps parchment to tea
Cools a temper
Touches dusty feet
Washes over humility
Rock, paper, scissors

Bath announces the start of day

after breakfast of pale clears
Bandage white as snow
Cloth crisp as dew
Water washes over pain
Soap, water, warmed towel

© Fauzia Butt, MD, FACS  |  Department of Surgery, Kidney Transplantation

The phone rang. It was Friday evening, just after 6 pm. That moment is seared in my memory forever. I reached for the phone and saw that it was my colleague calling. “Hello?” I answered, expecting to hear his voice. Instead, I was greeted by a completely unfamiliar voice. A woman responded, speaking perfect English. She started tentatively, “I am calling on behalf of …” She paused, hesitating. Then she stated my colleague’s name as a question, as if she was unsure of the pronunciation. I heard someone correcting her in the background.

“Yes?” I asked, trying to encourage her to go on.
“I am very sorry to report that he has had a cardiac event.”

Still not certain who I was speaking to, or exactly what was happening, I asked, “What kind of cardiac event?” I was not prepared for what she said next.

“Well, EMS is at his house, he is unresponsive and they have been working on him for 20 minutes.”

After the initial shock of what she had just said wore off, I asked, “And who are you exactly?”

“I am his neighbor,” she responded.

I asked, “Does our boss know?”

She answered, “No.” I asked her if she would mind staying on the line as I called our boss and she started to protest, stating that she did not have any additional information.

“Can you just stay on the line?” I asked, more impatiently than I had intended. I dialed the number to perform a conference call. Our boss did not answer and the neighbor hung up.

“Crap!” I thought, “Now what?” My colleague had just moved into a new house. I did not know the address. He had just relocated his wife and son to Pennsylvania from Massachusetts. She did not speak English. He had just started as a freshman at NYU.

I sent a text message to our boss, “Just got a call from our colleague’s neighbor. He had a cardiac arrest and is unresponsive. EMTs are at his house now.”

“The boss’s reply came quickly, “He just passed.”

As my mind was still trying to process this series of events, the phone rang again. This time, it was our boss. She reported that she had missed my call because she was in the shower. The phone was ringing when she got out. It was one of the EMTs, letting her know that our colleague had just died. After she hung up, she saw my missed calls and texts. Then she called me, in a state of shock herself.

The next 24 hours were a complete blur. A series of text messages and phone calls came as the news spread rapidly. How could I tell anyone else what had happened? I was still trying to figure that out myself. Why is it that we always bring food to people who are grieving? It just seems like the right thing to do during a condolence call. So I followed protocol. I brought muffins, sandwich wraps, and whatever else I could find at my local warehouse club. As I entered my deceased colleague’s home, I first noticed his wife. She looked so small and lost, so fragile, yet somehow holding it all together. Then my eyes landed on his son; so young, yet suddenly now the man of the house. I asked permission to give her a hug. A natural, comforting act was no longer something to take for granted during the COVID-19 viral pandemic. We were all vaccinated and masked, yet I felt the need to ask her permission. She nodded timidly, “Yes.” Then she started sobbing uncontrollably in my arms.

© Elias Harkins | MSIV

“Hello ma’am, it’s nice to meet you.
I’ll be your medical student this week.”

“Yes, I already let the team know!”

“Of course! It’s not my first time teaching people!
You wouldn’t believe how often I have to give a crash course on that!
It’s like no one here has taken care of a Muslim woman before!”

“Yes ma’am, I will let her know.”
“I am not quite sure how to say that in Arabic?
I can check online,
but I do not have a Medical Arabic dictionary.”

“Okay, so that was your doctor,
she wants me to talk to you about some test results.
Are you comfortable if I help translate?”

“Sounds good.
So, she’s concerned.
You mentioned that you noticed a lump?
And that you’ve been warm, correct?”

“We think it could be due to several things
First, is when you have some kind of germ,
but you are on some pills for that.
Our main worry,
is some kind of bad growth,
like a cancer.”

“I’m so sorry to hear that.”

“It sounds like she has a strong family history of cancer.
Including several family members with breast cancer.
She could be BRCA positive,
do you want to test her?”

“Sure, I can tell her the basic information”

“Thank you so much for letting me know,
Now that we know about your family,
the doctor wants to do some more tests.”

“Yes, I think she wants to do surgery too.”

“It’s okay, take your time.”

“Do you know where the tissues are here?”

“So, the test the doctor wants to do today
is just a blood test.
So, that shouldn’t hurt more than normal.
You may need to come back in later for some scans, though.”
“Don’t worry,
I’ll be here with you every step of the way.”
“Of course!
I’m glad to help!”

“She is comfortable with the tests now.
The consent forms still need to be translated,
but I think she will go through with it”

“It was my pleasure!
See you next week!”

“No plans for tonight,
but I will be visiting my partner tomorrow!”

“Yes, SHE and I are very excited to hang out!”

 

© Emma Lamoreaux | Daughter, Roseanne Lamoreaux, RN, BSN, Hemophilia Treatment Center

A casual touch on the arm when passing by,
A warm smile from across a roomful of people,
A casual statement meant to evoke a shared memory,
A public embrace that lasts slightly longer than usual.
Brief, stolen moments that often occur naturally, spontaneously,
Not always intentionally meant to create a memory that will last a lifetime.

A slight wave over the heads of others upon entering a mutual party,
A shared smirk while chatting within a small group of acquaintances.
A brief text saying, “Good morning! How are you doing today?”
A phone call just at that moment when you needed a friendly voice.
Brief, stolen moments that often occur naturally, spontaneously,
Not always intentionally meant to create a memory that will last a lifetime.

A dark, rainy morning in which you find it difficult to rise, get out of bed,
A hard, insistent knock at your front door, hearing your name called.
A friend standing confidently in your doorway, her arms instantly around you,
A reason for your depression to lighten slightly, realizing you’re not alone.
Brief, stolen moments that occur naturally, spontaneously,
Not always intentionally meant to create a memory that will last a lifetime.

A friendship filled with as many emotions as sands on a Sanibel beach,
A relationship based on many happy days, with an occasional harsh argument.
A much needed apology always delivered with deep sincerity and filled with love,
A dear friend realizing that the relationship is much too vital to ever chance losing.
Brief, stolen “touches” that occur naturally, spontaneously,
Not always intentionally meant to create a memory that will last a lifetime.

© Olivia Okken (Age 12)
Family of Kelly Okken, Facilities Planning & Construction

What happened to being normal? Now I know that you may be thinking, “Normal?! Ha, there is no such thing as normal!” But I know and I meant what I said. To put it in a way that you may or may not understand, it’s like an out of body experience. Not for all, but for some, normal is NOT a thing for us anymore. At least it hasn’t been for a while. So, just sit there and think, think about this.

You’re in your head, you’re in the walls, you’re in your pencil, you’re everywhere! But all at the same time you’re just sitting there at your desk and doing all of your work with ease, because you have to. But you still can’t get rid of that mind-bending, stomach-swirling feeling that you’re nowhere and everywhere at the same time.

They all say describe, describe, describe, DESCRIBE! Everyone always asks you to describe what you’re going through. Explain, explain, explain, EXPLAIN what you’re feeling, but all you can do is sit and think about trying to describe the indescribable, the un-understandable. Suddenly, you finally think of a way to describe it, “It’s like I’m watching my life as though someone is watching a movie” or, “It’s as though I’m watching my life not from my eyes but through some distorted lens that I just CAN’T DESCRIBE.”

You’re taught these grounding techniques that use your five senses.
• Hearing: Identify the things that you hear. Voices change and sound manipulated, they get LOUDER, then quieter. You hear silence when everyone’s mouths are moving, or you hear chaos, just complete and utter chaos.
• Taste: Chocolate or anything on hand that you can taste that could possibly help.
• Touch: Anything near you. Your sense of touch is heightened and you have a high pain tolerance.
• Smell: Lotion, hand sanitizer, candles, anything to bring you back.
• Sight: They say, identify the things that you are seeing, when all you can do is sit, study the room and think about the distance between you and everyone else.

You are finally back in a “normal” state of mind, then BAM! You’re back, maybe forever this time. It happened as fast as a boulder would drop from an inch off the ground. There are only two big differences this time. This time it feels more intense and no grounding techniques are working. You feel trapped, as though a camera is watching your every move.

This time it is lasting longer. A month passes, five months pass, 10, 11. One year later you lose hope on ever returning back to “normal.” It’s been a year and a half since anything has worked to bring you back to your mind. You can now subconsciously figure out when you’re in this weird indescribable state deeper or shallower. You know when you feel more disconnected with everyone and everything around you, verses when you feel ok but still stuck in the camera.

Dissociation: A mental process of disconnecting from one’s thoughts, feelings, memories or sense of identity. This is only one of many things this feeling could be. Even if you are not going through exactly what I just described, I still think it’s something important. Different people experience this differently, so don’t be worried.

Now I only have one question for you after everything. Have you ever felt that way? That feeling when you’re down deep in feeling of indescribable depths of things you can’t describe. You don’t have to answer, but you should at the very least think about it. It’s something a lot of people go through. You’re not alone, and you shouldn’t feel alone either.

© Hannah Garson
Family of Lisa Spencer  |  Penn State Health St. Joseph Cancer Center

“Talk to her,” the nurse says. “She can hear you.”
Talk? What to say as I watch my mother’s hand work a morphine pump? Up and down her thumb goes, delivering pain relief from surgery, ovarian cancer.

I look at her hands, small, yet strong, the fingers stubby, nails cut straight and short. They have always been there for me, bandaging my scraped knees, patting me on the back, her smooth, cool hand on my burning forehead. There again last year when I cried, broken-hearted over a failed romance, holding me tight as my tears soaked her favorite sweater, rubbing my back, soothing, reassuring me that I’d get through it.

I stand frozen at the side of the bed, watching her hand clutch the pump. I’m terrified that I’m losing her. I need my mother’s hands now more than ever to console me, to reassure me that everything will be alright. I want to take her hand, feel the weight of it in mine, together walk out of this hospital, smell flowers instead of disinfectant, hear a bird singing, not the clip and wheeze of machines. Be healthy.

The pump suddenly falls out of her hand. She gropes for it. I think to run to the nursing station. Or maybe stay with my mother and call out for help. I can’t move but she needs me. I look at my hands, try to will them to give her back what she always gave me, comfort, strength, courage. I want my hands to be all that for her now. Can I do for her what she has always done for me? I pick up the pump and position it back into her right hand. She makes an “Ahhh” sound as she clicks her relief.

Talk? Maybe my mother can hear me. But there is no talk. There is my hand caressing hers, squeezing it, letting her know I’m here with her.

© Madison Kist | MSII

Tap. Tap.
I pop the last stubborn bubble as it rises to the top of the syringe.

“Like champagne!” she chuckles. The flowers on her cloth mask sway up and down.

“Are you ready, ma’am?”

The corners of her bright brown eyes wrinkle.

Stick!
She begins to cry.

Oh no, did I hurt her?!

She stands up and begins to walk toward the exit. As she passes me, she grabs my hand and squeezes it. Tightly.

“For the first time, in a long time, I feel safe.”

© Fiona Chambers (Age 7)
Daughter of Kelly Chambers, CRNA  |  Department of Anesthesiology and Peri-operative Medicine

Come on the stage
No need to run away
You can look
At your friends and stay
No need to run away
In the twilight of dawn
I said, ‘I had no need to run away’
I chose to stay