This path has been far from cookie cutter, / From being kneaded and rolled / By demanding needs to fulfill multiple roles, / I can’t help but wonder, will I make the cut?
I feel like a child wearing his father’s coat / The starched, fabric seems like a costume
The paratrooper shook as they descended upon him. / Prepared to interrogate him with hollow-point questions
We strive to identify as a generation of idealists. / We are politically aware, socially conscious young adults. / We place our collective purchasing power behind products with a social mission.
I first heard the click, click of her black stilettos / Her heels narrowed to a tiny point that seemed to pierce the ground. / I imagined the floor whimpering at every step she took / The faces of terrified tiles reflecting in glistening heels
After a day of screams and sorrow and blood, / Every drop of my compassion leached from me. / Racing home to beat the dawn…
In the playbook of professionalism, / Where is room for the physician who / Reads German poetry to the dying patient / For days and days until her end?
“Please not me,” I pray earnestly. Not me. Not me. I don’t want to become the medical student-turned-resident-turned-physician who loses empathy. The one who loses compassion. The one who takes lives and near death experiences for granted, who quickly learns, as an ER attending once bluntly stated, that “everyone’s a liar.” Not me.
The mother looks at the doctor / and back at me. / The baby smiles. / She says, / “She won’t keep her food down.”
Here I am, one week from Match — / Decisions that come with a catch. / I know not who I’ll be quite soon / Nor where I’ll be to play in tune.
When you look at their white coats / Do you see what I see? / Do you see future doctors / Who are struggling to be
in path lab / the residents / pass around organs / and explain