Medical decision-making is a game of probabilities. Sapper Morton reminds us in Blade Runner 2049, “You newer models are happy scraping … because you’ve never seen a miracle.” In the real world, miracles do not exist.
Autumn has been my favorite season since moving to Oregon four years ago from the dry, unchanging desert landscape of Las Vegas, Nevada. The freeway towards my class dips into a valley surrounded by broad-leafed trees with ferns growing near the base of their trunks.
To culminate a year rife with political turmoil, one final wildfire swept the nation at the close of 2017. After initial reports from inside the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention (CDC) suggesting that it had received instruction to forbid the usage of seven words in its budget formulations, media outlets and the general public took en masse to declare a state of Orwellian emergency.
time, / its lifespan ceases to exist / as the gold warmth of your hazel eyes surround me
I strode down hallways, winding ‘round to meet / A sailor old and take to him his meal. / A gentle bounce in every step on beat, / This home to many always builds my zeal.
A canvas / Of delicately oiled / Skin, stretched taut
Was it a fall? Did I miss the last step? These things I cannot recall / Hidden from sight, the blood crept from one lone vessel and began to compress / Nice to meet you, one medical student said, as he unzipped my sheath
after three years go by / you appear on two slides / in a lecture / on motor neuron disease
The eye dilated in the physician’s dark exam room, / While into it the eyes of new white coats loom, / From this eye I am learning
Little girl / in the pink hospital gown / sits in a windowless room.
Hepatic failure claimed him mentally, / And colored yellow both his eyes so wide / As too his being stained corporally.
The many tables corral him, / All the people surround him, / A trained doctor he is not, / Giving up, he hasn’t thought.