champagne tap
she is curled on her side like a child / eyes closed, back exposed.
she is curled on her side like a child / eyes closed, back exposed.
Physicians give their heart and soul to the practice of medicine. Caring for patients at their most vulnerable moments is a heavy responsibility and privilege that medical professionals must carry.
Dying is not / as romantic as I once thought. / I think you always knew this.
This is a reimagination of anatomy from the outside in.
In September 2020, I started to volunteer as a health educator in sexual and reproductive health and rights with mobile clinics of the Palestinian Medical Relief Society, reaching marginalized communities in the Occupied Palestinian Territories (OPT). I worked in the villages of two cities in the West Bank — Jenin and Qalqilya.
When my family saw me painstakingly hand-placing individual sprinkles on the apices of buttercream rosettes at age 15, I justified this obsessive behavior by telling them, “I’m just practicing precision for the day when I get to inject into people’s faces.”
Uppgivenhetssyndrom, also termed resignation syndrome, is a distressing ailment in which patients — often young children — completely withdraw from the activities of daily life. With no underlying neurological or physical disease, these patients lose the will to live, essentially becoming apathetic.
Unlike other specialties, radiology is often an elective rotation that focuses on diagnostics and image interpretation. Such tasks are mainly done by the specialty’s residents with little care for medical students to be involved with.
Trauma can be inflicted on the micro scale — to the mind, to the body and to the spirit itself. Oftentimes, we tend to sideline these transgressions, but their accumulation can damage our sense of wholeness and peace with both ourselves and the world.
The intruder slithers in at midnight, / slinking his way to the boy fast asleep, / the tangled mess of hospital wires his field of untrimmed grass,
As I step carefully into the sterile field / past the rows of scalpels, forceps and clamps, / I sense a gentle fluttering in my chest.
My mother likes to tell the story of how, as a small child, I referred to the superficial wounds sustained in my first head-over-handlebars accident as an “abrasion.” I remember staring at my knee, fascinated by my body’s ability to heal itself. The sacred anatomy of wounds, atoms as spacious as galaxies, coalescing and woven with no instruction of my own to renew what had been lost.