Right Answers
Septic shock. Liver failure. Kidney cancer.
Off the Shelf is our section for creative works by medical students.
Septic shock. Liver failure. Kidney cancer.
There is nothing quite like the feeling of puncturing the thin shrink film around a new canvas. Getting ready to paint is a routine — the rumbling of the kettle as I thumb through my collection of teas, picking the perfect album to play on repeat for the evening. Putting on the highlighter yellow shirt from high school plastered with smudges of blacks, greens, and whites from years of previous paintings.
I do not know what to say or feel when I first meet you. My first instinct is to introduce myself, but you can neither hear me nor reply.
“Your time starts now. You may begin your examination.” These were the words said moments before a life-altering moment during my high school years.
A spoken word piece dedicated to the generous donors and their families of the Donor Body Program at the UCLA David Geffen School of Medicine.
Waiting in the snow for the 43, / Mind focused on the cold. / The bitter wind, the bus kneeling
Murmur. Murmur. A dull, swirling sound that seems a mile away reaches my ears as they roll me through the endless hallway.
My patient sleeps peacefully. / I wake him guiltily. / I don’t want my face to be the first he sees.
Focus on breathing. Don’t think about how you’d rather be doing anything else on the planet right now. Focus on breathing. Quit reciting the pathophysiology of those diseases you got wrong on last week’s quiz. You’re thinking in circles, stop it. But if I tell myself not to think about something, doesn’t that mean I’m already thinking about it?
It started at the age of five. Fair and Lovely — India’s favorite skin-lightening and beautifying cream. I owe this regimen my first memorable medical concern; a rash that angered the skin on my face to scar over redden, burn and peel. I hid indoors for two days, embarrassed for others to see me in public. When the reaction subsided, I remained embarrassed of what stayed — the same ugly dirty brown skin.
As you search your closet / For your scrub cap, / Stethoscope, / And pants,
I am moving, yet I am going nowhere. I am going nowhere, yet I have come a long way. I do not count how many go by, but each spin demands that I keep moving. With every rotation, I take another step, another leap, one jump on this Earth. These cycles fly by, so much so that I can almost hear them as they whoosh over my head in an instant, making seconds go slow.