Poetry Thursdays is our initiative to highlight poetry and prose by medical students, with a new post every Thursday. If you are interested in contributing or would like to learn more, please contact our editors.
Contributing Writer
INOVA Children's Hospital
Dr. Kenneth Lopez is a 1st-year Pediatric Resident at INOVA Children's Hospital in Fairfax who is experienced in multiple fields, including medicine, chemistry, biology, public health, sociology and mathematics. He has trained in multiple industry-standard lab techniques in immunology and microbiology, as well as clinical and epidemiological translational research within multiple disciplines. His diverse experiences, leadership skills and consistent compassionate and curious approach towards tasks, allow him to contribute dynamic ideas to organizations and produce high-quality work within multiple stages of project development and implementation.
I quickly realized, they allow the inner recesses of my soul to connect with my imagination, together spewing forth a wonderful concoction of syllables, metaphors and outright madness on dozens of sticky notes
he sits on the edge of the bed, forlorn – / eyes squeezed shut, back hunched over. / the veins snaking up his arms seem / translucent as he clenches the bed rail / in a death grip.
Touch, pinch. Move, shift. Tap, reflex.
The fault, however, doesn’t lie on me alone. / I’m but a product of the American diet and the capitalistic moan.
Because I could not stop for death, / He kindly asked I pause. / My arms were full of sterile wraps, / Scissors, tape, and gauze.
With imposter syndrome raging,/ I sit quietly at my desk,/ reflect on goals for my future/ and what it means to do my best.
One step and then another; / the end is near! The end is nearly here! / And yet, it is not. Not yet near. / So, I carry on, though I am weary, / though my telomeres shorten or because my telomeres shorten,
Do you hear what I hear? / The humming of machines, / which can’t breathe, / but enable artificial ventilation for living beings.
What does it mean to “grieve appropriately?” / To silently cry / as to not break the fragility in the air.
My Grandmother never once told me how / she feels about dying.
“I’m sorry, ma’am. I’m just a med student. The rest of the team will be here shortly, they’ll explain everything to you.” We wait in silence.
His diseased lungs / stiff like dry clay / function like gills out of the water.
Contributing Writer
Northwestern University Feinberg School of Medicine
Tulsi Patel is a second year medical student in the MD/MPH program at Northwestern University Feinberg School of Medicine. She graduated from Columbia University in 2019 with a Bachelor of Arts in neuroscience and behavior. She loves listening to podcasts, visiting art museums, reading poetry, hiking, and running outdoors. Tulsi is excited to explore pediatrics and internal medicine while centering health equity by applying her public health degree, narrative medicine, and humanism in medicine.
