Awfully Nice
Tears in her eyes / Puddles in a funnel of wrinkles / She fingers her golden ring
Poetry Thursdays
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.
Writers-in-Training Program Director, Medical Student Editor and Contributing Writer
Marian University College of Osteopathic Medicine
Chad Childers is a third-year medical student at Marian University College of Osteopathic Medicine in Indianapolis, Indiana (class of 2024). He received his Master of Bioethics from Harvard Medical School and his Bachelor of Arts in Medical Humanities from Indiana University, Indianapolis. He enjoys running, reading, and napping in his free time. After medical school, Chad plans to pursue a career in hospice.
Mirror
It is a snowy day in April / The three of us each sit at our own windows and watch the remainder of our winters, / She says it came out of nowhere. / She means the snow maybe, or the Dementia.
A Subset of Innumerable Thoughts and Observations
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
Heart Failure
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.
Tap, Reflex
Touch, pinch. Move, shift. Tap, reflex.
Musings on Nature and Being
The fault, however, doesn’t lie on me alone. / I’m but a product of the American diet and the capitalistic moan.
On Rounds
Because I could not stop for death, / He kindly asked I pause. / My arms were full of sterile wraps, / Scissors, tape, and gauze.
MD-to-be
With imposter syndrome raging,/ I sit quietly at my desk,/ reflect on goals for my future/ and what it means to do my best.
Worried Well
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,
Critical Senses
Do you hear what I hear? / The humming of machines, / which can’t breathe, / but enable artificial ventilation for living beings.
To Grieve Appropriately
What does it mean to “grieve appropriately?” / To silently cry / as to not break the fragility in the air.
Time Left: 89 Minutes, 38 Seconds
My Grandmother never once told me how / she feels about dying.
Contributing Writer
Loyola’s Stritch School of Medicine
Anneka Johnston grew up in West Michigan and attended Kenyon College, majoring in English with a special certification in creative writing, and minoring in chemistry. Continuing her lifelong commitment to avoid sunny weather, Anneka moved to Chicago following graduation, and worked in a Suboxone clinic at the height of Chicago’s opioid epidemic. She began searching for the common ground between medicine and the humanities, and became passionate about giving voice to patient experiences through narrative art. She received second place in the 2022 DeBakey Poetry Contest and third place in the 2022 William Carlos William Poetry Competition. She is currently a fourth-year student at Loyola’s Stritch School of Medicine and plans to pursue a career in psychiatry.