Do you hear what I hear?
The humming of machines,
which can’t breathe,
but enable artificial ventilation for living beings.
The moaning of patients
with overwhelming pains,
racking their bodies wave after wave.
The beeping of monitors,
sending out alerts
of organs crashing, failing to work.
Do you see what I see?
Final embraces, tender yet reluctant,
hands clasped painfully tight.
When to make the dreaded call?
How can we tell if the timing is right?
Tears streaming, overflowing emotions,
none of them are ready,
except for the one who lies silently
with breaths ragged and pulses thready.
The chair that was pulled close to the patient’s bed
will soon be pushed back against the wall,
as the family members at last depart
down the brightly lit, newly darkened halls.
Do you feel what I feel?
Skin — paper thin — of one of tender age
Skin — paper thin — of one burning while awake
Skin — paper thin — of one soon to enter the grave
The beating of a heart that soon will halt.
The percussion of lungs filled with sputum-like froth.
The edema of limbs flowing with fluids and salt.
Pangs of pain for each patient we fail.
Pangs of pain for each body we can’t heal.
Pangs of pain for each soul in this field.
Poetry Thursdays is an initiative that highlights poems by medical students. If you are interested in contributing or would like to learn more, please contact our editors.
Contributing Writer
Texas Tech University Health Sciences Center Paul L. Foster School of Medicine
Melissa Huddleston is a fourth-year medical student at Texas Tech University Health Sciences Center Paul L. Foster School of Medicine in El Paso, Texas class of 2023. In 2016, she graduated from Baylor University with a Bachelor of Science in informatics and a secondary major in classics. In 2018, she graduated from Baylor University with a Master of Public Health in community health education. She enjoys hiking, jumping rope, and reading. After graduating from medical school, Melissa would like to pursue a career in pediatrics.