Twelve Weeks
Dr. Perkins explained to Elizabeth that she had three options: continue with the pregnancy and parent the child, continue with the pregnancy and pursue adoption, or discontinue the pregnancy and have an abortion.
Dr. Perkins explained to Elizabeth that she had three options: continue with the pregnancy and parent the child, continue with the pregnancy and pursue adoption, or discontinue the pregnancy and have an abortion.
And now here she was, in the family lounge at a hospital waiting to speak to her father’s neurologist. Her dad, Ricky, had collapsed at work — or so she had been told. This was the most she had heard of her father’s life since she moved out of the house.
Dr. Goodly saw patients on Thanksgiving every year. Wasn’t that the whole point of the holiday?
A decision was at hand. Which trail would lead him where he wanted to go? The right or left? Both or neither? A simple choice. An impossible choice.
He wished he could talk to Jane. His Jane, not the paranoid woman who hid wads of cash from him in their sock drawer. His Jane would know what to do.
The first two years of medical school, for most students, consist mainly of studying from books, lectures, notes and papers. If a student is having trouble understanding the transporters in the kidney, they can read their notes or review the lecture. Later on in medical school, students spend more time on clinical clerkships. If on a rotation a student is told they need to work on their physical exam skills, they can go to the library and check out a book on physical diagnosis. When a lab result comes back on a patient that may be confusing, a student can quickly look it up on the internet.
They have a term for it in the medical school curriculum: Breaking Bad News. An important communication objective. As a physician, I championed the “Breaking Bad News” clinical skills sessions, preferred them to the physical exam teachings that became dry and stale year after year. I volunteered to facilitate a small group every autumn, gently redirecting students as they fumbled through the contrived scenarios with an often over-zealous actor.
Calm. Only the gentle hum of electricity resonated in the sticky, stagnant air caught halfway between dusk and dawn. The mist itself seemed to vibrate unseeingly as it matched the sleeper’s own rhythms. It had grown heavy in the absence of the daytime winds, and had learned to relish fondly its brief ownership of the night – there were many hours yet before it would be forced to relinquish ownership of the river valley’s people …
“Good afternoon, Ms. Starflight. My name is Samantha Miller, and I am a student doctor working with Dr. Singh. I know you have answered so many questions in the past few hours, but do you mind if I ask you a few more?” Haha, ‘Starflight’, what an alias? How can these people be so uninhibited? Sometimes I’m not sure I’m even seeing real pathology. These people are just like me with a little less holding …
It was late, but she was still awake. Her mother had long since put her to bed and gone to sleep, but she was still awake. She crawled out of bed and tiptoed gingerly down the stairs. She didn’t turn on any lights, not wanting her mother to find her out of bed. She remembered to be especially careful on the last stair; it was creaky, and her mother’s bedroom door was only a few …
He stood at the window, gazing out into the bleak, foggy morning. His fingers slowly traced words and symbols on the frost and then quickly wiped them away. His hands looked different he noted—the skin like tissue paper, thin and crisscrossed with fine lines. His veins raised and pulsing. He clenched his fist, wincing at the stiffness. He couldn’t remember when his hands changed. When they were last full and firm, strong enough to pick …
Author’s note: This piece will be published in the University of Alabama School of Medicine’s upcoming Voices in Word Literary Journal, published by its Narrative Medicine Interest Group. Descended from Spanish-English lineage but made in China, Javier Fitzsimmons’s brown, burly, furry form lay squished against the basket grating by the weight of a multitude of stuffed animals. In the 1500s after the wreckage of the Spanish Armada washed up along the English shores, a poor Spanish soldier …