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.
Tag: poetry
Contributing Writer
UNC School of Medicine
Mili is a third-year medical student at the University of North Carolina School of Medicine in Chapel Hill, NC class of 2026. In 2022, she graduated from UNC-Chapel Hill with a Bachelor of Arts in biology and chemistry. She enjoys reading thriller novels, exploring local coffee shops, and biking in her free time. After graduating medical school, Mili would like to pursue critical care medicine and engage in narrative medicine/medical humanities education.
Pulses of Connection
Pulses of Connection is an attempt at delving into mind-body connections in medicine. This column will strive to emphasize how mobilizing the deep connections between our mind and physical bodies can enhance our sense of oneness, health, and well-being. Through narrative and exposition, I will explore how practicing physicians, medical students in training, and premedical students can integrate mindfulness in their lifestyles, as well as how such approaches can be crafted to bring healing to our patients.
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.
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.
Just a Medical Student
“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.
Air Hunger
His diseased lungs / stiff like dry clay / function like gills out of the water.
champagne tap
she is curled on her side like a child / eyes closed, back exposed.
Dying Is Not
Dying is not / as romantic as I once thought. / I think you always knew this.
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.