Contributing Writer
UNC Chapel Hill School of Medicine
Habiba Ahmed is a medical student at UNC Chapel Hill SOM interested in going into pediatrics! She attended the University of Kentucky for undergrad, where she obtained a B.S. in neuroscience. She is passionate about kiddos, advocacy, equity and inclusion, social justice, narrative medicine, patient-centered care, and a good iced latte. She also loves singing and doing henna tattoos!
I expect the attending to leave the room after ripping off her gloves and gown. Instead she grabs a clean towel and gently wipes the patient’s forehead with the soft tenderness of a mother. I decide that this is the kind of doctor I want to be.
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
Notes must be written, and labs must be ordered. / Everyone has their role to do, or else chaos is restored. / All this every day in one golden hour.
Touch, pinch. Move, shift. Tap, reflex.
The moon has risen and our shift has begun. / We night owls hold vigil in the resident room.
Twenty-four hours a day. / Spent all in one place. / The beds, the lights, the rooms all the same. / The hospital is today’s domain.
The boy coming to the office was eight. / Came in with tremendous hate. / An exceptionally troubled household.
Because I could not stop for death, / He kindly asked I pause. / My arms were full of sterile wraps, / Scissors, tape, and gauze.
Many patient encounters, often brief, have left me with a lasting impression. I reflect on these moments by capturing the dialogue, gestures or quiet observations that occur when caring for patients.
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.
Contributing Writer
Mayo Clinic Alix School of Medicine
Jessica is a third year MD/PhD student at Mayo Clinic Alix School of Medicine in Rochester, MN class of 2028 (hopefully). In 2020, she graduated from Rice University with a Bachelor of Science in biochemistry and cell biology with a minor in medical humanities. She enjoys trying new recipes, working out with friends, and exploring the city one restaurant at a time in her free time. After graduating, Jessica would like to pursue a career as a physician-scientist at an academic center.
