2021 | Voices from the Residents, Front Cover
2021 | Voices from the Residents, Introduction
A collection of 55-word stories from residents at the University of Utah
Chief Editor: Ben Drum
Editorial Staff: Kathryn Schmidt, Britt Hultgren
Faculty Support: Amy Cowan, Susan Sample
Cover Design: Kathryn Schmidt
Funding provided by the University of Utah GME Wellness Grant.
Lost Hugs
These are days of hugs not given or
received; for my adorable patients whom
I examine fully PAPR-ed, for my sweet
friends exhausted and isolated by our
work and this pandemic, for myself.
Do they feel enough love from my words and
my thoughts and my eyes peeking over a
mask?
The Heart is Beating On
It pumps until it pumps no more,
The heart is beating on.
Connections all awry it’s sure,
The heart is beating on.
Surgery, medicine, poke and prod
And yet the path is set.
This infant’s on the way to God
But we won’t give up yet.
Compressions, epi, drain the chest.
It’s over now,
For the best?
Overload
My daughter twirls in her pink confetti
skirt
Laughing at her own silliness
She is so perfect, so naïve, so full of life
I am overwhelmed by the perfection in
that moment
I am dazed by love and hope and joy
I start crying; then sobbing
The juxtaposition
At the hospital, my patient is dying
How Lucky Am I?
What ordinary miracles I witness each
day?
Dissection carried through preserved
planes
deep below skin, fat, and fascia,
to expose those cavities closed.
I place my hands upon the mass,
and release its noxious embrace.
Meticulous closure carefully crafted,
Each bite placed precisely.
With cancer removed, a glimpse of hope
granted.
How lucky am I?
The Things Between Us
He unbuttons his shirt.
A small black leather bag,
Hung with twine around his neck, lies
over his heart.
I move it out of my way. RRR. No M/R/G.
“What’s the bag?”
Deep brown eyes, set in his face like
upturned bowls, peer out at me. Amused,
unconcerned.
“Keeps bad spirits away.”
“Oh. What’s in it?”
“Secret things.”
The Weight
The weight of my words and your
emotions heavy.
Your baby needs my help
I promise to keep you safe
Thank you for trusting me
When the loud noises start
and the people rush in
It’s time to meet your babe
Time out. Cut. Pull.
Pressure. Silence. Gush.
Tears.
“She’s perfect.”
The weight of your words and my
emotions heavy.
Pages
Beep beep bee–. Slap. Groan. Fumble.
Click. Hello? For how long? Uhhuh. What
is their birthday? When was the last–
uhhuh. Yeah. Thanks.
Beep beep beep–. Slap. Fumble. Click.
Groan. Heave. Hello? Wait, what? No,
neurology, with an N. No problem,
happens all the time.
Beep beep beep bee– Cry. Fling. Crash.
Curse. Dial. Hello?
Vision
When I close my eyes, your frozen full-
moon pupil rises and swells. Your chubby
toddler arms thrash and thrash. Your
drowned brain, hungry for gravity,
drowns in self. Your mother’s wet
crescent eyes storm. Medical Eyes dart to
the clock, to me, fractured by the light of
fast-moving clouds. But I will not
apologize for grief.
History, I Guess.
Name, department, function
Prerequisites for the new vaccine
Follow the sign, down the hall
Flashes of history cross my mind
Diseases eradicated, triumph of science
Black and white figures, lined up in
photographs
Sit down, roll up your sleeve, receive
immunity
Stop at Starbucks, walk outside, go back
to work
This is history I guess
Sweet Magic
One little boy, AFOs ill-fitting, wild child,
tired mother.
Up up up onto the table, surprisingly still
(I love the sound of a beating heart)
(and checking reflexes with my giraffe
hammer),
ending with a gentle giraffe tap on his
nose.
Then the sweet magic – face alight,
eyebrows high, grinning…
“You booped me!”
American Red Cross
Hearts on the wall for Valentine’s Day.
Ha. All day every day is a blood drive.
“Any immunizations in the last eight
weeks?” the phlebotomist asks.
“Yes. The COVID-19 Pfizer series.”
He lowers his head and nods. He has not
received one yet, despite being a
healthcare worker.
Feels unfair. I am working from home.
Fever
She can’t stay seated, fake lashes
concealing tears.
Her husband is at home due to the
pandemic restrictions.
Oh, my baby, she screams, aerosolizing
her grief into the room.
The diagnosis slowly bruises her mind like
the leukemia in her son’s body.
He’s our youngest. He still sleeps with us.
She wishes he had COVID-19 instead.
A Pathologists Sonnet
Static
Metastatic
An innocuous line on a page
Positive
Negative
Given a burdensome stage
Confirmed
Sequenced
Precisely named and defined
Breathless
Anxious
Enduring the anguish of time
Simply, eloquently
You are the bottom line
point A to point B
“Thinking is pain,” my patient muses flatly
through neat curtains of long blonde locks
and muffling layers of cotton facemask.
From six feet away on the opposite couch,
I glimpse the tidy row of cuts like a train
of thought traversing an adolescent
forearm. I wince under my mask,
wondering which one hurt the most.
Not Enough Love
There was
Not enough love
To overcome
The separation of miles
The endless work
The long sleepless nights
The shame of never being enough
The realities of a life we fought so hard
for
Fought only to lose.
Everything for medicine.
Is this the life I have chosen?
A life without love?
Enough is enough.
Despair
dimly lit and windowless,
its plush, enveloping velvet furniture
in bruised hues of purplish black
too cozy and familiar to leave
now
enveloped in its weighted blankets
of shame and hopelessness,
the less convinced, the less certain they
become
of the incandescent joy of life outside.
it is their comfort zone.
To Be an Internist
“How are you?”
I ask, as I scour her med list
– 23 items –
Searching for a culprit for vague chronic
dizziness.
“Had my knee replaced. It’s changed
my life.”
I smile.
Learning we will never
Be rain in a drought.
But rather, like gravity,
Seldom noticed,
Gently trying to keep things from falling
apart.
Deck Chairs on the Titanic
“Anything we can get for you?”
“A beach. And a beer.”
He rolls over and desats into the 70s.
“Feeling better today. Breathing a little
better, every day. “
Like waves, his steady hope gently laps at
our sides. But we’ve seen what course
this ship has charted.
Tinker with his high-flow. Tailor his nebs.
Titrate his morphine.
“So, we just wait?”
APGAR
The stage is set
The spotlight burns bright
For nine months
you have worked out your song
Your heart races at the thought of your
imminent show
With a final push you are urged onstage
Silence
After a brief eternity, your voice bursts
forth!
The judges debate: “8.” “No, 9.”
The intern meekly asks “10?”
2021 | About the Authors and the Work
Spencer Barfuss, Pediatric Cardiology Fellow. “I have always loved the humanities and this seemed like a great opportunity to explore some of the moments in medicine that hit differently. This piece is about one such moment. The line between doing things for the patient and doing things to the patient can be quite thin and is frequently blurry without the benefit of hindsight. This is part of the burden we signed up for – the burden we carry.”
Liam Clark, Neurology. “Story came to me because of all the time we spend answering pages, and how the beep will change how you feel, whether you’re waiting for it or it keeps happening when you wish it wouldn’t.”
Sarah Coomes, Pediatrics. “I began my creative journey in the visual art sphere, but have grown towards non-fiction writing during medical training as it does not require a wood shop, and I can bring my notebook into the mountains with me.”
Ben Drum, Internal Medicine-Pediatrics.
Guinn Dunn, Internal Medicine.
Kristen Durbin, Triple Board. “I’m trying to make sense of my identity as a person and physician through writing and reflective practice while drawing wisdom and inspiration from my patients and colleagues across these three medical disciplines.”
Thomas George, Internal Medicine-Pediatrics.
David Haak, Internal Medicine.
Jared Hilton, Internal Medicine. “I’m interested in pulmonary critical care, sliding downhill on sticks, and human stories.”
Josh Klonoski, Pathology. “I am a physician scientist who loves neuroinfectious disease and neuroimmunology as much as I love music, art and poetry.” Courier New is the standard font of a pathology report.
Becca Powell, Triple Board. “Going on a date outside the house feels frivolous at this time in the pandemic. Donating blood together felt relevant, and arriving with my partner, who is not in healthcare, was an experience for both of us. It was near Valentine’s Day, which seemed strange as it is such a normal day to celebrate and we had both forgotten. I was struck by the unfairness that phlebotomists at the donation site hadn’t yet been vaccinated despite their close proximity to volunteers while I had the ability to work from home and had received the vaccine.”
Hanna Saltzman, Pediatrics. “I believe in writing and reading as conduits for healing, social justice, and joy.”
Dallas Shi, Occupational Medicine. “I kept a 1 sentence a day journal throughout intern year. This story evolved from a sentence on 12/3/2018.”
Michelanne Shield, OB/GYN.
Sean Stokes, Surgery. “In August, I will be moving to Tampa, FL to train in surgical oncology at Moffitt Cancer Center. Cancer care is what originally inspired me to pursue medicine, and I am excited to continue my career as a surgical oncologist. I never thought I would write poetry (or write creatively at all), but I have found it to be a good way to explore the meaning of my work. I enjoy writing narratives, short stories, and poems about the good and the bad in healthcare and surgery.”