Harmony Magazine (2014)

Harmony
A HUMANI TI ES MAGAZI NE f rom t he PROGRAM I N MEDI CAL HUMANI TI ES

Cel ebr at i ng 10 year s of Har mony
2014
A HUMANI TI ES MAGAZI NE f r om t he PROGRAM I N MEDI CAL HUMANI TI ES 2014 1 Harmony
Harmony is a publication of the
Arizona Health Sciences Center
and is sponsored by
The University of Arizona
College of Medicine
Medical Humanities Program
and the
Kenneth Hill Memorial Foundation
as a gift for the community.
All works in Harmony,
both visual and literary,
are the exclusive property
of the artist or author
and are published
with her/his permission.
Authors retain their copyright
for all published materials.
Any use or reproduction of
these works requires the
written consent of the author.
Views expressed are solely the
opinions of the individual authors and
are not representative of the editors,
advisory board, or AHSC.
Director
Ron Grant, MD, MFA
Editor
Ersilia Anghel
Magazine Reviewers
Jennifer Bao
Edward Bruno
Moira Dooley
Kaitlin Elsenheimer
Damien Maloney
Alex Preston
Sean Stuchen
Seth Vietti
Graphic Designer
Roma Krebs, AHSC BioCommunications
Special Thanks
Steve Goldschmid, MD
The Hill Family
Helle Mathiasen, Cand.mag, PhD
Kevin Moynahan
Kenneth J. Ryan, MD
Rebecca Parada
Amy Waer
MUTED
Ersilia Anghel
On the cover:
For more information, please visit the Program in Medical Humanities website
at: humanities.medicine.arizona.edu Complete guidelines for subscriptions,
donations, and submissions may be found in the back of this journal.
MUTED INVERTED
Ersilia Anghel
On the inside covers:
Harmony
2 2014 A HUMANI TI ES MAGAZI NE f r om t he PROGRAM I N MEDI CAL HUMANI TI ES Harmony A HUMANI TI ES MAGAZI NE f r om t he PROGRAM I N MEDI CAL HUMANI TI ES 2014 3 Harmony
My trauma began with a return email from the father of
Zachary Orman, a medical student I knew who died in a
paragliding accident. We would be honored if you put a
memorial to Zach in the annual Harmony Magazine, the
letter began, relieving me of some of my initial anxiety,
only to feel my heart start to ache as I read on. I will
send a photo of Zach that I particularly like because it
makes it seem as if he is not far away. I think about
Zach every day. Adjusting to losing a son is very difficult.
As a pediatrician and as a father of three, I found his
words especially heartbreaking: a tragic reminder of
how it feels to lose someone close to you just as they
are entering the prime of their life. I had the pleasure of
knowing Zachary, partly as a medical student, but also as a regular Harmony contributor, his beautiful photos and
prose emblematic of someone who cared deeply about the human condition. Not surprising, Zach had
been awarded the Alpha Omega Alpha Gold Humanism Award, a prestigious honor given only to individuals
who make a commitment to honor humanism in their profession.
Just like Derek Neal, another medical student cut off before he had a chance to make his mark in a world he
cared deeply about. A pediatric ICU nurse prior to his becoming a doctor, Derek dreamed of continuing his
caring efforts in a different role, that as a physician, his posthumous Gold Humanism award a testament to the
work he had already done as an empathetic caregiver. He really put his heart into what he was doing, his wife
Sylvia said when I called to ask her for permission to print some of his photos. Thats how he lived his life.
Caring and feeling for others.
I didnt know Derek, but it didnt matter. Everyone I talked to said the same thing: Great family man, dedicated
professional, overall nice guy. All I could think of when I heard the news of his death due to lung cancer was the
tragedy his young family would have to endure: living on through his memory and inspirational legacy rather
than though his presence and leadership.
Of course, legacy is important for these men who will never get to physically fulfill their potential as great
clinicians and compassionate caregivers. Harmonys 10th Anniversary Issue comes with a sobering reminder
that we are fragile individuals who must strive for excellence in our limited time here; that we must continually
renew our pledge to honor the Hippocratic Oath and add some humanism to our practice of medicine.
In the pages that ensue, we honor Zachary Orman and Derek Neal, two young men who represented this
idealtwo young men who will be sorely missed by everyone who knew them and by those who never will.
As you turn the pages of this beautiful edition, please keep the two of them in mind.
Ron Grant, MD, MFA
Director, Medical Humanities Program
The University of Arizona, College of Medicine
Ron Grant, MD, MFA
rgrant@email.arizona.edu
DIRECTOR
Harmony
HUMANISM & MEDICINE
2014
How did you feel when you woke up this morning?
Were you excited for the day?
Where are you sitting?
How do you feel right now?
Do you want to move?
Could you make yourself more comfortable?
EDITOR
Ersilia Anghel
eanghel@email.arizona.edu
Der ek Hami l t on Neal
Apr i l 21, 1971 t o Aug 10, 2013
_____________
Apr i l 21, 1971 t o Aug 10, 2013
_____________
Apr i l 21, 1971 t o Aug 10, 2013
_____________
Apr i l 21, 1971 t o Aug 10, 2013
_____________
Zachar y Sol omon Or man
Dec 1, 1984 t o Apr i l 7, 2013
_____________
Remember ing
Harmony
AWARD WINNERS
CUTTHROAT TROUT
Jennifer Nehls is a social worker whose professional focus is on end of life issues in palliative care
settings. She brings to her writing a world view shaped by the slow burning apple wood that cured
summer sausage in her Grandfathers smokehouse, pepper spray from the University of Wisconsins
war at home, the incense burned from years of east meets west philosophical and spiritual pursuits
and the aroma of China Green Tips tea drunk by the gallon during treatment for ovarian cancer. She
currently writes for her hospitals Narrative Medicine class, the Minds Eye program for WORT radio in
Madison Wisconsin and studies with Marilyn Taylor, past poet laureate for Wisconsin and Milwaukee,
in the poetry section of the University of Wisconsins Writers by the Lake summer programall
while working at Meriter Unity Point Hospital in Madison, Wisconsin on the oncology and ICU units
and caring for her mother who has end stage dementia.
MATHI ASEN PROSE AWARD: best submi ssi on i n ei t her poet r y or pr ose
_____________
page 14
MOON
Frankie Carino is a photographer from the southwest who eventually settled with his family in Tucson
in 2001 before moving to Los Angeles where he currently lives and works. Frankie, who graduated in
2013 with his BFA in photography from the School of Visual Arts in New York City exhibits his work in
galleries in New York City and Tucson. He is currently working on his first book of photographs and has
a number of forthcoming exhibitions for 2014/2015.
RYAN VI SUAL ARTS AWARD: best vi sual ar t s submi ssi on
_____________
page 10
BUA
Rachael Charles is a member of the UA College of Medicine Class of 2016 who enjoys traveling
and meeting as many adorable kiddos as possible along the way. She hopes to one day in the
not-too-distant future practice pediatric critical care in both the United States and abroad.
PARADA MEDI CAL STUDENT AWARD:
best over al l submi ssi on f r om a Uni ver si t y of Ar i zona medi cal st udent
_____________
page 23
2014
A HUMANI TI ES MAGAZI NE f r om t he PROGRAM I N MEDI CAL HUMANI TI ES 2014 7 Harmony
photo by Maya Pearmain Bellmann
Nicole Capdarest
ENTANGLEMENT
She lives in the spaces
In Between.
Invisible
Intangible
But Palpable.
In those spaces where
Imperceptible bonds
Tie all elements
To one another
Orbiting
Colliding
Approaching
Retracting
Nothing
Everything
Empty
All
WISH
Kayla Coe
MOON
Frankie Carino
MY HAPPIEST PLACE ON EARTH
Chandra Tontsch
Benjamin Juan
A MOMENT OF CLARITY
This Moment of Clarity is brought to you by a
two hour nap I took this evening out of sheer
boredom. Bless yah!
Its now the time for bed. Im suppose to be
asleep. My watch says so, my schedule says so,
and normally my body would be begging, but I
took a nap today.
Im laying in bed with the lights out and I cant
escape a single thought. All the conversations I
should have. Conversations with the people that
I know are slipping out of my life, that could be
solved with a little effort, but for the life of me I
dont know why I dont make that move.
Selfishly I might think that, Hey, they could call
too. Apparently, I need them more than they
need me. Or at least that is the thought that comes
to this active brain of mine at this moment. Give
it a second.
This is the time that I dread. Probably shouldnt,
like when my brain accepts the onslaught of night
and gives in to the desire for physical nurture,
and enters R.E.M. mode. Active brain time in bed
could be just as beneficial as a good dream that
downloads my troubles that have stacked up over
the course of a day.
There I laid. In the dark. No more movies,
homework, or people. Nothing around to
distract my thoughts. This is a time when the
eyes dont have control of the center stage. My
nose isnt required to smell my daily meal, or
the sometimes surprising perfume of a beautiful
woman I might not have noticed otherwise.
Nothing. Just the feel of the warmth of the
blankets against my skin, and the chill in the air
just outside of that. My brain is active and open.
Open to the thoughts that I might usually avoid or
allow to slip my mind as I constantly reorganize
my priorities.
Reorganizing my priorities for school, or work, or
love at any given moment of the day can become
a day long task that does not end. Not until I
finally turn out the lights and slip off to bed
where I enter the routine of preparing for rest.
It is these moments that I find interesting. The
majority of the time I lay there and wait for the
exhaustion to just pull me somewhere deep and
dark where the brain of higher function can take
a backseat to the brain that works without need of
thought or execution.
The rest of the time, no pun intended, is spent
in thought. Mind bending thoughts that dont
seem to want to end, as if they are conscious and
carry some agenda to bombard me with emotion
stirring afterthought. Where one thought stops,
another picks right up.
It is in this process that I found myself tonight.
I wanted sleep. I went to lay down just before 2
a.m. and it is now 4:22. I must have laid there
for at least 2 hours hoping and praying for sleep
to take hold before I let those thoughts drive me
insane, and here I am.
The truth is I want to reach out to my people. Be
it, family, friends, or lovers. They appeared in
my thoughts. But they werent just there. They
came along with fears, hopes and dreams, old
conversations, and even regrets.
I know what people say about regrets. They say,
No regrets! or youre not living your life if you
have regrets but I have them. Of course I do.
Its the old proverbial time-machine scenario,
again and again in my head. Playing like a film,
projected in the darkness that fills my mind
within the darkened room of my bed.
Were I to have the clarity of this moment, of this
age, of this heart, at any one situation that I have
wrecked, what good could have come of it?
Ive got needs, and Ive got dreams. I have ruined
many opportunities, and relationships, and ideas
with my selfish ways and my blind eyes.
I find it strange how clear any picture can become
in a pitch black room. I find it almost ironic. Or
better yet moronic, in light of my behavior in
these situations that now flash into my mind at
this moment of clarity.
I know I have done good, and I have done well.
I have done my best in many situations with so
much pressure that they could turn mountains
into rubble and have come out the other end the
better for it.
But I feel incomplete.
There is this dark patch, just over my shoulder
that I am more aware of than it appears from
the outside looking in. And a moment ago in
the dark of my room under the protection of the
covers I gazed into the even darker emotions that
surround that pitch-black-patch.
It tastes cold and feels rotten.
I wonder on some small heap of hope that I could
rectify myself in my future actions, somehow
outweigh the bad with all my might and dreams.
Selfless acts have come easy to me for as long I
can remember. Ever since I was a kid, begging
my parents to give money to the homeless man
on the corner with the sign and with full-fledged
smile placing my coins in Santas pail as he rings
his bells out in the cold.
Even now I give when I have more than I need,
and I am seeking out professions that would do
me good by doing more for others.
But there I was in a slurry of thoughts both new
and old. There is this need to reach out and touch
those that I want in my life. Because I love and
need love. I want to be included in my peoples
lives. I want in where Im not even expected to
show. Where I may not even be needed. And
especially where there is a need for anything.
Where the need is so great that anything would
help.
My brow is furrowed at the thought of not doing
enough and my chest tightens and my breath
freezes and shudders at the thought of not being
there for those that need me just as much as I
need them. And Im not just talking about the
people I know.
Im talking about the people at large who are
going about their lives just barely getting by.
Scratching a living or not living at all.
These are the thoughts that roused me out of bed.
And these are the thoughts that I must now share
with you so that I can, maybe not be free of, but
share the burden so that I can lay down with a
lighter load. So that maybe I can relieve SOME of
the thoughts that I found.
In this MOMENT OF CLARITY.
Jennifer Nehls
I had cancer at the time of this float,
but was unaware of it at the time.
Dear Freddy,
Just read George Saunders Syracuse
commencement speech. It was tender
and loving. Thank you. And for that, I will
make you a thought sandwich for lunch:
rosemary chicken salad (Vegenaise from
the Omega Institute) with large French
capers roughly chopped and Nicoise olives.
Generous amount of arugula and radish
sprouts on marbled sour dough sprouted
bread with a spritz of thyme infused olive oil.
Fresh salad of mixed greens, thinly sliced
red onion which was marinated in Greek
seasoned olive oil, red, yellow and orange
nasturtiums, with a red raspberry vinegar.
Gerolsteiner mineral water with fresh
lime around the rim of the cooled glass.
Two spears of chilled kosher dill pickles.
All you have to do is open the folded top of
the brown paper sack. Sandwich and pickle
are wrapped separately in cellophane, the
salad is in a green salad box. I pinched it
from Whole Foods salad bar, just for you.
Oh, and yes, the enclosed envelope has a
poem. I hope you find a shady spot under
the Palms to slowly savor lunch. I love you.
I have for a long time.
It was eight years ago you and Mrs. Neuhardt
paddled me over perfectly undulating water,
past big hard breasted mountains and toward
the gangly brown moose splashing away
with such utter grace. I cherish that moment
and you in it.
ms jen
CUTTHROAT TROUT
I made a sandwich
from thought which was
next to the sound of the paddles
dipping in the Grand Teton river
scraping the side of
the aluminum canoe
shadowing its course
along the river bed
of sand, soft pebbles
and flowing bent grasses
blown over by
springs and mountains melt,
spicy sage scent on
warm afternoon breeze
cutthroat trout gills
wave air from water.
Its a miracle
we all lived.
FLOW AND GLOW
Julianna Weiel
Brenda Lee Kozuch
SELFISH DEATH
You are sick, suffering, dying,
pondering the fate of your soul,
and I think of myself.
How will I die?
Will an accident destroy me,
cancer eat away my insides or
fire leave me in ashes?
Will I die young?
Leaving my children to learn
how to do laundry,
plan a vacation and
find a bargain on their own?
Will I die old?
Not knowing who I am,
unable to lift a finger,
not caring who is with me,
so far gone that I cannot even wish for the end?
Is there a light?
One that leads to a place where the soul floats,
carrying the essence that was once me.
Is there just dark?
A pitch black state,
like sleep with no dreams.
You lie there, unable to move on your own
Everyday tasks no longer a priority.
One final task, your funeral,
is all you plan.
I wonder who will come,
what I will wear, who will speak and
if I will cry.
PROVINCIAL SELLS WET WIPES IN FRONT OF CONSTRUCTION
ON POSH ISTIKLAL AVENUE
Istanbul, Turkey
Michael Zaccaria
PILLOW
Ersilia Anghel
Benjamin Juan
TENDERNESS
The thoughts of the curves my hands caress
Bodies tingle and spasm from sweet lips
Eyes roll and close with each sensual kiss
Hearts pound irregular in the depths of desire
And with unshaken confidence in truth, whisper loves confession
THERAPEUTIC INTERVENTION
Nivia Haroon
GOOD ROCK
Frankie Carino
My husband applied it to my breast
post op, as the surgeon instructed.
I didnt ask why, wondering later about
the healing power of the tassels
on a Reiki drum or shamans wand.
* * *
National Velvet:
Young girls and the horses they love.
What did I know of all thatpetting flanks,
still-small fingers stroking the silky mane?
On the Coney Island Steeplechase, I clung to the
painted stallion who trailed a hank of real hair.
Together, we moved forward on the track,
tracing circles, loving the fast ride, not the horse,
aching thighs a foreshadowing.
* * *
Yankees and Confederates fallen from their steeds
onto the bloody fields: split by bayonets,
riddled with lead. For some, a redemption
to be sewn with horsehair, white threads
rejoining the divided body.
* * *
We circled the track into the 21st century,
breast riven, emptied, stuffed, sewed shut,
with what kind of thread I dont know.
The horsehair found me:
white fuzz in a glassine envelope
the doctor handed over. Gossamer
when my husband gripped a few threads
with a tweezer and placed them on my wound.
* * *
Why during that time did I dream of flight?
I imagine Pegasus streaking across the sky,
unbridled, scattering stars like a cloud of dust.
* * *
Experience of Dr. W.W. Greene,
cited by The Boston Medical
and Surgical Journal, 1867:
He has applied the horsehair stitches in almost
every locality, both in the skin and in the mucous
membrane, and has never secured such beautiful,
delicate linear scars with any other article.
My linear scar runs along a north-south axis,
angled at the top by the surgeons knot.
Obscured sometimes by lace: the skins
embossing, delicate pink track on the bodys map.
* * *
We are North Americas foremost purveyor of the
fine quality unbleached white horsehair for bows of
the violin family as well as black mare and stallion
horsehair often used in bass bows.
Maria Terrone
HORSEHAIR
Some doctors started to notice that patients with horsehair sutures had a lower infection rate than silk.
It was widely thought that there was some sort of curative quality derived from horses.
CivilWarTalk.com, Sergeant Major, Maryland
BUA
Rachel Charles
I imagine music coursing through my single breast.
THE ARTIST AS CANCER PATIENT
Skip Kriegel
Janice Degan
DEATH KNELL
Can you not hear it?
Its ringing so loud . . .
You can be treated, you know
It really might help at least for a while
Really, I mean it, dont give up all hope.
All hope
Dont you hear the bell?
Its ringing loud and clear
Stealing my dwindling days
Save until the last
The whisper of hope
Held close while I still live
Drown out the knell.
Turn up the sound
HOLOCAUST MEMORIAL
Berlin
Stephanie Pearmain
STREAM OF LIFE
Kwan Lee
WET SUNRISE AT LOGAN
Ellen Beck
Shiana Ferng
ILLUSORY
You pulse black light at the end of tunnels winding,
leading me toward a false sanctum
where a promising whisper in your eyes
gives rise to a sweet, sweet,
violet hour.
It should have been you, bearing these embers
of forgotten fires to my heart,
flickeringnot warm enough to light me from the inside.
I find myself holding a cup of sunset instead, whispering
steam away from its surface and waiting for its heat
to burn into my naked fingers.
I cling to a precarious edge of dependence.
Every time I look at you, my eyes meet with the iridescence
of an empty, washed up seashell,
poisoning me slowly.
Slowly,
like the embrace of a waterfall forcing my body to acclimate
to its numbing chill. Despite the threat of hypothermia,
I do not want to escapewhile the water's flow is constant,
I feel safe.
But listen:
sandcastles exist, and ghosts,
candles and dreamssoon to be washed away by ocean tides,
curled under into darkness.
PRODUCE VENDOR
Ttouan, Morocco
Michael Zaccaria
John Herm
WILD PLUMS
Its February
And Im spreading some
Wild Plum jam
On whole wheat bread
Mother taught me to bake.
The jam reminds me
Of the color of Wild Plums
On the inside.
And on the outside.
I remember they were the very first fruit
To flower last springin the snow.
The trees are low
With snaggly branches
Hugging the ground...hiding.
So even country folk assume
Theyre some sort of bush
Where rabbits live
And pay them no mind.
Most times the plums are gnarled
From a strong fungus I think
But this year the plums were perfect
And we all picked as many as we could and made
Wild Plum jam.

The jam preserves the wild taste
From the effort of the golden flesh
That clings so hard to the stone
To orchard more purple plums
Its breakfast in February
And I feel rich that I search
For hidden fruit in secret places.
MORNING JAZZ
Ersilia Anghel
SERENITY
Alice Ferng
SHOPKEEPER WITH CHRISTIAN AND HINDU IMAGES
Kerala, India
Michael Zaccaria
100 YEAR REFLECTION
Todd Rabkin Golden
LAND MAST
Michell Bauer
MOUNT LEMMON VIEW
Pat Maurice
A question from a man
waiting for the bus with me.
Evamaria Lugo
I KNOW WHEN PEOPLE WILL DIE
Respectfully dedicated to all people who know about mental illness.
I am not a person, but I try to understand people. I know you
will not believe me, but it is true. I also have special powers;
I know when people will die. It is a feeling I get, like a
message from faraway that the person in front of me needs
to move on. The feeling I get is not like the sound of a distant
tremor. The sound is not even as precise and loud like the
message one hears in stores when they are announcing the
special sale item of the day. The whole thing is more like the
sound of a distant train.
The problem is that now you are thinking that this
is a morbid story. In your head this is something of a
combination horror-mystery thing. Let me assure you, this
is a true story, I know when people will die. But the dilemma
is not whether you believe me or not. The real question is if
I should tell people or not. What would the benefit of such
knowledge be? Would it make you live more fully the time
that is left or would you become depressed and give up on
life before you leave?
Let me ask you my test-the-waters question. Assuming that
what I am saying is true, it is but you do not believe me so
I ask you to at least assume, would you want to know? I have
a feeling that you would be like everyone else, and admit that
you would rather not know.
The problem is that you equate such knowledge with
terminal illness, but why? Would it be so terrible to know
that you have 10 years left or 15 months or 2 days? Yes, you
could be right. Well maybe the 2 days notice would be kind of
short All right, what if I only tell the people who have
10 years left or more? Would you want to know?
LIFE CONNECTING O2
Mark S. Thaler
Spencer Hansen
SWALLOW AND LISTEN
I arrived late again to work. With lunch sack in
my hand, shoulder over my bag, and disheveled
hair bouncing with my steps, I walked into the
fluoroscopy technology room.
Arent you late? asked an observant technologist?
I offered no response. Instead, I looked down
at the days schedule taped to the counter:
Two esophagrams, a canceled Barium enema,
and a speech study.
Great. An early day off.
I left the tech room, checked my watch in the
hallway, and began thinking about my free
afternoon. An old gasket on my car engine
was leaking. I didnt want to put off replacing it
any longer.
I walked to Dr. Cohens reading room and
discussed the days exams. Hefor that matter
most attendingsstress the importance of
knowing patient history for each exam.
Mr. D was here with dysphagia. His primary
care physician ordered him an esophagram. The
procedure for an esophagram requires a patient
to ingest radiopaque contrast while a radiologist
takes live X-rays of the contrast descending the
esophagus. The radiologist can detect some
anatomic abnormalities with these images,
such as strictures, cancer, or even acid reflux.
By this point in the rotation the attendings
expressed satisfaction with my technique so they
usually remained absent from the exam. This day
was no different for Dr. Cohen. He instructed me
to go ahead and enjoy a good exam. He was fairly
busy reading plain films and felt the esophagram
would be routine.
I walked to the tech room thinking about my car
engine. I put on a heavy lead apron and walked
into the exam room.
Mr. D was sitting in a chair in the corner of
the dimly-lighted suite. He was a smart,
clean-looking veteran with short-cut hair.
He wore a Nike polo and khakis. Two gold
chains circled his right wrist. By his color you
might guess he just stepped off a Carnival cruise.
When I asked how things were, he gave a genuine
response, reflecting on his last three months:
Well, Ive lost forty pounds in three months,
I cant eat or swallow a thing, and Im one
hundred percent PEG tube.
He said it with such neutrality I didnt know
whether he was joking or not. But that fact
he knew what a percutaneous endoscopic
gastrostomy tube was indicated familiarity
with some sort of gastrointestinal process.
Whats your diagnosis, sir? I asked.
Why are you here?
He held up four fingers. Stage 4 cancer of the
throat. He said, with emphasis on the throat.
He smelled mildly of smoke.
Does cancer run in your family? I asked.
No. No explanation. I cannot find any reason
why I got this.
Mr. D lived in Florida for twenty years prior to
moving to Tucson. He is married. He made a
living teaching Martial Arts. If you ask him about
his work he will approximate to youby instinct
I guessand tell you about The Arts.
Now, he races stock cars. His cancer made it
impossible to teach The Arts. Ironically, it
wasnt the cancer but physician intervention
that cut short his career. The PEG tube dissected
his abdominal musculature. The shear
forces required for martial arts precluded his
participation furthermore. As he explains this
he mimes in front of his belly like a kid ripping
open a Christmas present.
This is how close we work to each other in
training, he informs me, standing six inches
from my nose. I try to remember if I used
deodorant this morning while I pop a piece
of gum in my mouth.
Well, Mr. D you look good, considering your
rapid weight loss.
He looked at me and frowned. He was not
interested in weight loss and saw it for what it
wasa constant reminder of a disease that stole
his ability to work in his chosen fieldor even
enjoy a ripe, juicy orange.
So you cant swallow anything? I asked.
One hundred percent PEG tube, he reminded me.
At this point the thought occurred to excuse
myself briefly and review his chart. I ignored the
thought and continued talking with Mr. D.
How are you doing up here? I asked, pointing
to my forehead. He seemed to understand the
question and said he was fine. Its important to
take care of yourself mentally too. How is your
wife? I asked.
Mrs. D recently broke her hip. Shortly
after surgery she was re-hospitalized with
osteonecrosis for three months. Living in Sierra
Vista with limited transportation, the couple
negotiates with a home support group of three
people, two of which are unreliable. The support
group aids in transport, limited home care, and
supplemental income. Mr. D, prior to his wifes
misfortune, had a well-choreographed public
transportation system worked out to deal with his
cancer appointments. Now, he was in the middle
of a complete reformation because of his wifes
needs and appointments. As if to underline the
stress of this, he looks at his watch every five
minutes.
You can guess how merry our Christmas was,
he says.
After he says this and I smile sympathetically,
a tech walks in the room to see what the delay
is about. She appropriately moves us forward
and I encourage Mr. D to stand up near the
camera. The tech hands Mr. D gas-forming
crystals used to distend the esophagus. Mr. D
asks for a throw-up bag.
You might see this stuff pretty soon, he says.
By this point I should have recognized the
contraindication to gas-forming crystals, oral
contrastand even this study. But, with mind on
my afternoon and getting the exam completed
in a timely manner, I tell him not to worry and
throw back the crystals like taking a shot.
Five minutes later Im sitting in a chair in the
dark room with Dr. Cohen. Were discussing the
possibility of inserting a nasogastric tube to suck
out the oral contrast pooled in Mr. Ds esophagus.
His cancer is hugging tightly around the portion
just near the stomach entrance, blocking any food
or liquid from entering.
While Im talking with Dr. Cohen, Mr. D is hacking
up his healthy lungs and clutching his chest in
the exam room. Beads of sweat glisten on his
forehead. Im telling myself what an idiot
I am and wishing again I really did take that
Alaska Tours Bus Driver job I considered before
medical school. But I force my mind to focus on
the words coming out of Dr. Cohens mouth.
Never, never should we have even done this
exam, he says.
It was my fault, Dr. Cohen.
No, No, its justthe clinician shouldve known,
he says.
Dr. Cohen in a polite yet awkward gesture of
mercy always tries to hide the elephant in the
room. It was my fault for not looking up Mr. Ds
clinical history. I feel like the Shaquille ONeal
of elephants.
(continued)
I wonder if Mr. D would sue. And who would have
to pay? Maybe Dr. Cohen could afford it. I cant.
After a brief chart review we learn the
esophagram was ordered before the patients
diagnosis. It was a fairly sound approach to
investigating dysphagia. And it was my job to
review the order and verify its appropriateness.
I tell Dr. Cohen I want to go speak with Mr. D.
I walk into the suite and Mr. D stares at me.
I stand in front of him, lead apron still on, and
tell him this was all my fault and I shouldve
looked in his chart before the exam.
That was wrong, he says. I appreciate his
comment. No ambiguity. No elephants. I was
in the wrong. I apologize and he accepts my
apology and asks if he can get the hell out of
there. I smile and say yes.
While Mr. D is dressing, Dr. Cohen walks in to
advise him to come back in an hour for another
spot film to see if contrast is moving into the
stomach through the tight squeeze. He agrees.
As he buttons up his shirt he looks at Dr. Cohen
and me, both standing in front of him like cruel
soldiers who know weve done wrong.
You know, in three months of this whirlwind
and back and forth and doctor appointments,
no one has explained anything to me. No one
has even talked to meuntil you. He points at me.
Dr. Hansen was the first one to ask me how Im
doing and listen. And now you, he says, pointing
to Dr. Cohen, are the only two who have stopped
to explain and listen.
(continued) SWALLOW AND LISTEN
I notice, I think, his eyes begin to water. I stop
myself from putting myself in his shoes because
I dont feel like feeling pain this morning. What I
do feel is gratitude for listening to Mr. Ds history
before the exam.
He didnt need the esophagram. Heck, he now
had a pretty good case to use in court against me.
But he needed someone to talk to. Funny that it
was through the radiology department that Mr. D
found some validation. And funny that it was an
esophagram that gave me a chance to do what
I loveto listen to the patient.
But from now on I really will listen. Ill never
give gas-forming crystals to patients who tell me
they just cannot swallow what is happening to
them in life.
BARREL CACTUS
Kayla Coe
Michael Peterson
THE MOON
a two year old with light
strawberry hair and
zip-up footie pajamas says
dad i want to see the
moon again with you
i lift her in my arms and
we walk out on the porch
we look up in the cool of
night a minute and she
says i love the moon
MOON RETURNING TO TUCSON
Mark Abrams
VARIOUS MAMMALS WATERSIDE
Mark Abrams
Nina Pollack
MIRACLES & MONSTROSITIES: DOPAMINE
A Parkinsons victim regains control of her body with l-dopa. A schizophrenic
man paralyzed by fear & hallucinations is freed from a mental institution by
clozapine. A meth addict lies, cheats & steals, ending up emaciated & dead.
Miracles and monstrosities, all related to a single molecule: dopamine.
The above rhetoric comes from Harvard & Boston University pharmacology
professor Dr. Barak Caine and the original copy of this piece hangs on the wall
outside of his office door. Barak was my thesis advisor and unofficial mentor
throughout my undergraduate studies. Although his passion is scientific
research and mine is clinical medicine, he took me under his wing and taught
me everything he could. He knew my aspirations of becoming surgeon and one
autumn weekend we went to his laboratory and he taught me how to perform
my first rat surgery. The surgery was performed from start to finish with volatile
anesthesia delivery and everything. While the surgery itself was to be used in his
research to further elucidate the mechanisms of dopamine, I could not help but
think about my future patients; I could not help but fixate on how invaluable this
experience would be to the future of healthcare.
I drew this piece, Miracles and Monstosities: Dopamine, for Barak at the end of
my senior year. In part, it was because he had convinced to me through his five
courses that dopamine is one of the most important molecules in the body. Yet,
the deeper reason was because he looked at my future the same way I see my role
in the practice of medicine: as if I am helping to pave a gravel road. Barak knew it
was unreasonable to think he could finish the job alone. However, he knows he
made some sort of contribution, even if it were laying just two or three stones.
PENSIVE
Lalita Abhyanker
BLUE STORM
Ersilia Anghel
DEYE MON GEN MON
Chandra Tontsch
Carlos Gomez
THE DISEASE
I woke up with a terrible fever last night
My hands were trembling and my stomach was a knot
But the thermometer only read 99 degrees Fahrenheit
The sickness was overwhelming me, puzzling my mind, losing my train of thought
I was able to compose myself after I stumbled upon an old forgotten picture of us
I didnt understand it at the time but the dependency was growing stronger from within
Time and time again the sickness would return creating an even bigger fuss
The yearning felt like a thousand fire ants crawling and burning me under my skin
The comfort of seeing you brought me my only known cure
The more I sought after your picture and memory
The less I was able to endure
Slowly I allowed myself to be engulfed with negativity
I bathe myself in the what couldve been and the what ifs
Its been months since I last saw you
The sadness and torment took over my body as I laid stiff
I was lost in my in my mind not knowing where to turn to
I then realized I hadnt let go
I knew then that I couldnt ever again be at ease
For you are no longer the same person I used to know
For you are now my disease
DELIGHT
Htay Hla
Lorraine Mesagna
REMEMBERING YESTERDAY
Apple.
Penny.
Apple. Penny.
Apple. Penny. Fork.
No.
Apple. Penny. Dog.
No.
Apple. Penny. What?
It disturbs me immensely that I cannot remember
the third item. I stop looking at my hands in
disbelief and instead look across the room
at Yvonne, who is sitting at the edge of the
examining table wearing a perplexed look on her
face. I am suspicious that not only is she unable
to remember the three items she was asked to
remember, but that she does not remember being
asked to remember anything at all. The young
nurse and I stare at Yvonne, expectantly.
I do not know, she finally says. She sounds
apologetic.
I am watching as the MMSE the mini-mental
state examination is administered to Yvonne
in order to assess the degree of her cognitive
decline. The MMSE is commonly used in
medicine to screen for dementia and to estimate
the severity of a person's cognitive impairment.
Categories include orientation to time and place,
ability to register and recall information, and
assessment of the use of written and spoken
language. Some of the tasks Yvonne is being
asked to perform seem ridiculously simple, but
I am easily deceived.
The nurse asks Yvonne for the date, but beyond
the year, Yvonne can tell her neither the month
nor the day nor the day of the week. Without
her usual "go-to" sources at hand the daily
newspaper and the church calendar taped to her
refrigerator door where she carefully crosses off
each passing day Yvonne is lost. And we are
not at the Publix check-out, where she can look
up at me, her hand poised to write out the check
for her order, to ask oh, so casually "And today
we are?" so that I can smile reassuringly at her
and reply, "It's Wednesday, June 19, 2013," as if it
were nothing, that with the trip to the Walmart
in Sebring to shop for towels, our leisurely lunch
at the Red Lobster, and now this stop at Publix to
buy groceries for dinner, good heavens, we have
been so busy, who has the time to remember what
day it is?
I know enough to remain silent and not to
interfere as the test proceeds. The nurse,
undaunted by Yvonnes poor start, continues by
asking another key Orientation question.
Can you tell me what season we are in?
Spring, Yvonne answers quickly.
I start to sigh, but then I laugh. Yvonne looks at
me questioningly.
Spring. You are right, Yvonne. It is still spring,
I say to her while slowly nodding my head,
slightly incredulous. The outside temperature
is a scorching eighty-nine degrees but since
the actual date is two days before the Summer
Solstice, technically Yvonne is correct. Score one
point for Yvonne.
The nurse reminds us of the three named items:
Apple. Penny. Window. Oh, yes, window, and a
feeling of relief washes over me until I realize that
if I were taking this test, I would be down a point,
maybe two, because I probably would have gotten
the season question wrong.
The assessments on language goes surprisingly
well for someone whose first language is not
English. Yvonne is able to name a pencil and
a watch, repeat the short phrase, No ifs, ands,
or buts, follow a 3-stage command, read and
obey the command CLOSE YOUR EYES, write a
(continued)
sentence of her own choosing, and copy a design
of interlocking pentagons. Still, all of these
skills cannot make up for the ground lost by not
knowing the date and not being able to recall the
three named items.
I can barely breathe until Stephanie, the
physician assistant, returns to announce the
final tally. With 18 points, Yvonne has scored on
the cusp of mild and moderate dementia, just
inside the edge of the moderate cognitively
impaired range. This score, in conjunction
with my earlier plaintive speech about how well
Yvonne functions within her home of twenty-
five years, gets me the modification in homecare
supervision I am seeking from twenty-four
hours a day to just ten, with no one in the house
with her at night. A medical alert pendant would
suffice, at least for now.
So I can discontinue the night aide? I ask
Stephanie, anxious to get my facts correct.
Yes.
At any time?
Yes.
OK then, Ill have the aide come just days
starting on Monday.
Yvonne is oblivious to the great change that has
transpired and slips on her lightweight jacket,
her standard defense against the air-conditioned
chill of public spaces in Florida. I help her down
from the examining table and trail along behind
her as she slowly makes her way to the check-out
desk. When the receptionist asks her if she has
an e-mail address she would like to share, I flap
my hands wildly from side-to-side and shake my
head vigorously while mouthing the words no,
no, NO! Hasnt this woman been badgered enough
with ridiculous questions this morning?
Yes, says Yvonne. I hear an edge of pride in her
voice.
I stop my silent commotion to listen.
It is, she continues, Y-V-O-N-N-E-2-6-4
at hotmail dot com.
I am stunned by her recall of this particular piece
of information. I am tempted to look at Yvonne
with an elevated respect for her abilities, but I
understand the difference between long-term and
short-term memory. That what was stored long
ago is more likely to remain than the fact that
there was a ferocious thunderstorm this morning.
As I looked at Yvonne, I couldnt help thinking,
let me get this straight, you cannot remember the
day of the week, but you can remember your e-mail
address? Exactly when was the last time you
checked your e-mail?
Just wondering.
(continued) REMEMBERING YESTERDAY
WITHIN REACH
Todd Rabkin Golden
John Herm
OCTOBER GRASS
Something happens to the grass
In October.
The leaves thicken in the fall sun
To a vibrant dark green.
I think its because of the flourish
Before November wilt
Like birds who fatten before the trip
Or when minds suddenly focus
Before a long winters rest
Alert and ready
If there may be no spring.
Every year
Im more aware of the gleaming grass
Under the brilliant blue sky
Amid the red golden browns of October.
RAINBOW EUCALYPTUS
Meredith Close
DISAPPEARING MAN
Stephanie Pearmain
Theresa Nagan
HOMING
When I heard the news,
the ocotillos by the riverbed looked as if
they might bloom.
And its always a special thing to see when they do,
havent ever seen any flowers quite like them.
But hadnt the ocotillos looked that way for too long?
I pedaled past,
wondering if I was mistaken,
if they would never bloom after all.
I was upset with them for fooling me,
for appearing the same as they did the week before.
I felt like saying:
No more!
...thats the last time youll get the best of me,
thats the last time Ill hope any sprays of red flowers
will come from ocotillo flower buds.
I was breathing hard,
surprised to find I was angry.
I wondered if the wind was blowingagainst me,
or if the world had refused to move on,
time snagged helplessly
on the ocotillos indifferent thorns?
Rain had been forecast, a 30% chance.
The air seemed heavier than usual,
as if summer was stuck in a bottle,
and time stood still like a ship on its side.
I wondered,
were the mountains holding their breath
in disbelief?
or waiting in vain
for the past to undo itself?
I dont know if the clouds were holding back their tears,
or if they were simply mocking the cracked river bed,
refusing to rain?
Was the world so cruel,
or is what we call this world
only part of a solar system, among many others,
making possible the coincidence for creatures to exist,
and for us to feel pain?
I was in no mood to give thanks,
though I dont know what good it did
to remain angry.
I never thought when I met you,
that the last thing Id remember
would be a flock of white doves
circling the sky,
a crowd of those who loved you
looking up,
so determined to track their flight,
as if by doing so,
we wouldnt have to say good bye.
But the high noon sun was desert bright,
and there were no clouds in the sky
to shield our eyes.
Goodbye came as the doves homed
back to where they came from.
I know we all wished
we could still be tracing their flight,
scanning the sky,
as if we might find you there,
as if that is where we all came from,
and where we might see you again.
REPOSE
Mark S. Thaler
I sit in the den with my mom once again.
Textbooks fill the room of all different and
clashing varieties. Art Today. Probability &
Statistics with Reliability, Queuing, and Computer
Science Applications. The Adventures of Mr. Toad.
The Phoenix sun protrudes through the white
blinds. The intensity of the daylight reassures
the day is still young. There is still time. It is
only two hours ahead in Dallas. Together, my
mom and I sit side by side as we did many years
ago when she taught me how to read. Today I
need to finish my project and I need her help to
translate. I desire to interview a family member
and I pick my grandma who speaks very little
English. My grandma interests me the most, but
the predictable dynamics of our family reassures
me that I know most of our history. The interview
should only reveal to others about my family.
She dials the phone and it begins to ring.
~
The drive up the hill was confusing, but so
are most of Californias streets compared to
the grid-like streets in Phoenix that enable
improvising. It is not a family vacation unless
our dad gets lost. I am just enjoying the change
in scenery alongside my sister in the backseat.
The lush green color encompasses everything
I lay my eyes on. Green is not a prevalent color for
a native of the desert to see. Most forms of life in
the desert have a tinge of brown. I have no idea
what we are going to see. Apparently, it is some
monument. I read the signs that are reoccurring
with directions for the Korean Bell of Friendship.
My dad is finally on the right track.
~
Yobo-sa-yo? answers my grandma in Korean
with the equivalent of hello on the phone. I sit
patiently in the den while my mother catches
up my grandma on how our family is doing and
explains how I want to interview her for my
project. She suggests my grandma talk about her
lifes transitions. When I hear her suggestion,
I reassure myself that I already know this story.
Coming to America was a difficult struggle for
my grandma as a single parent of three high
school children and one middle school child.
Learning to communicate in another language,
my grandmother fearlessly worked in a new
environment as a seamstress in a fashion
industry that worked at a grueling pace. Yet, she
managed. Somehow she motivated her children
and they all graduated from college with degrees
ranging from engineering, interior design, and
medicine. I know this story.
~
The car door slams behind me. Oopsies.
The wind did it, I explain as my eyes meet my
parents startled glimpse. The sea wind makes its
presence known as it blows by me. There is one
giant hill overlooking the Pacific bay area. The
blue that fills part of the sky is the ocean. The hill
has green grass and no large trees or buildings
obscure the view. It is a miracle; I can see the
entity of the sky in California. My sister and I
quickly stretch our legs from the car ride and scan
the premises. The surrounding area is barren
which makes me feel uneasy in California. In
California, I usually form my elbows as chicken
wings in order to get enough personal space.
There at the apex of the hill is a stereotypical
Asian temple. The roof curves outward and
the tops combined to make a pointy Asian rice
hat. I count twelve pillars that hold up the hat
structure. Inside I can see a large oval, almost
rectangular, lurking shadow. The shadow eerily
contrasts with the vibrant reds, greens, yellows of
the temple. I steadily make my way up the hill to
get a better glance.
~
I turn over to my mom on the phone for her to
ask my grandma the first question, What is the
greatest life changing experience in your life?
My mom relays the question by translating it
into Korean for my grandma who can understand
and reply better in her native language. My mom
begins to translate for me because the language is
extinct to my tongue and my brain. My grandmas
liberating story begins from her perspective and
her lips.
Tiffany Son
EMULSION AT THE 38
TH
PARALLEL
(continued)
My grandma narrates in Korean, Many people
smuggled out of North Korea. There were many
different reasons why each group of people was
smuggling away. One group was wealthy and
would eventually have to give up their land and
riches to the communist government. Another
group included members of the past government
and was on the run because the communist
government would seek them out and kill them.
Our family started to run away from Pyongyang
because under the communists rule there was
no freedom of religion.
Wait. But Pyongyang is the capital of North Korea.
Im North Korean!?
My mom examines my quizzical look and quickly
explains, Tiff, it was all one Korea at this point
in time, but rumors were spreading that the
Northern parts of Korea were going to fall under
the communist rule.
Now how did this history of my grandma go untold?
~
The monument bell reads that it was given by the
Republic of Korea to the people of Los Angles as
a gift to celebrate the two hundred year birthday
of the U.S. as well as to honor those had fought
in the Korean War, and lastly to symbolized their
friendship. The bell is massive and I imagine
it could have blocked the tomb of Jesus. On the
actual bell I see etchings of Lady Liberty holding
her torch high with a Korean goddess holding
up the national flower. Etched behind them is
the sun, which is rising high and radiating on
their camaraderie. After taking in most of the
monument, my mind begins to wander. I really
dont know why my family is here. How in the
world did my Dad find this place? The monument
is located on the outskirts of a quiet residential
area and there is a random boarding school right
next to it. My Dad often goes to Blockbuster to
get a movie for a Friday night and we end up
watching the most obscure random movies. One
time, there was a girl who was talking to seals in
a nonsensical manner. We ended that movie in
ten minutes. Other times, we all exclaim what we
watched for two hours after the credits roll.
I wonder if all Dads have peculiar taste. Did he
find this place out of whim and luck? I hope this
bell is worthwhile. I focus in on the bell again.
It is hollow on the inside, strange for a bell.
The bell looks impossible to ring, but I look
around and see there is a large log that can swing
like a pendulum. The log must slam against the
seventeen ton bell with a lot of momentum.
Ring freedom ring.
~
That same freedom had a cost and I heard the
resonance as my grandma explained over the
phone, This journey was no ordinary trip. The
only thing that we did carry was money in our
pockets and a traveling satchel. The satchel
carried the sustenance of rice powder. The rice
powder swished around in my mouth with water
and I swallowed it down like bitter medicine.
It temporary stopped the roars of my stomachs,
but my taste buds despised me during that
month. Feeling malnourished was the hardest
part of this trip. As a fourteen year old, my hunger
was insatiable. I remember one time when we
stopped by a cottage in the middle of the forest
and some generous people gave us sweet potatoes
to eat. That was the only real solid food that I ate
the whole journey. If I could have grown numb
to the cries of my stomach that would have made
the trip a little more bearable.
On foot, our trail was through roads that were
less dense. The outskirts of Pyongyang were a
plain with flatlands. The continual pounding
of my feet on the ground inflicted my limbs to
constantly throb. The environment changed as
we journeyed, forests and mountains appeared.
I enjoyed the shadows of the forest. They gave
me a sense of disguise even though I knew the
environment was still dangerous. On the other
hand the forest also presented the peril of getting
lost. In order to double check our progress, my
father meticulously checked his compass to
ensure we were travelling south. The mountains
were ominous, but with every step we made it
over the next mountain and the next.
(continued) EMULSION AT THE 38
TH
PARALLEL We packed light in order to quickly move through
the rugged terrain. The only thing that burdened
me during my travel was my heavy heart. I left
everything I knew that defined my life, friends
and possessions, in order to gain another life.
~
I stare into the stone cold bell. The Friendship
Bell symbolizes the union between two different
nations. This bell is what I am, a union. I am the
first generation Korean-American in my family.
My grandma brought along the boundless chain
reactions from such a change, one of which
affects me. In kindergarten, some kids seeing my
difference in ethnic appearance would stare at
me. Others, who were more confronting, pulled
their eyes sideways with their fingers imitating
my perspective. Looking back, I just dismiss them
as ignorant. In second grade some of my peers
disregarded the format of their question asked
me, Where are you from? I knew the answer
they wanted, but I ruthlessly never gave them the
answer they wanted, I was born in Forth Worth,
Texas. My answer left many dissatisfied faces.
They wanted to hear me say that I was Korean.
I knew I was like them, American, and I wasnt
going to give them the satisfaction of treating me
otherwise.
But there was another perspective that I did not
realize, until I passed the point of no return.
Senior year of high school, we were learning the
different demographic groups and their political
affiliations. My government teacher, Dr. Lovell,
explained, Blue collared workers are generally
affiliated with the Democrats and have minorities
such as Hispanics and African Americans. White
collared workers are generally Republican and
some minorities in this category are Asians. The
reason for their success is their accomplishment
in assimilating. Right then Adam, who sat in
front of me, turned around and satirically said,
Good job. The class rose in tumultuous laughter
because he had singled the one and only Asian in
the classroom. I smiled at them acknowledging
the humor, but in my mind questions arose.
On the outside I look different, but I am just like the
rest on the inside. This is what I worked towards for
most of my life. Now was I a traitor to my Korean
blood? After all, my ancestors had survived to bring
me this far.
~
I hear my grandma on the speaker phone
animatedly getting into her story now.
Unfortunately, I did see some people get caught
by the communists. I averted my gaze when
they shot them. I did not need to look to know
the outcome. I simply heard the loud shots and
piercing cries from the onlookers. The graphic
scene terrorized me at a young age and is hardly
erased with time. The people of Korea were
turning on their own people and killing each
other. I grew up faster than a teenager should and
I experienced the possibility of meeting death
every day. When someone from another group did
get caught in front of us, we quickly found a place
to hide in the dense forests until it was safe to
venture out again. Thankfully, none of my family
was caught which included my father, mother,
two sisters and two brothers all in the age gap
from four to fourteen. As the oldest child, I had
to monitor my siblings. They nagged and groaned
because they didnt know why they were fleeing.
But I knew death was going to nip at our heels if
we didnt keep up the pace.
~
At this point in the interview, my awe for my
grandma grows tremendously. When I think
about my grandma, I nostalgically think about the
sweet summer childhood memories. I love my
grandma, but the communication barrier caused
and still causes limitations which can explain the
juvenile relationship we possess. She calls us in
Phoenix and says in her best English, I miss you
Tiffany. I wuv you. Terse, but I understood her at
every age. Since I was so young, I characterized
and related to her by tangible means, mostly
through vacations at her house. Here in her
house, the cousins between the ages of two to
fourteen ran the show. The parents talked inside
together, leaving us in the freedom of the huge
backyard. There were trees in her backyard with
crates nailed on to the trunk so that we could
climb them. Up and down we went on those
trees. Those trees helped me make a zip line out
of floss, shielded me during the sprinkler water
fights, and let my imagination roam untamed.
Wed run, wed laugh, wed dance as cousins.
I tag my grandma as the provider of these
innocent memoires. Everything she tells me
about her exodus distinctly contrasts with my
(continued)
youthful memories. These memories were
nothing like the ones my grandma made at
my age.
~
What does that sign read above the bell?
My mom and dad reply, U-jung-uh Jong-gac.
What does that mean?
The Bell of Friendship, answers my parents.
I cant read Korean nor understand large
unfamiliar words. Technically speaking, a
mixture of Korean and English is my first
language which my grandma calls Konglish.
Korean was spoken to me as well as English
throughout the home until in kindergarten, my
parents came to the realization that my brain
comprehended Korean faster and my English
was lagging behind. English then became the
predominant language spoken around me. All
I have left is the understanding of Korean. My
parents spoke in Korean to each other when they
did not want my sister and me to hear the theme
of their discussions. I stood closely by them and
understood everything. When they asked me how
I knew the details of their plans, I simply said that
I heard what they were saying and they looked
at me quizzically. I tried my interpretation skills
several times until my parents finally realized
that wiping away a language left streaks behind;
I could still understand Korean.
This is an outcome of defining myself as
two things, Korean-American.
~
Three generations talked on the phone. My
grandma relived her migration once more.
Unlike Texas and Arizona, the northern part of
Korea has all four seasons. We were travelling
during December which savagely brought in
the white snow. Since we walked on foot, my
whole familys toenails fell off. After a month
of travelling on foot, we crept across the thirty-
eighth parallel. This border line gave us new life.
We arrived on South Korean soil. The emotions
I felt at the moment are irreproducible.
Every step that I took was from the pit of hell
into the heights of heaven. The basic freedoms
and rights were mine once again.
~
Thank you. I wuv you, Grandma. I miss you.
I hope to see you soon.
Click.
~
I look at my mom after that phone call. I express
surprise in all regions of my face at the recently
discovered news. I thought I knew most, if not all,
of our family history.
Why did you not tell me this history about
grandma? I exclaim.
My mom just smiles and says, Well it never came
up and even I didnt know the full details until
today. Besides, Grandma doesnt really talk about
it.
I give her an expression that says Okay and
I stop questioning her. I quickly type up the
words my grandma said onto the computer.
I cant believe how a mundane interview project
for school revitalized my knowledge about my
family history and about the blood that runs
through me. But that blood that runs in me leaves
me with more questions.
My issues still exist in balancing the
characteristics of an American and a Korean.
Sure, the beauty of America is that it is the world
renowned melting pot, but do all the ingredients
mix well? I wonder if my combination even
mixes. I look at the bookshelf in the den again.
Art Today. Probability & Statistics with Reliability,
Queuing, and Computer Science Applications.
The Adventures of Mr. Toad. Am I like this
bookshelf that is simply a random assortment
that has no cohesiveness? I have parts in me that
are immiscible. The tribulations and triumphs
of my blood depict culture and parts of me that
cannot diffuse into the mixture. I am simply an
emulsion: Korean-American.
(continued) EMULSION AT THE 38
TH
PARALLEL
WHEN PIGS FLY
Michael Martelle
Lisa Goldberg
THAT COAT.
New white. Layer of hospital dirt compounding every semester.
Slight glances of a reflection intimidating me.
Its starch coating causing me to squirm beneath its weight.
My pocketed smartphone seemingly heavier than a collection of medical textbooks.
The coat that demands its own respect. Respect that is unearned like a found wallet or a free birthday desert.
Nearly a long 3 years down and a modest 390 days until I own that coat.
That coat, the phone, and maybe a knowing glance from the reflection of a poorly waxed floor.
REBECAS INSOMNIA PLAQUE
James Cunningham
DESERT DETAILS
Heather Sim Liber
POETRY FIX
Rebecca Parada
Ana Marie Lopez
SOUL
I thought the soul an airy thing
And then I witnessed Death
not a moment
a sequence
of losses of functions
departing
and shrinking the body
I am that last to observe
Between your eyes
an inextinguishable fire
Unlike the rhythmic whisper of your breath
it will simply
go on
and on
LUMINESSENCE
Mark S. Thaler
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GIVE A GIFT SUBSCRIBE TODAY!
Harmony
We at the Program in Medical Humanities at the University of Arizona College of Medicine are grateful
for gifts from supportive people like you. With your help, our students will continue to compliment their
scientific study by exploring the human experience, in illness and health, through all available venues.
This issue of Harmony is one small way to say thank you and to demonstrate how your gift transforms
medical education and eventually impacts healthcare through the careers of alumni. If your name is
not listed, we invite you to become a part of this exclusive community. For your convenience, we have
included the form below to aid you in your continued support of the programs noted in Harmony.
T HANK Y OU
Harmony, a literary journal of essays, short stories, poetry, visual art, and photography is a publication of the
University of Arizonas College of Medicine Program in Medical Humanities. Students, faculty, and staff of the
Colleges of Medicine, Nursing, Pharmacy, and Public Health are encour aged to submit original, unpublished work
to our journal, however, anyone may submit work. Work on all themes and topics will be considered, especially
those related to the world of medical humanities. Failure to adhere to the submission deadline and to the following
guidelines may result in the piece not being considered:
WRITTEN WORK
1. All written submissions should be no more that 5,000 words with spelling & grammar checked
2. Work must be titled, double-spaced, 12 point font, and with the title and page number as headers on each page.
3. Previously published work will not be considered.
4. Submissions are accepted only via email.
5. Submissions should include on a separate cover letter the authors name, mailing address,
email address, and phone number.
7. The preferred file form for documents is Microsoft Word.
VISUAL WORK
1. Artwork submitted electronically is preferable in a CMYK 300dpi TIF file.
2. All work must be titled.
3. Submissions should include on a separate cover letter the authors name, mailing address,
email address, phone number, and a one-line bio.
Each published contributor will receive two copies of the journal. Thank you for your interest and submission to Harmony.
SEND SUBMISSIONS TO:
HARMONYMAGAZINE@GMAIL.COM
All works eligible for:
Mathiasen Prose Award: best submission in either prose or poetry
Kenneth J. Ryan Visual Arts Award: best visual arts submission
Parada Medical Student Award: best overall submission from a University of Arizona medical student
PLEASE DIRECT ANY QUESTIONS TO THE EDITORS AT: HARMONYMAGAZINE@GMAIL.COM. THANK YOU.
SUBMISSION DEADLINE
APRIL 1, 2015
$1,000 AWARDED IN PRIZES FOR BEST WRITTEN/VISUAL ART
Harmony
SUBMISSION GUIDELINES
2015
INDEX by Artist/Author
ENTRE DE ARTISTES
Maya Pearmain Bellmann __________________________________7
WISH
Kayla Coe _______________________________________________8
ENTANGLEMENT
Nicole Capdarest _________________________________________9
MOON
Frankie Carino ___________________________________________10
MY HAPPIEST PLACE ON EARTH
Chandra Tontsch ________________________________________11
A MOMENT OF CLARITY
Benjamin Juan _______________________________________12-13
CUTTHROAT TROUT
Jennifer Nehls ___________________________________________14
FLOW AND GLOW
Julianna Weiel ___________________________________________15
PROVINCIAL SELLS WET WIPES IN FRONT OF
CONSTRUCTION ON POSH ISTIKLAL AVENUE
Michael Zaccaria _________________________________________16
SELFISH DEATH
Brenda Lee Kozuch ______________________________________17
TENDERNESS
Benjamin Juan __________________________________________18
PILLOW
Ersilia Anghel ___________________________________________19
THERAPEUTIC INTERVENTION
Nivia Haroon ____________________________________________20
GOOD ROCK
Frankie Carino ___________________________________________21
HORSEHAIR
Maria Terrone ___________________________________________22
BUA
Rachel Charles __________________________________________23
THE ARTIST AS CANCER PATIENT
Skip Kriegel _____________________________________________24
DEATH KNELL
Janice Degan ___________________________________________25
HOLOCAUST MEMORIAL
Stephanie Pearmain _____________________________________26
STREAM OF LIFE
Kwan Lee _______________________________________________27
WET SUNRISE AT LOGAN
Ellen Beck ______________________________________________28
ILLUSORY
Shiana Ferng ____________________________________________29
WILD PLUMS
John Herm ______________________________________________30
PRODUCE VENDOR
MORNING JAZZ
Ersilia Anghel ___________________________________________32
SERENITY
Alice Ferng _____________________________________________33
SHOPKEEPER WITH CHRISTIAN AND HINDU IMAGES
100 YEAR REFLECTION
Todd Rabkin Golden _____________________________________35
LAND MAST
Michell Bauer ___________________________________________36
MOUNT LEMMON VIEW
Pat Maurice _____________________________________________37
I KNOW WHEN PEOPLE WILL DIE
Evamaria Lugo __________________________________________38
LIFE CONNECTING O2
Mark S. Thaler __________________________________________39
SWALLOW AND LISTEN
Spencer Hansen ______________________________________40-42
BARREL CACTUS
Kayla Coe ______________________________________________43
THE MOON
Michael Peterson ________________________________________44
MOON RETURNING TO TUCSON
Mark Abrams ____________________________________________45
MIRACLES & MONSTROSITIES: DOPAMINE
Nina Pollack_____________________________________________46
VARIOUS MAMMALS WATERSIDE
Mark Abrams ____________________________________________47
PENSIVE
Lalita Abhyanker _________________________________________48
BLUE STORM
Ersilia Anghel ___________________________________________49
THE DISEASE
Carlos Gomez ___________________________________________50
DEYE MON GEN MON
Chandra Tontsch ________________________________________51
DELIGHT
Htay Hla ________________________________________________52
REMEMBERING YESTERDAY
Lorraine Mesagna _____________________________________53-54
WITHIN REACH
Todd Rabkin Golden _____________________________________55
OCTOBER GRASS
John Herm ______________________________________________56
RAINBOW EUCALYPTUS
Meredith Close __________________________________________57
DISAPPEARING MAN
Stephanie Pearmain ______________________________________58
HOMING
Theresa Nagan __________________________________________59
REPOSE
Mark S. Thaler __________________________________________60
EMULSION AT THE 38TH PARALLEL
Tiffany Son ___________________________________________61-64
WHEN PIGS FLY
Michael Martelle _________________________________________65
REBECAS INSOMNIA PLAQUE
James Cunningham ______________________________________66
THAT COAT.
Lisa Goldberg ___________________________________________67
DESERT DETAILS
Heather Sim Liber _______________________________________68
POETRY FIX
Rebecca Parada _________________________________________69
SOUL
Ana Marie Lopez ________________________________________70
LUMINESSENCE
Mark S. Thaler __________________________________________71
Harmony AUTHORS & ARTISTS of
Lalita Abhyanker is a 2014 graduate from the UA College of Medicine who still misses the dry heart of the Sonoran Desert
Mark Abrams divides his time between the desert and Lake Champlain drawing spiritual sustenance from each
Ersilia Anghel admires the sky everyday
Michell Bauer is a graduate of the UA currently working for AHSC BioCommunications in Medical Television
Ellen Beck is a amatuer photographer and mother of three splitting her time between Boston and Carmel
Maya Pearmain Bellmann is a 4th grader at Sam Hughes who likes traveling
Nicole Capdarest is a former librarian at the AHSC library
Frankie Carino is the winner of the 2014 Ryan Visual Arts Award
Rachel Charles is the winner of the 2014 Parada Student Award
Meredith Close is a former marathon runner and current pumpkin pie addict who would like to become a pediatrician
Kayla Coe is the Senior Graphic Designer at the University of Arizona Cancer Center
James Cunningham, a Tucson based Ecologist with an interest in developing therapeutic and sustainable spaces,
recognizes in his art the ability to visually transmit a certain feeling, here both fear and absurdity, often allowing him
to engage in a more critical self-evaluation and at times a healthy round of laughter.
Janice Degan is the Assistant Director of Research at the VIPER Institute
Alice Ferng is an MD-PhD candidate at the UA College of Medicine
Shiana Ferng writes and lives in Tucson, AZ
Lisa Goldberg is a medical student, mother of two, homegrown African in desperate need of a nap
Todd Rabkin Golden is a second year student at the UA College of Medicine
Carlos Gomez is an old soul navigating through a curious mind with a jaded heart
Spencer Hansen graduated from the UA College of Medicine in 2012
Nivia Haroon is a right-brained fellow with various creative outlets trying to perfect the art of medicine
John Herm is an emergency room physician who is currently the Poet Laureate of the town Dunn, Wisconsin
Htay Hla is the Director of Information Technology at the Mel and Enid Zuckerman College of Public Health
Benjamin Juan is a student at the UA currently employed in the College of Medicine
Brenda Lee Kozuch is a busy mom-wife-writer-editor-photographer who takes occasional breaks to enjoy exercise, play outdoors,
and feed her insatiable appetite for Bourbon and Pearl Jam
Skip Kriegel recently retired from his position at AHSC BioCommunications Medical Television
Kwan Lee is an Assistant Professor of Clinical Medicine in the department of Cardiology at AHSC
Heather Sim Liber is a UA and NAU alum, runner, Disney fanatic, avid photographer and mixed-media artist
Ana Marie Lopez is mother, daughter, sister, friend, writer, mentor, leader, and dancer
Evamaria Lugo is an artist-writer who graduated from the U of A and now works for her alma-mater in development
Michael Martelle is the Web Program Manager in the College of Public Health
Pat Maurice is the Administrative Assistant for the Division of Pediatric Hospital Medicine and enjoys outdoor activities,
going to U of A football games, and spending time with family and friends
Lorraine Mesagna writes about the world as she sees it through the lens of woman, wife, mother, daughter
Theresa Nagan is a 4th year medical student who was inspired to become a physician while serving in the Peace Corps of Cameroon
Jennifer Nehls is the winner of the 2014 Mathiasen Prose Award
Rebecca Parada is the fabulous Associate Director of the Medical Humanities program at the UA College of Medicine
Stephanie Pearmain is a writer who works for the UA English Department and mother of the cutest baby ever
Michael Peterson is a married physician and father of four who loves writing and making art with a real attachment to poetry
Nina Pollack is a medical student who found art pleasurable as a little girl only to later realize it was the best way
to release her deepest, strongest feelings
Tiffany Son is a medical student who wishes to otherwise remain anonymous
Maria Terrone is the winner of the 2013 Mathiasen Award and the author of four poetry books including Eye To Eye, published in 2014
Mark S. Thaler has been a staff photographer for AHSC BioCommunications for the past 25 years
Chandra Tontsch is a Tucson native and third-year medical student with a background in psychology and dance who
finds her harmony in music, photography, and nature
Julianna Weiel is a 4th year medical student/future pathology resident with a passion for the outdoors and the visual arts
Michael Zaccaria is a semi-retired historian traveling the world to take important, mind-bongling photographs
Harmony
A HUMANI TI ES MAGAZI NE f rom t he PROGRAM I N MEDI CAL HUMANI TI ES
Cel ebr at i ng 10 year s of Har mony
2014
humani t i es. medi ci ne. ar i zona. edu

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A HUMANI TI ES MAGAZI NE f rom t he PROGRAM I N MEDI CAL HUMANI TI ES

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