2013 Posts

It angered me this am, While relaying your story to my staff physician, That when I said you were Aboriginal, It seemed to legitimize The fact that you’re here, The fact that you’re dying Too early, just like 3 of your siblings already. With a heart that’s tired, Vessels clogged, ravaged by toxic levels of sugars. It felt like a fait accomplit, a tada, An of course, a no surprise, I further angers me that I stood beside you, As you squirmed in poorly controlled arthritis, shortness of breath, With the knowledge that my job, Is just a referral, another cog, In the process of bandaging our social ills. Of hooking you up with palliative care, So my conscious could be off the hook, For cultural injustice, inequality, Propelled, propagated over generations. In the discomfort of watching you squirm, I too tried not to squirm, Knowing the limited utility of my own actions. Another cog moving with current, Propelled by the status quo That results in morbid obesity, The fact that a good day you can walk 4ft Before being short of breath, Isolation, depression - Your telling me, “I just want to die”.

I wonder sometimes, Between 3am ward calls, And figuring out Abx dosing – Never mind what bugs we’re fighting… How you’re doing, Beyond jokes about hospital food, A great view, a good book. I wonder how you feel when I ask you What you know and why you’re here, And you respond “my heart’s on the way out”. I wonder how one should feel – How I’d feel; You’re 4yrs older than me. Next room, another patient. You cried when we told you You ought to be admitted. Again. It strikes me as you live in a shelter. It makes me want to learn re: your reality, While I question my own. For how many is a supposed place of healing, not. And why? And Mr. M, you’re next on my roster. You sign a consent for a blood transfusion, Without deviating your sight from the football game. After tiring while adjusting your covers. You’re as indifferent to that outcome, As to your hemoglobin count it seems. “As long as it’s a good game” you say. I hope this speaks to your life as well. And between the narratives, sights, smells, I wonder how I am to you. Do I pause in the right spots? Address areas of importance to you? Do you feel I listen? With so much program feedback, Student assessments, exams, grades, I’d like you to have more of a say, Cause between 3am ward calls, And figuring out yet another abx dose, I too feel, fear and ultimately, Hope for the best as well.

This was written after reflecting on a long gynecology call shift... Yes, I bleed. Or rather I used to, Until this thing was inserted into my vagina. An Intrauterine System, they call it. Or Merena, if you prefer a softer, more human name. And my monthly flow, moontime, as you will - Well, that now is no longer Marked by the passing of calendared pages. Of fuzzy puppies and cute cats. This speaks instead of options and choice. But I’m tangentializing, and missing my point. The point, is that yes, My body is capable of bleeding, And for about 16 yrs, that’s what it, I’ve, done. Monthly, plus or minus a few days. My flow was a reminder of my femininity, Along with my female-specific bike seat which - Whether that really helps, I’m not quite sure. I’m not here to talk about bikes, Though I do remember a question dating back to grade 7 sex ed. Can menstruating women still ride bikes?, the question read. Anonymous. Questions dropped in a hat. A puppet would read them aloud - I think we were too old for that. In answer to your Q, anonymous friend: Yes, we can ride. In fact, we can fly. And that brings me closer to my point, You see, I just spent 26 hours talking about bleeding. Vaginal bleeding to be more specific, And quantifying, qualifying the cycles of women in our care. Of women who also bleed, As about ½ of the adult world does, Or has. Or will. I mean billions. Like me, like us. And yet, these qualifications, quantifications, Are awkward, hushed and blushed When outside the private sphere. Between hospital curtains which In their generic and failing ways Strive for ideals of comfort, privacy. Our cycles, though normal and different, Cease to be normalized in our everyday. It makes me wonder, as a woman. Who bleeds, or at least used to. How we celebrate ourselves and our bodies. Our options and our choices. If by femininity, we strive for female politicians and leaders, Yet, keep hushed and blushed about cycles, And hormones and discharge and bleeding, That in part define our lives and mark the passing months, Of fuzzy puppies and cute cats. How questions about bikes and pads, and periods, and tampons, and menstral cups. Disposable, reusable, hell, even TP in a jam - Remain anonymous and puppetized. I wonder how to celebrate that yes, We do bleed. And yes, it’s different yet normal for all, And yes, we can ride. And do fly.

Of places we need to be, times we need to note. Topics we need to know, acronyms we yet don’t. Such that we type them into our brain phones. Tap tap tap like starving woodpeckers probe wood for worms, As if this slippery sustenance of knowledge could Replace the companion on each new rotation: A pal that inspires learning, nips at heels and toes. That feeling of incompetence that fled reluctantly after 4 weeks of psych, And surgery, and internal, and now, well ,it’s back – welcome to Obstetrics. We tap tap tap incessantly, and indeed are pretty hungry (it is almost lunch time after all), Until our eyes emerge, connect, questioning “did you get what that was all about?” And then, the residents in scrubs, stethoscoped with Doctor’s ID’s. They leave, and we’re left with brain phones in hand, Notes half legible, half complete. It’s when we leave deflated, that glimmer of knowledge almost in reach. When I ask “so, what time do we start tomorrow?” And you respond, “first, where do you want to grab lunch”? When I realize this is day one of obstetrics. Over lunch we seek sun. Shadows of doubt begin to dissipate. I skip to avoid stepping on a worm, A wollen bellied-patient smiles in return.