The unknown is covered in a deep coat of fear
It falls–heavy, wet snowflakes
The tumultuous storm blows gales of risk
Making highs higher
Making lows lower

In the clearing,
Wise words from a little snowman:
Control what you can
When everything is out
Of control

I suit up–
Projects planned
Papers published
Innovation glows warmly

The fear on the unknown melts just a little

Notes from the interview that inspired this poem:

This physician described the past year during COVID-19 as “tumultuous.” Though she was relatively new in her field and the challenges involved were many, she was able to work through the difficulty by staying busy. She mentioned the words of the Disney character, Olaf, from the movie “Frozen” regarding working through feelings of helplessness when all around you feels out of control. The physician gained control by launching several initiatives with the trainees in her residency program and with her medical students. At the same time, these activities meant that there were many new projects still hanging around, needing to be completed now that things in the residency program that she helped direct were returning to some normalcy. This was making her reflect on the next steps for her career and how much energy she would be able to muster for whatever steps those might be.

Interviewee: Anonymous, Physician
Listener Poet: Yvette Perry

My new house is tiny ‘n cute, but we’re just getting
to know each other. So far, it fits me and what I need–

only two bedrooms, but enough room for the kids to visit.
And two bathtubs! (I love a good soak) The bigger one

cracked, so I’m relegated to the inferior tub, until
the other gets fixed. With the weather the way it’s been,

my pipes froze; three days–no water. Several holes in
drywall later, it’s back. We’re insulating everything–

well! There’s no gas to the fireplace; that’s next
on the list. After twenty years in our family home

where the kids grew up, it’s nice to have space just
right for me ‘n the dog. He saved me, emotionally.

He loves me with great intensity; hates everyone else
with the same intensity. He’s got a room where he can

roam; a yard to run. It’s the first time I’ve been able
to choose everything, exactly as I want it. In this house

and in my life, I’m surrounded by so much love; I feel
so much joy. I’m grateful to have this haven for healing.

Notes from the interview that inspired this poem:

“I’ve just moved to a new, tiny house,” she said, “It’s just me and the dog. It fits me and what I need.” Her dog was a rescue and had behavioral challenges that made it difficult to do a lot of things with him, but they had developed a very strong bond. She told me they moved from her family home of twenty years, to this new house that was very close to her work. It had just enough room for her (adult) kids and their partners to stay. The cold weather had caused a lot of problems in the house since she moved in, including frozen water pipes. Luckily, a friend recommended a great plumber who became her go-to-guy. She told me she didn’t bring much from her old house, and was eager for her new furniture to arrive. She was starting a new chapter, and was grateful to be surrounded by a lot of love and joy in her life.

Interviewee: Anonymous, Medical Educator
Listener Poet: Jenny Hegland

Back then, my diploma parchment ink still
wet, the Samoan isle of nine hundred
was all mine to serve. And my dream was made.

After and ever since, the dream simmered.
Oh! To explore cultures not my own! To
be more than a tourist or guest doctor!
To get to know many peoples and lands!

Cooking just below boil for forty years,
how will this dream, for so long delayed, taste?
Like saffron and fennel seed? Tamarind,
cumin, clove? Sweet on the tip of my tongue?

Now, parchment, ink long dried, is packed away.
The job was well-done. The kids were well-raised.
My dream is well-earned. My appetite, whet.

Notes from the interview that inspired this poem:

Fresh from just one year of training after getting his medical degree, this physician traveled to an island in the South Pacific to practice general medicine for a year. He noted that most of his fellow doctors were either like him–at the start of their careers, or they were retired. Four decades later and semi-retired himself, he was planning to realize his dream to travel to India to do public health work and become, as he noted, “more than a tourist.” The pandemic had put discussions of those plans on hold but he was ready to start again.

Interviewee: Anonymous, Physician
Listener Poet: Yvette Perry

What do you tell someone (you don’t know)
for fifteen minutes? It’s exciting, but mostly

it’s scary, when you’re not a good sharer.
I’m sweating! Should I talk about the parallel

pathways I’m walking in this life? And about
the dueling emotions somehow sharing space in

my days? These are trying times for patients,
for residents, for all of us. Meanwhile,

I’m grateful I’ve been able to be present in
my home. How much should I say about my spouse?

We’ve made it a year since the diagnosis. We may not
have another. Should I share the conversations

I have with my 16-year-old, about how the future
will tell the story of this time? How will we

look back? How do you live through history, in
the moment? I think I believed it before, but now

I’m living it more: the present. This very moment,
in all its glory and grief. Fully feeling all that is.

Knowing it’s ok; not wishing it away or resisting or
spending all my time wondering why life’s happened

this way. No. Because living happens in the now.
The now is all there is. So, how does a writer go

so deep into a story?
She goes deeper into the now.

Notes from the interview that inspired this poem:

This person was an internist, as well as the program director for residents at her institution. She told me she had been thinking a lot about what to share during this conversation. “It’s been a real journey, since I signed up for this. It’s not something I’d typically do,” she said. “I’ve been reflecting on the multiple pathways one walks in life.” She was learning to accept what life was bringing her, moment by moment. “About a year ago, my spouse was diagnosed with a terminal illness. The average survival time is one to two years. We’ve made it a year,” she said. She told me it had been a gift to be able to be present at home this year because of COVID. “But there are so many dueling emotions present in my life,” she said. “I’m learning to be okay with all the feelings. It’s okay to feel sad; okay to feel angry. I’m learning to live in the moment instead of always waiting for ‘something else to come next.” As we were closing the conversation, she mentioned it was her dream to draw and write, but she didn’t know how to get there.

Interviewee: Anonymous, Medical Educator
Listener Poet: Jenny Hegland

Materials: You’ll need one 2H graphite pencil
We start this lesson with the basics of form…

What’s the shape of this last year?
In medicine, learning was so often drawn with
Consistency and standardization,
Teaching to pass the test.
But real learning is messy, soft little
Crumbly bits from the eraser will
Litter the paper. I move from drawing
Circles and squares to sketching
Cylinders and cubes.
I meditate through shading, making
Gentle hatch strokes, creating
Depth, revealing form, being
Genuine with my patients, holding
Them in my heart so that they’ll
Retain some small shape of me
Even after they leave my care.

For this next lesson we will move on
to composition…

I’ll need a 4H pencil, harder than the first.
I begin in the upper right of the paper,
Moving down, then left, like the
Language of my grandmother, a language I must
Learn if I am to ask about my
Place between generations, between
My grandmother, my mother—-
Me in the center of the page at the
Same age as when my mother had me.
I arrange the elements of “mother”–
Not “prettiest” or “smartest” or “perfect,”
But the small ways of being there
Every day, the hard labor of making the nest.

Our next lesson covers space and perspective…

For this one I’ll need the hardest pencil.
Do they make a 10H?
These marks will sometimes be faint,
Tentative. Vanishing points are
Created with lines that are not parallel and
Some objects are small not because they’re
Unimportant, but because they are farther away.
I’ll be tempted to skip ahead, to
Draw complicated pictures. (Those
Used to be such audience favorites when
I was a child, tricking me into
Believing that to be an
Artist was to draw things that
Others would praise, be pleased by,
Recognize from Real Life.)
Instead I’ll apply the fundamentals,
Understanding that before I can learn to
Draw my self-portrait,
I first need to learn to
Shade a sphere.

Notes from the interview that inspired this poem:

This resident in her final year of training had been reflecting about the transition of moving from residency to independent practice and in particular, reflecting on how learning in her medical training was not always the authentic, sometimes messy learning of real life. She also reflected on what it meant to experience transitions in her personal life: what it means to be a daughter and granddaughter, and what it might mean to be a mother herself. During the pandemic she took an online drawing course. She noted how meditative and also how hard it was to draw the basic foundational shapes, and also reflected on the transition of moving from someone who always drew to the praise of others to learning to draw in a much different way.

Interviewee: Anonymous, Resident
Listener Poet: Yvette Perry

This particular asana
can be challenging,
more of a dance than a pose
Adolescent crisis,
maybe superficial to me,
a sign of something
important to them

I’ll need to
stretch to reach it
And my parents, older,
less independent
I’ll need to learn
to mother them
I inhale deeply,
concentrating
on finding the light
at my core—-but not the
light from the hot
fire of my star sign
Less conflagration,
more soft glow,
calming warmth

The air buzzes,
vibrating to a
hum inaudible to
my ears but felt
just above the
surface of my skin
Like DNA, I
cannot control
this, only my
responses to this
My body relaxes into the pose
I exhale

Notes from the interview that inspired this poem:

Part of this physician’s job involved helping her patients understand that though they could not control genetics, they could learn to respond differently. Among the tools she gave them to learn this responsiveness were the wellness tools she used in her own life, including meditation and yoga. During the pandemic, she was able to do what she had always wanted to do: become a certified yogi. She discussed the twin challenges of being a mother and being a daughter to aging parents. She noted that there was a lot of information for parents about childbirth, less information about being a mother, but information about the toll of seeing your parents become less independent as they age was almost nonexistent: “uncharted territory.” She noted that growing through these challenges, while hard, was making her a better physician for her patients.

Interviewee: Anonymous, Physician
Listener Poet: Yvette Perry

I feel the pain; I feel the joy
I witness death and life
The rollercoaster of my work’s
The essence of my strife

Come in with joy or desolate
Then exit high or low
The sponge of me cannot soak up
This constant overflow

Will labor cause my soul to break?
Benev’lence weigh me down?
Will anguish bleed out from my heart
And drench my dressing gown?

The drum beats with a rhythm that
Invites to hum along
And nature’s presence offers up
Its own accomp’ning song

The light that she gives to my dark
Star energy, distilled
I share from my own empty cup
And find it has refilled

Connection that I forge with them
My gifts of empathy
How sweet the sound–amazing grace–
That I give back to me

Notes from the interview that inspired this poem:

It had been a very tough week for this OB/GYN physician, following the death of a baby she delivered. She reflected on the nature of her empathy. The sense of connection to her patients was what had drawn her to her specialty. However, her ability to experience the ups and downs of both the most joyous and most harrowing moments of patients’ lives so intensely also had its drawbacks. She was working to cope in positive ways: by playing drums in her church (“meshing music and God”), spending time with her wife and family, and connecting with nature.

Interviewee: Anonymous, Physician
Listener Poet: Yvette Perry

We are living in a time when
everyone’s skin in showing —
the world needs a lot of healing

We need to find a way forward
that doesn’t fan the flame
but instead heals the burn

We can’t look to the experts
when everything is uncertain
except conjuncture, discomfort

It’s time to take a pilgrimage
not on our own, but as a whole
not to control, but to trust

To bring stability to our days
to find a balm for the pain
to grieve our way into goodness

Notes from the interview that inspired this poem:

“It feels like whiplash,” she said. “It’s remarkable how resilient you have to be because you can’t predict what’s coming.” This person had undergone significant changes over the past year. As a woman leader in healthcare, she’d accepted a new job in an academic setting (having spent most of her career in a clinical setting), moved to a new city, and became an empty-nester, all amidst COVID. “As doctors, we’re used to being prepared to give our expert opinions,” she said. “The past year has disarmed us. The only thing I’m an expert on right now is me.” She told me about her new puppy, who had been the bright spot in her year of transition and uncertainty. She wanted the poem to point to a bright spot for the world–the hope and healing on the other side of struggle and grieving.

Interviewee: Anonymous, Physician
Listener Poet: Jenny Hegland

When he remembers
it is my face, my name,
that I am his son, and also
the joyful visits and nonsense conversations
and kindness—-especially the kindness
and him finally telling me
I love you
It is the three years of this he remembers and
not the fifty years of trauma, anger, cruelty
of a man broken by three wars and
other things that break men
that I do not know
When he leaves this life to go to the next
I release his fifty years of debt that
has been repaid by my sons
who I am so different with than
he was with me, repaid by
all those who love me with
deed and word so strong that love
is made air saturating the breath in my lungs
I send him a prayer on a wisp of a sigh
I forgive you
I wish you well
Next life this will come
to him at odd moments in
small quiet fragments and
he will wonder if
he loved a son like me
in a past life or maybe
it was a just dream or a wish
but he will remember

Notes from the interview that inspired this poem:

He had recently lost his father to COVID-19 and was reflecting on forgiveness. For the majority of his life with his father, they did not have a positive relationship. However, in the last three years of life his father lost his memory and his personality changed into someone who was loving and kind. During this time, his father–who maintained his memory of his son–told him that he loved him for the first time. In reflecting on forgiveness, he said he was at peace, mainly due to the love surrounding him from people in his life who allowed him to be who he was meant to be. He wished the same peace for his father.

Interviewee: Anonymous
Listener Poet: Yvette Perry

Tomorrow the sun will rise
to touch the face of life
some will feel it for the first time
others, here yesterday, gone today
death grounds us, wherever we come from
the closer we’ve been to it, the sturdier
Earth gets, the more we remember our roots

For all of us — families of immigrants
mourning from horizons of distant homelands
may our roots grow us deeper in origin
may the comfort of our cultures wash over us
may the memories of our motherlands mend us
wherever the ground beneath us
and those we’ve laid to rest

Notes from the interview that inspired this poem:

“The theme of this year has been death,” she said. She told me she recently lost her uncle, and had just attended his funeral. “As a physician, we deal with death pretty regularly, unfortunately. It becomes routine and mechanical; it’s easy to become numb to it. Losing my uncle reminded me what it’s like to be in the shoes of a family member because I experienced death in a more emotional way.” Her family was Mexican, and she shared that her uncle’s wishes were to be returned to Mexico and buried with his mother, father, and siblings. She told me this had made her reflect on the many immigrants who leave their homelands, and never get to return or see the family members they left behind. She was grateful her family had the ability to honor her uncle’s wishes, but she knew not all families could. In too many cases, immigrants died alone without their families, and the families had to grieve from afar. She wanted the poem to be a comfort to these families and to all the immigrants who may know this kind of grief.

Interviewee: Anonymous, Physician
Listener Poet: Jenny Hegland

I learned about this in my training
Have walked with people through it
But now, it’s my turn

Dad’s always been a determined person
Deeply devoted to his work
Insistent on doing things his way

When we learned about the cancer
We saw a new side–
“I’ll do whatever they tell me”

He’s become more malleable, open
Using tender terms of endearment like
“Thanks, doll” and “Hi sweetie pie”

Yesterday he was angry when he woke up
He’s ready to die, start his new life
We’re trying to respect his wishes

I’ll always treasure the gratitude
We’ve expressed in these final days–
A balm for what’s to follow

And I’ll always cherish knowing
At the end, I was the apple
Of my dad’s eye, as he was mine

Notes from the interview that inspired this poem:

When I spoke with this person, she was visiting her parents’ home in another state. Her dad was in hospice care, after receiving his diagnosis just a few months ago. She told me she was incredibly grateful for this time with him. She’d spent the last few evenings staying up with him, helping him and keeping him company when he was awake. “We’ve been able to express gratitude for one another, and he’s calling me ‘doll’ and ‘sweetie pie.’ It’s been so nice to hear these terms of endearment,” she said. She smiled as she reflected on this tenderness and openness that had been a rarity earlier in life. She was conflicted whether to stay with her siblings, or return home the next day to attend to other responsibilities. “Family is a treasure,” she said. She wanted the poem to capture the love and concern she felt for her dad in these final days of his life.

Interviewee: Anonymous, Physician
Listener Poet: Jenny Hegland

20 minutes is just
enough time to straddle
with one foot on cold but
efficient and the other
foot on warm but perpetually
behind schedule, but not
enough time to stand
comfortably somewhere
in the middle ground

20 minutes is just
enough time to
arm myself for battle
against their anxiety
and fear of their
expiration date, but not
enough time for all my
weapons of reassurance and
empathy to win that fight

20 minutes is just
enough time for me to
apply x amount of treatment
to deliver x amount of outcome
instead of ministering to their
spirits–which may be the
actual care they need–and not
just because 20 minutes
is not enough time, but
because to do that
medicine is
just not enough

Notes from the interview that inspired this poem:

This physician described dealing with her patients’ anxiety as her “biggest enemy” and a “battle” she fights every day. She saw this anxiety as stemming from their fear of death–a fear that she did not have as a religious person. She said that even though on her lowest days it was sometimes hard to have empathy, she managed to do the best she could with the tools of her profession she had at her disposal. All of this was made much more difficult in the practice of modern medicine, in which she had only 20 minutes per patient during office visits. While she suspected that she could do more for her patients if she had more than that allotment of time, she also thought that medicine as a profession may not be a good fit for treating the spiritual ailments that may be at the core of some of her patients’ lives.

Interviewee: Anonymous, Physician
Listener Poet: Yvette Perry

What device do we need to close
…..the distance
……..between us and our patients
……..when we can touch
……..their hands but a mask
……..separates them from our
……..connection?
…..the distance
……..between us and our students
……..when we can see their faces
……..but the tiny boxes in grid layout
……..crop their light bulb moments
……..from our view?
…..the distance
…….between the end of a very
…….long year and the dawn of a
…….new normal?

What do we need? Not
……new EMR systems
……more “smart devices”
……bigger data sets
Even in our resilience,
and especially in our struggle,
….we forget that we
……are enough

Notes from the interview that inspired this poem:

“The distance I have been experiencing in the different worlds I live in” is what this physician and medical educator wanted his poem to be about. He noted that COVID-19 safety precautions brought about new distance both between him and his patients and between him and his students. In the former case, he could still be at the bedside and touch his patients, but the mask, face shield, and other protective equipment distanced him from being fully connected to them. In the case of his students, he could see their faces and they could see his, but the distance of being linked via a computer screen meant that the more subtle body language that let him know the exact moment when they “got it” was no longer present. Though he noted that this was a continuing struggle for his profession, he was optimistic that the medical community would be able to find solutions–although once they turned the page, the next chapter would likely look very different than the way it looked pre-COVID.

Interviewee: Anonymous, Physician
Listener Poet: Yvette Perry

This tension and balance of the heart
and mind
and values
……..to take the next step

Stay – cradled in the familiar of
family, friends – high school and college
surrounded by the music and deep connections of home
……..the old demographics of divisions and diversity

Yet… there is the other coast!
A wilderness! Unknown adventure –
new air, reaching mountains, majestic redwoods
and people! – indigenous and international

The tension and balance of values and dreams
……..the pull and push of the future

Notes from the interview that inspired this poem:

He was unsure where to do his residency, with his focus on family medicine. Should he stay where he’d gone to school, close to his family and friends? This path offered familiar support during the intense three years of residency. Or should he go somewhere new, grow through discovery and adventure?

Interviewee: Anonymous, 4th Year Medical Student
Listener Poet: Elizabeth Pringle

When the overscheduled noise
of the world ceased
And the wound up clutter
of traffic cleared
I let go of petty mundane things

I wear more hats now but it is different
I moved from my comfort zone
and the world opened to me

A doorway to nature’s wonder!
Beauty and tranquility in –
…..camping and hiking
…..time with my daughter
…..and friends
………and myself

My heart opened to others –
…..the suffering
…..the less fortunate

There is so much to be grateful for
so much joy in little things

And when anti-Asian sentiment
Squeezes the country
I am held in my calm mind
Reminded that life is short
And this journey, eternal

Can I hold the gifts of this year, forever?

Notes from the interview that inspired this poem:

Outside Boston, she was home from her work as a dermatology assistant. Her six-year-old daughter had been writing poems in class, and she wanted to share some of her experience in poetry. “She’s my cuddly bug, super smart, my sunshine,’ she told me. Her daughter exclaimed in the background, “I love you!”

Interviewee: Anonymous, Physician Assistant
Listener Poet: Elizabeth Pringle

How can it be?
That even after I told one patient
…..he was dying,
he held and kissed my hand?

Or another terminal patient who
told me he wants to dance
with a monkey on a beach.
He and his wife, laughing,
because they know they won’t
have much more time together.
Before I sedate him,
……I draw a monkey on his foot.

The patient who survives
a terrible accident,
then learns her daughter did not.
Developed broken heart syndrome.
We share pictures of our daughters
who look alike, share the same name.
We’re still in touch.

What is it?
……That amazing power
……….of the human spirit?

How can it be
……that I’m in my dream job?

….I can’t explain
these moments of mystery.

Notes from the interview that inspired this poem:

Her journey to medicine began when she took care of her father who died of cancer when she was 11 years old. For her, medicine was a calling, not a job. Her moments with patients and the amazing power of the human spirit made her want to keep coming back. As a dean and a clinician, she believed that compassion, empathy, meaning, and purpose should be at the center of medical education.

Interviewee: Anonymous, Physician, Vice Dean for Medical Education
Listener Poet: Katherine Gekker

What I see is different
from what they see.
It’s lonely when no one
can really understand
what it’s like going about
everything as if it’s normal
when nothing’s been normal
for me for a while.
Still, I trust I’m a vessel
for helping and healing
even when I don’t feel it
because giving and receiving
flow in circles and cycles
‘n coming around, they’re both.

Notes from the interview that inspired this poem:

This person was a critical care physician who’d been working in both a COVID ICU and in academia over the past year. Her two teenagers had been on her mind lately. Their recent accomplishments were a highlight, but she worried she wasn’t present enough because she was constantly distracted by work. She told me she was discouraged by the recent death of a close family friend. At the same time, she’d just been honored with a huge award for her academic work. “My home life and work life have always been dichotomous, but it’s more extreme now. How can anything be normal when it’s not normal?” she said. She wanted the poem to emphasize her love of helping others. “Even if I don’t see the results directly, I know it’s all circular, I can see it coming around to my kids,” she said. “That makes it worth it.”

Interviewee: Anonymous, Physician
Listener Poet: Jenny Hegland

* Such impossible intensity
…….* for such a long time
* Such isolation
* Such fear
…….* for my patients
…….* for my children
………………(and a little bit for
myself)
* Such sadness

There were moments when I said,
……..“I can’t do this.”

We showed up because we had to.
We ran toward fire, holding our breath.
……..I’m proud of that.

Seeing patients in person again,
…….I’m awestruck by our
…….* renewed connections.
…….* mutual appreciation.
One patient took my breath away
…..when she asked me,
……….“How are your kids? How are you?”

Are we rejoicing yet? No.
There’s so much grief,
……so much unprocessed trauma.
But there’s also cautious optimism.

In all those moments of despair,
my deep love for my kids
sustained and nourished me.

…..I’m hopeful again.

Notes from the interview that inspired this poem:

She spoke about how this past year had revealed the tension and crisis in her roles as a physician and a single parent. Doctoring is about human connection, and there had been so much loss, including in her ability to see patients in person. She also served as the director of an internal medicine residency program. Those residents provided critical care, 24 hours a day, 7 days a week, and she provided care for them. Her deep love for her children sustained and nourished her.

Interviewee: Anonymous, Physician
Listener Poet: Katherine Gekker

This year should have been filled with
…..* wisdom
…..* insight
…..* lessons learned
Instead we got this insanely stressful year.

……..I wonder.
….Will we? Can we?
Ever get back all that went missing?

…….And can I?
Get back time with my patients, my students?

What about the time I’ve
…..missed with my children?

Healing touch —
….that’s why I got into medicine.

I went from connecting with patients
in person (my white coat’s pockets filled
with slips of paper, my shoulders sore
from toting heavy books)
to connecting with a computer between us,
to connecting via telemedicine.
……I miss seeing patients.

How can we integrate technology
…..with what’s humane, empathetic?
……..With that healing touch?

……We’re all doing our best.
I know I’m not alone.

We’re handing our next generation a lot.
But they’ll figure it out.
They’re my hope, source of my optimism,
my sense of peace about the future.

Notes from the interview that inspired this poem:

She had chosen medicine because of its healing touch, that connection with patients and their families. This very stressful year had made those connections more distant and difficult. She wondered how to help the next generation of physicians and healers efficiently use technology without losing that personal connection to their patients. She believed they would be able to figure it out.

Interviewee: Anonymous, Physician
Listener Poet: Katherine Gekker

I’ve never felt so helpless–
lost confidence in myself
as a leader, like I did.

We were so afraid to get sick,
we made ourselves sick with
anxiety about getting sick.

I did what I could to keep my team
safe, but even so, I couldn’t
keep COVID from finding them.

Our community needs us. Here–
no one falls through the cracks.
Here–all are connected to care.

I’ve never felt so helpless,
but someone has to do the work,
so I, and we, keep showing up.

We’re tethered together
by commitment to community.
We’ll carry on ‘n keep caring for

our patients and for each other.

Notes from the interview that inspired this poem:

This person was a program manager for a large language access program that provided healthcare interpretation services to community members whose first language was not English. It was evident she took great pride in her work, and in her team. When COVID came, they were able to adapt quickly and provide some remote interpreting, but some of the team still needed to be on site. “I lost confidence in myself because I’ve never not had a point of reference for what I was doing as a leader,” she said. “I feel solidarity, but also fatigue. I believe we can do this, but I’m still dragging.” She told me that recently, her team had started to feel compelled to do more than just give voice as a neutral party. They wanted to be more proactive in delivering accurate vaccine information to the communities they worked with. They wanted to start to act as spokespeople for public health because they saw a need, and they know they can help.

Interviewee: Anonymous, Program Manager
Listener Poet: Jenny Hegland

You have come here to help others
and yet it has been a year of
unrelenting work
isolation
stress.
Your chest tight, tired, heart hungry for touch.

We were born to engage
but can you embrace
and be held through a screen?

Here, here are the tools:
ancient and intimate as a whisper
known in every mindful moment.

Rise, take your precious body
and walk,
run,
race back to yourself.
Rise, taste hope in another’s eyes.

Here is the first patient.
Caregiver, care for yourself.
Listen, you are here, you are held in hope,
made whole in a moment of awareness and connection.

You asked to serve, to heal others,
but you were swallowed by a pandemic
and in the fearful dark
you leaned to breathe, to wait,
to trust, and believe.

Caregiver, care for yourself.

Notes from the interview that inspired this poem:

He’d been a professor of Integrative Physiology for 37 years.. He brought the tools of mindfulness and self-care to medical students, many of whom had been studying 10 hours a day, day after day, in isolation for the past year. He integrated poetry into the curriculum by offering the students one of his favorite poems by the Sufi poet, Hazrat Inayat Khan. “I asked for strength…,” it began. I wondered what he would ask for? “To travel to the furthest point away from here,” he replied. Pre-pandemic, he had been an international speaker, traveling the world 110 days out of the year.

Interviewee: Anonymous, Professor
Listener Poet: Elizabeth Pringle

Most days, I have faith
there’ll be a path around
the fence, but today I feel
face-against-fence hopeless.

I’m interested in serving
people, not patients.

In today’s environment
there’s no way to measure
being a better people doctor.

There’s nothing I regret
about the path I’ve taken,
but what academic medicine
tells me I need to be
no longer interests me.

My soul doesn’t grow
by doing randomized
control trials.

My heart doesn’t heal
by publishing essays–
no amount is ever enough.

What’s calling me now?
The craft of creative expression,
heart and soul expansion.

Perhaps the fence is forcing
me to rest–to trust I’ll wake
when I’m ready for the journey…

Notes from the interview that inspired this poem:

“In the past, I always thought I needed to do more research; to move the science forward,” she said. “But now my heart really lies in the arts, humanities, poetry, creative writing. It feeds my soul and expands my heart–you can’t ignore that!” She was a physician specialist with a successful career. She realized she was nearing the end of one path and coming to the start of another, though she couldn’t yet see where it would lead. “For so long, my self-worth came from publishing; from doing what could be measured. I want to find meaning internally; to grow my heart and soul,” she said. “How much longer should I stay and invest? How do I know when it’s time to let go?” As she spoke, she continually gestured her hands toward her own heart. “Most days I have faith this path will open to a new one–the right one–but today, I don’t,” she said. She wanted the poem to remind her that despite her doubt, in medicine there was no such thing as enough, and there was value in this alternative path because her heart was clearly calling her there.

Interviewee: Anonymous, Physician
Listener Poet: Jenny Hegland

I have a fantasy of leaving
traveling like before
to other countries.
operas, museums, cultures!

I have a fantasy away
from this year of routines
held in place
managing uncertainty
controlling expectations
a year of anxiety

and ambiguity
that sometimes tightens inside
suffocating as in a gush of wind
I’m overwhelmed
out of air

But other times…
other times
it liberates –
like wings!
Letting worry lift
to open my chest
to release
to move beyond

to breathe in
the next step

Notes from the interview that inspired this poem:

He was a man of many roles and responsibilities, from doctor, to professor, to director, to dean. He worked in Houston, Texas, one of the most diverse cities in Texas, with the largest population of uninsured people. “These are the people I like to work with, the poorest of the poor,” he said. He worried also for his students as he managed their expectations and fears in this brave new world of internet learning and living. A poet himself, he asked “What is the next stage for me?”

Interviewee: Anonymous, Physician
Listener Poet: Elizabeth Pringle

It’s painful when they
see me as the enemy
without knowing me

Notes from the interview that inspired this poem:

This medical school administrator had spent the past thirty years bringing arts and humanities into medical education. “I’ve been thinking a lot about how we’re relating to each other, in the realm of race and social justice,” he said. “I’ve always been an advocate for social justice and the arts. And I’m a white guy. Neither has garnered much trust in the past. It’s frustrating when people assume the worst, lump me in with Trump, and treat me as the enemy.” He wanted the poem to convey the commitment that was in his heart to continue to learn and strive to do better.

Interviewee: Anonymous, Medical Education Administrator
Listener Poet: Jenny Hegland

I’m someone who likes plans. I like to
know what’s coming and where I’m going.

I sure never saw him coming! Certainly
not right now. Dating during residency

is rare. Finding someone outside healthcare,
even more rare. Not to mention, we’re in

a pandemic. So no, I never could have planned
for this, because this is a gift. That’s the

difference between plans and gifts — plans
are made; gifts are simply given. I just never

expected a gift as generous as this.
This gift feels too good to be true.

Then again, who am I to argue with the stars?

Notes from the interview that inspired this poem:

This person was a second-year surgical resident. She told me she liked to have plans, and so it was challenging to have so many unknowns in her career right now. How could she best serve her community? Where did she fit in best? She also told me she was in a new relationship that had recently gotten more serious. It was making her reconsider the impacts of her career choices on her future. “He instills so much confidence; offers so much encouragement. He provides such a counterforce to where my professional life is. He just makes me really happy,” she said. “It’s working so well. I didn’t know if I’d ever find this! Dating during residency is so rare.” She told me the stars must have aligned because this was the last thing she expected to find during such a hectic time in her life.

Interviewee: Anonymous, Resident
Listener Poet: Jenny Hegland

Basement, room 2125
They learn to coach
…..to be humbled
…..to become their best selves
…..to see values manifest in composition

When good outcomes pour slowly
(or not at all)
Good music fills their cups instead

She dances and he learns the hand gestures
Telling stories of love
…..of sorrow
…..of suffering
…..of separation

Disparate scales harmonize
(though a mix of opposites)
Good outcomes overflow and heal

Notes from the interview that inspired this poem:

A third-year medical student met her current partner on the first day of Orientation. They spent two years studying together in the “MD lab”—a windowless basement room (Room 2125)—and she said without his support she could not have gotten through anatomy lab, medical school studies, being far from family, and third year clerkship rotations. She observed that in many ways the two were very different from each other. For example, she longed to be a physician who would experience “good outcomes” from her patients, but in her third-year rotations she saw a lot of outcomes that were anything but good. Her partner had a different outlook, sharing that part of their role as physicians would be to become more like coaches in assisting their patients rather than saviors who would save them. In other ways, the two were very similar—especially in their mutual love of music. They both came from classical music backgrounds: he played classical guitar and she performed traditional Indian dance. She described the music they shared as a way they heal themselves.

Interviewee: Anonymous, Medical Student
Listener Poet: Yvette Perry

Legs can break
One thousand fractures to femur and fibula
I cannot stand

I hobble awkward and too slow
Places once grasped easy now too high to reach
I beget nuisance everywhere in my wake

This break
Cast in plaster of frustration
Glued sticky with anger and guilt
The bones cannot set

How will I leave my footprints on the sand for
…..others to see when
I cannot walk?

These marks left here are
Not mine and also not Divine
But made by those who
Carry my broken body
See me
Feed me
Reach for me
Connect me in pain or love

Offering accommodation
They give me their good
If I accept it
I can learn to run

Notes from the interview that inspired this poem:

Having suffered two major injuries in six months, this medical student was reflecting on what it meant to have a physical body. She was grateful for the relationships in her life with her sister, her husband, her nephew, her classmates, and her patients and their role in helping her in recovery. However, she was more used to sending out positivity and support than receiving it so this perceived negative impact on others was difficult for her. She was open to the idea that she was meant to learn something from this experience, but not sure yet what those lessons were.

Interviewee: Anonymous, Medical Student
Listener Poet: Yvette Perry

I was scared so I ran toward COVID,
founded a respiratory acute care clinic.
It was something concrete,
a way to escape the messiness of the world.
A weird positive-adaptive-coping mechanism.

I’m so proud of my team.
But we haven’t yet begun to grieve:
my team and their family members,
our kids’ challenges and struggles,
the death of a work colleague.

And how and when will I be able
to grieve the loss of my father?

COVID is an emergent disease,
forced us to learn differently:
…..an emergent learning model.
Because something new was always emerging.

We posture sometimes in medicine.
COVID allowed us to admit
“we don’t know” to our patients.
Uncertainty became a great equalizer,
allowed patients to feel safer with us,
removed the power differential in some way.

I’m fierce, still running on adrenaline,
…..and vulnerable, running out of adrenaline.

We accomplished so much this year.

We need to be kind to ourselves,
…..with each other
……….and with our community.

Notes from the interview that inspired this poem:

She spoke about how hard the past year had been, how filled with uncertainty it had been, and how tired she felt. She hadn’t even begun to deal with the loss of her father. She founded a respiratory acute care clinic, and five days later the first COVID patients arrived. She also noted that in the middle of the tough year, deep connections with colleagues during a time when so few had that had felt like a gift.

Interviewee: Anonymous, Physicians Assistant
Listener Poet: Katherine Grekker

You’re probably wondering
why I’m still kind.

It was strangers who were kind to me
when I was lowest,

dirtiest, ugliest,
taking least care of myself,

who showed me the light of kindness;
the torch it can be in the dark.

Who would want mental illness?
So few have the resources to treat it.

Who would like some spaghetti?
I’ve got enough here for an army.

Notes from the interview that inspired this poem:

She told me about her brother, two years younger, who’d died a few weeks prior from complications of COVID-19. He’d had a hard life. In college, he’d become afflicted with schizophrenia. Their immigrant parents had little education and few resources, and with no diagnosis or support he’d had to drop out. He soon left home, living on the streets for a year. Eventually, he’d been hospitalized, then institutionalized. He got better. Still, the sickness had taken a toll on his body. He was diagnosed with an auto-immune disease. His kidneys weakened and began to fail. Despite so many hardships, he went back to college and studied to be a social worker. He was great at it–he saw himself in the people he served, and he worked as a case manager for years. At his memorial service, his kindness was the thing people remembered most about him. “I want to be more like him,” she said. “I want to carry the torch.”

Interviewee: Anonymous, Educator
Listener Poet: Frankie Abralind

The darkness inside
these days is laden
with loss and grief.
Outside is where I
go to find peace —
birds sing to me as
they dance and play,
trees shelter me in
a canopy of green,
the sky and my ray
of sunshine, a steady
reminder there’s always
a reason to look up.

Notes from the interview that inspired this poem:

“The past year has been marked by new life and a lot of loss,” she said. She told me her son had just turned one a few weeks ago, and that she’d lost her grandmother, great aunt, great-grandfather, and grandfather all in the past year. “It’s hard having to be strong; there’s a lot of isolation, but my son needs someone,” she said. “He’s a good distraction…his jabbering and goofiness. He’s a ray of sunshine.” She was also grateful that her mom lived next door, so she had a place to go when she needed support, or to sit outside and enjoy nature–the birds, trees, and sky. She wanted the poem to be reflective and hopeful.

Interviewee: Anonymous, Medical School Admissions
Listener Poet: Jenny Hegland

There’s a look people get
when they’re about to die.

The moment I saw it in her eyes,
I remembered the others —

they’d been with me all along.
But I was feeling the grief

for the first time. Maybe it was
the gentleness of allowing myself

to be injured; imperfect. It had
been a year since I was plucked

out of one life, dropped into
another, overnight. It was

liberating to leave behind
anxieties that had calcified

around me. They creep back,
occasionally, but I’m on a new

path. When I follow it, I feel more
alive, more vibrant in my practice.

Every person has a unique light
inside. “Who is this person?” —

No longer a cognitive question;
instead, a quest of heart,

for healing, through connection.
L o v e — part gift, part practice.

The more you give, the more
it grows. The more you practice,

the better it gets.

Notes from the interview that inspired this poem:

It had been almost a year since this physician started working in a COVID clinic. He told me he’d been on a spiritual quest–searching for a new path–for a long time. “I’m starting to feel alignment between my spiritual exploration and my clinical work,” he said. He told me he was practicing being more present with patients, and in doing so, was feeling more alive. He spoke about recent experiences with patients, and about the gratitude he felt for his team. “I’m learning to appreciate each person, each patient, for the unique light inside. I’m starting to ask different kinds of questions. I’m realizing that by acknowledging patients’ struggles and allowing myself to feel, I’m able to open the door for deeper sharing,” he said. He told me he understood these words on an intellectual level in the past, but he was beginning to develop an embodied understanding through practice, which was transforming his own experience as well. “I feel like I’m on a new path even though I’m doing the same work. I’m learning that love is something you can practice, and when you do, it gets better,” he said. “My kids are even giving me more hugs these days.”

Interviewee: Anonymous, Physician
Listener Poet: Jenny Hegland

One year ago I disembarked a plane
Not knowing that it would be the last time
For in two days the world around me changed
And since then I’ve not had the chance to fly

Reflecting on this year of amplitudes
My privilege betrayed by these highs and lows
My yearning is outweighed by gratitude
I’m blessed, though not religiously disposed

One year ago was hookah – UAE
Tomorrow I’ll fly off to ski with friends
It’s been a volatile quarantine –
I think perhaps I finally see the end

I yearn to reclaim everything I love;
I ache for reinstatement of the hug

Notes from the interview that inspired this poem:

This woman wanted her poem to be about “the highs and lows of life and the pandemic.” During the past year, her life had been radically different from what she was previously used to. In two weeks, she had gone from travelling and hugging her friends, family, and coworkers all the time to quarantining and being the primary caretaker for her elderly mother. She only personally knew a few people who had contracted COVID, and her health and wellbeing during the pandemic had been a consistent high point for her in contrast to the lows of her mother’s hip injury and the unpredictable recovery of one of her dressage horses. “I’m a hugger!” she told me. The pandemic had been tough in many ways, but now that there seemed to be light at the end of the tunnel, she was looking forward to being able to hug people again.

Interviewee: Anonymous, Psychiatrist
Listener Poet: Elle Klassen

You praise the mud you say
has been made useful, fashioned
into bricks to build dwellings
or baked to make pitchers
for water and wine, the mud
that leaves remnants
of real work done well

You distinguish that mud
from this mud—-this mud you say
you’re stuck mucking around in,
unable to make meaning from
as you plan and work then
re-plan and re-work, never
doing enough

You must not know this mud
coheres the continent
on which you stand, and
collaborates with plants
to stop riverbanks
washing out to sea

You must not know of
small squiggly things that
muck in this mud cycling
oxygen and nutrients,
or have seen hippo and rhino
and elephant bathe in this mud
to keep the hot sun
from their skin

You must not remember
the real work of small children
who know that though mud pies are
not made to be eaten, they’re
essential to life

Notes from the interview that inspired this poem:

“The work of the world is common as mud,” wrote poet Marge Piercy. This physician was reflecting on Piercy’s poem as well as other writings about meaning in life to help him make sense of the past year. Because of the pandemic, he had to adapt quickly to the changing landscape of medical education. He mentioned losses from those adaptations, particularly the changes in his interactions with students and the students’ interactions with each other. Sometimes, he questioned whether he was doing enough or even whether he was doing his job at all. At the same time, he had been involved with engaging medical students in the arts and humanities in creative ways. He also felt grateful about the adaptations he made in his personal life such as his ability to spend more time with his family and finding new ways to spend time in nature.

Interviewee: Anonymous, Physician
Listener Poet: Yvette Perry

It’s a continual internal
struggle as a young mother
authoring a career in medicine

If I shift to part time,
will I be left behind?

I’m afraid of letting down
my 16-year-old self
who wanted to be a doctor
her whole life

What if I start to worry
about trivial things, like
the color of a simple outfit?

Stop caring about
what’s most important, like
continuous growth, giving back?

I want to set a good example
for my children to be driven,
motivated, resilient

What about being present?

If I could predict the future,
guarantee it wouldn’t constrict me,
I’d choose part time in a heartbeat

But for now, I’ll carry on
conflicted, put off my decision,
keep my questions close, quiet

At least until the end of the year,
just like last year
and the year before

Notes from the interview that inspired this poem:

This person was a pediatrician and medical educator. She was happy to be advancing in her career. At the same time, she felt conflicted. “I have an innate desire for simple things, like organizing the kids’ clothes,” she said. “But I also want to set a strong example for them, and as a mother–instill drive and motivation.” She told me she had been struggling with the decision to shift to part-time work for quite a while. She loved her colleagues and didn’t want to leave them short-handed, and fear was holding her back. “What if I leave and can’t excel later in my career because I did this?”

Interviewee: Anonymous, Physician
Listener Poet: Jenny Hegland

From within the
enormity of tasks ahead
and a reprieve (for now)
from the requirement of deciding,
I hear a quiet acknowledgment,
a reminder that a tidal wave
can only engulf if I don’t
grab a board and ride it out.

(I have, after all, triumphed before
over worse things.)

And then:
a certain solace–the
darkness of this discomfort
dissipates in our collaborative
experience of it, and I will
be changed but not
defined by it. Feelings
are stored (for now) in boxes
to clear space for the
present moment.

(Spreadsheets and action plans
will keep until tomorrow.)

Notes from the interview that inspired this poem:

This physician had been reflecting on how she had been dealing with the uncertainties of the past year during the pandemic. While acknowledging the fear and struggle involved in uncertainty, she also said that there could be comfort in uncertainty in that some important decisions could for a time be set aside. She discussed feeling thankful for many things during the year and the need to “name and claim” those things in order to move forward. Also helping her to move forward was reminding herself of extremely difficult times she had moved through in the past in which she had to grow and change without letting the experiences become her entire self-definition.

Interviewee: Anonymous, Physician
Listener Poet: Yvette Perry

I’m so proud of my students.
They did their first year of clinical
in the first pandemic in 100 years.

Everything shut down for 10 weeks
at the start of their semester.
They gave rides,
took care of others’ kids.
Took food to people.
Spearheaded turning an empty hotel
into housing for the homeless.

They did it with grace and mercy.

They took care
…..of each other
……….and society.

They are amazing.

When I’m 90, I want to remember
…..what it was like.
Teaching these caring,
…..care-giving students.

It was a beautiful thing.

…..My job.
……….My joy.

I love what I do.

Notes from the interview that inspired this poem:

An endocrinologist, she taught 3rd year medical students in their first year of clinical training in addition to seeing patients. During this big transition from the classroom to clinical, they need some care and nurturing. For some this was a difficult time; 2020 was additionally difficult as it interrupted their training at the start of the semester.

Interviewee: Anonymous, Physician
Listener Poet: Katherine Gekker

Something that could have brought us
together tore us apart.
It tore me apart too.
I’m sort of trudging along.
Wishing I had been more heroic,
handled 2020 with more patience, equanimity.

I’m an extrovert, with more energy
than most people. Now,
I’ve got average-grownup energy.
I’m not used to this.
I liked myself at 100%.

Things that gave me joy all went away –
…..kids’ music concerts, celebrations.
I do like change.
But I liked the old way better.

I became a family physician
because I wanted to make people feel better.
Because hope can make them feel healed,
even when I can’t fix their problems.

As a medical school dean, I read applications,
read stories, look for the tone.

Here’s my application for 2021, my story.
…..I’m not “covid fine.”
…..30% of me went missing.
What if my missing 30% never comes back?
What if I can’t find it again or fix it?
Can hope help me feel 30% better?

What I’ve learned from other deans:
there are a lot of non-heroes.
…..I’m not failing by myself.
.………I’m not alone.

Notes from the interview that inspired this poem:

She said that she didn’t feel that her story was particularly important. 2020 was not an inspirational story. While she had been both miserable and okay, she would have liked to have been more heroic. As an extrovert, 2020 had been particularly difficult. She was good at connection, but the energy she had gotten from others in the past was lost. She felt that she was operating at 70% of her usual self. She felt lucky to be in a job she loved. She wanted her poem to help her feel understood, less alone.

Interviewee: Anonymous, Physician
Listener Poet: Katherine Gekker

It’s important how it goes–end of life.

I’ve delivered a lot of bad news.

I’m used to pronouncing death. Several times per shift.
Resuscitation for an hour. Calling the time.
I’m expected to keep going with my day; I’m behind.
It’s hard to remember the families, but they remember me.

All I feel is fatigue.

When my dad’s time came, I was the one who had to tell him
he was dying. I had to do it in front of my family.
“Do you want dialysis?” was all the doctor said.
That doctor had no clue how to deliver the news.

We brought dad home, with hospice. I flew home to cover
my shifts. My brother called soon after–
“You should come back.”

It was the longest I’d gone without sleep. I’ll never forget
the support I received.
My seat, upgraded to first class, by my brother.
Early morning, whiskey in hand, able to close my eyes.
My shift (the one everyone dreads), covered by my friend.

Dad had been unresponsive for three days. I hadn’t slept
for five; I was working within the family. My brother and I
were both there when I realized his breathing was slowing.
Longer pauses…only pulses…breathing stopped.

All I said was “7:ll”

I looked like I was fine. When I called hospice, I couldn’t say
my own phone number.

It’s important how it goes–end of life.

Notes from the interview that inspired this poem:

“I’d like the poem to be about what it’s like to give bad news,” he said. This person was an emergency medicine physician. Having worked in level I trauma centers, he had to deliver a lot of bad news. He told me about one of his first experiences losing a patient. She was an 18-year-old female who had been in a car accident. “When I lose patients, and then have to deliver bad news to the families, I’m expected to just keep going with my day. All I feel is fatigue.” When his own dad was dying, he had to be the one to deliver the bad news to him, in front of their family. He was a third-year resident on a string of night shifts. He told me how this experience had impacted him. “I’ve always been passionate about end-of-life going well,” he said. “I understand this in a deeper way now, and from the other side, first-hand.”

Interviewee: Anonymous, Physician
Listener Poet: Jenny Hegland

Notes from the interview that inspired this poem:

“Our constituents are uniquely affected by the pandemic,” she said. She was an educational psychologist who missed working in person with med students, healthcare staff, and medical educators. “I worry about them a lot, and I’m always thinking about how my work can support them. I have this sort of luxury being able to work from home, but my colleagues don’t. I struggle with that because I want to be there but can’t be there. I’m trying to do my best working remotely, but I miss them.”

Interviewee: Anonymous, Administrator
Listener Poet: Ravenna Raven

My journey to med school wasn’t ordinary.
I left my comfy home in Michigan,
moved to Boston, and fell in love
with geophysics. A master’s degree
brought me to the mountains of Wyoming
where I spent time hiking, fishing,
and existing with Mother Nature
in a way I’d never known before.
The cold earth sings each morning
if you’re listening.

I found a job further north
in Anchorage, where it takes a full day
to get back to the lower 48.
My husband and I lived there for eight years.
We loved winters –
snow was a wonderful thing that let you play.
We had twins in 2015, and
what’s striking about having babies
is that it took away my fear.
If someone had told me then
that I would have to learn to fly,
I would do it.
I see myself now as a very powerful human.
There’s no person who gives birth in any way
who isn’t powerful after this.

Each place I’ve experienced
has shaped me immeasurably –
I don’t regret anything.
I call it: letting the wave have me.

Notes from the interview that inspired this poem:

She was the fourth generation of her family who would graduate from Wayne State School of Medicine: her dad, her grandfather, and her great-grandfather had all studied there before her. “I’m the first woman in my family to go to med school, which is pretty cool,” she said. “I’m putting my feet in those big shoes.”

“At first I wasn’t sure if I should even apply,” she said. “I hadn’t majored in microbiology, I had hated pre-med but loved geology, and I’m 10-15 years older than everyone, so I would be 42 by the time I was done with school and residency. But then a friend of mine said, ‘Well you’ll be 42 anyway, so you might as well do the things you want to do.’ And I knew I wanted to do something with a focus on the human body and making people’s lives better.” When she made the decision to pursue this path toward becoming a doctor, her friends told her it was the happiest they’d ever seen her

Interviewee: Anonymous, Medical Student
Listener Poet: Ravenna Raven

I felt implicated. I was there, as an observer,
but that didn’t absolve me of responsibility.

She had left the room just minutes before
her baby needed to be intubated. We were

a large team of doctors. All of us were White.
Mom and baby were Black. When she returned,

it was chaos. She begged the doctors to stop.
She was scared. There wasn’t time to explain;

it was a life-saving procedure. But we’d failed
to build enough trust before the crisis came.

I watched her step backward, reach
for her phone, then start to record.

She was told, but refused, to stop. I observed.
I was also being observed. Captured, in time.

On camera. I wondered if it was an act of last
resort? Did she feel, otherwise, powerless?

Was I perpetuating violence, in a real way,
with my presence (knowingly or unknowingly)?

These questions have traveled with me. For valid
reasons, like privacy and protection, most don’t

get to see what healthcare in America looks like
first-hand. I wonder what they’d see, if they did?

That day left me unsettled. I’d never felt implicated.
Did she still feel unsettled? Has she ever … not?

Notes from the interview that inspired this poem:

This man was a medical student. “There’s one experience from last year that’s really stayed with me; it drew my attention to race and power dynamics,” he began. He told me about a time he was shadowing on a pediatrics critical care unit. “A baby needed to be intubated, and mom didn’t know what was happening, or why. She took out her phone and began recording. I wonder if she felt this was the only thing in her control…to document, to record what was happening?” he said. His reflections on the experience had continued to evolve over time. “Being recorded, I did feel implicated. I was only observing the procedure, but did that make me a passive bystander? What is the difference between a witness who observes, a witness who enables, a witness who shares, and a witness who tells? I know in this instance I was part of the system who failed the patient, because we hadn’t built trust with the mom before the crisis occurred,” he said. “Can witnessing ever be a passive act? When we’re part of the system, can we ever be separate?” He felt unsettled and unresolved, still, and wanted the poem to invite him to continue walking with the questions. He knew there was still more there for him to learn.

Interviewee: Anonymous, Medical Student
Listener Poet: Jenny Hegland

From the moment I met her, I loved her. We had an instant connection. She was my first real patient in my sub-I.

She was Hawaiian; had tribal tattoos all over her body. Warm and motherly, middle-aged; she had many children. They were mostly

homeless, like her. They were young girls, many pregnant. She had been addicted to Meth most of her life; was clean

for the first time ever, this year. I’ll never forget the day,
right before she left AMA. She wasn’t angry; she was honest.

The whole team was in her room when she delivered her
impactful rant. She directed her gaze at me the whole time.

“Nothing you do here matters. Even if I do get the right
dosage, or breathing machine, I’m going back to the streets.

I’ll be breathing in the dust from that air every day.
When I walk out of this place, nothing else will matter.”

I was a young medical student doing everything I could. I cared
deeply about health equity. How could I keep from becoming jaded?

How could I hold on to idealism and principles? Not become convinced
nothing I did mattered, when my own patients were proving it to me?

I want to be able to evolve, change, not become bitter, but in
the county hospitals, I see it over and over and over again:

Nothing you do matters.
Nothing you do matters.
Nothing you do matters.

How many times will I try, then nope! Be back to losing hope? I knew
my patient didn’t have much longer. She taught me a tough lesson:

There was no way back to belief, without going through the grief.

Notes from the interview that inspired this poem:

She wanted her poem to be about her experience working with a particular patient she felt a deep connection with during her fourth year of medical school. After several days of building trust and rapport with the patient, she thought she had convinced the woman to stay long enough to find the appropriate dosage for her heart failure medication, and to have her leave with a nebulizer. Instead, the patient ended up leaving AMA, without either. She described a heartbreaking interaction where the patient repeatedly told her, “nothing you do matters.” She went on to tell me that it was especially evident working in the county hospitals, with patients who were uninsured, or had other economic or personal barriers impacting their health. “I want to find hope in these stories, but I’m not sure there is any. I care deeply about health equity. I do everything I can to find solutions. I need to hold on to some degree of idealism and belief that our work does make a difference, but how can I do that when I literally have patients proving me wrong?” she said. “And I keep seeing it over and over and over again.”

Interviewee: Anonymous, Resident
Listener Poet: Jenny Hegland

Fear: my daily emotion.

…It’s the word I use with myself to encompass
…my now-normal mix of anxiety, uncertainty,
…and battling a million unknowns.

…I worry about my life. My job. My students.
…Going to the office. This very process.

…How vulnerable am I willing to be?
…How much risk am I willing to take?
…Can I support my students well, remotely?
…With this political climate, where is the
………nation headed?
…How much should I probe with a Black or
………minority friend?
…If I don’t ask enough, am I negligent
………and complacent?
…How much is appropriate and helpful?
…Can I find confidence anywhere within this
………much unknown?

Prayer: my daily devotion.

…Faith is the place I find the most
…peace; it brings much-needed ease.

…Home improvement is important. I know how to
…do it right. Basic knowns make things work.
…I find comfort wiring ceiling lights.

…I find comfort spending time in the afternoon
…with my wife.

What I know: the answer to every question is maybe,
………and the answer to every prayer is rest.

Notes from the interview that inspired this poem:

This person was thoughtful and contemplative. He spent his days working with medical students. He was the one they brought their questions and worries to. He didn’t have answers for them, other than “maybe,” and was feeling the same anxiety as they were, but couldn’t share that. He feared there were going to be a lot of very unhappy people after the match this year, given the way the entire interview process had to go virtual. While he worried about many things, his faith, his journaling, his prayers, and spending time focusing on his life outside of work were very rewarding. He told me that prayer always led him back to the same thing: rest. “I’m in a constant battle to find rest amidst the uncertainty and anxiety I experience every day. Fear is a well-known theme in my journaling these days,” he said, “but even though I’m more open and verbal about the fear than most people would be, the rest is winning.”

Interviewee: Anonymous, Administrator
Listener Poet: Jenny Hegland

Relating to patients
…..is a process.

Building trust
…..is a process.

Being a physician
…..is a privilege.

I want to use it all
…..to get to the roots
……….of why disparity
……………and mistrust occur;

Not just
…..go to clinic,
……….treat patients,
……………go home.

Future generations
……….are counting on me.

Notes from the interview that inspired this poem:

“Interacting with people whose lives are different from mine and learning their perspectives first-hand makes me realize maybe I’ve been living in a bit of a bubble,” she said. She was a first-year med student. She told me about her experiences in the clinic witnessing the mistrust of the medical community among specific patient populations who have historically been harmed. “I’ve been thinking a lot about what my place is. How can I help bridge this divide as I become a physician? How can I learn how to take an active role in bettering the future of medicine even though I can never know what others have been through having never walked in their shoes?”

Interviewee: Anonymous, Medical Student
Listener Poet: Jenny Hegland

January:
Ahhhhh…2020 is here!
So much clarity and excitement…

March:
BOOM!
Everything is changing.
Any comfort from the day before
is gone by noon the next…

September until early November:
We’re in a lull.
All wondering what’s going to happen…

End of November:
I finally catch my breath…

Now (December):
We’re waiting.
There are still question marks–
conflict and inconsistency
even within me.
There’s a glimmer of hope
in the opportunity for a vaccination
and research to actually further equity.
There’s still a mountain in front of me;
the baby strides we’ve made toward
justice feel entirely insufficient.
There’s confidence growing in me
despite the fear of consequence
from speaking up.
There are bright spots–
especially the champions whose
hands I intend to hold tighter,
who challenge and push me forward,

because change is hard
and necessary for growth…

Notes from the interview that inspired this poem:

“We need more who look like me,” said this medical student. “And I don’t just mean black women, I also mean indigenous people, latinx people, and multi-ethnic people (who are often overlooked). Tokenism is so insufficient. I think about how this failure in our field to rise to the challenge impacts diverse patient populations.” She spoke about how she saw fragility so often intersecting with change, and about the intersection of the COVID pandemic with the pandemics of racism and of the political climate. “It has to get better from here. This has been a super shitty year,” she said. “Change is hard. Even with the baby strides I’ve seen, I still feel like there’s a mountain in front of me. But I believe we can leave the year stronger, and at least a little changed for the better.”

Interviewee: Anonymous, Medical Student
Listener Poet: Jenny Hegland

It’s interesting applying to residency
while noticing what’s residing in me.

I never knew conflicting feelings
could co-exist like this–
insecurity, pride, anxiety, accomplishment
all equally alive,
swimming alongside these words:

………“I got exactly what I wanted.”

— Will I be able to answer this way (honestly)
………when others ask about my match?
— Where will I be?
— How do I choose to order my rank list?
— What difference will it make?
— Do I even have a say?
— What happened to simply wanting to be happy
………and okay?
— What do I want, exactly?

I wonder if this discomfort will linger
for as long as it takes to remember…

Notes from the interview that inspired this poem:

She was in the process of applying for her residency and told me she had a lot of anxiety around the match. “There’s a lot of uncertainty, confusion, and guilt,” she said. “At the same time, I’m proud that I’m being offered so many interviews, having worked this hard to get here and overcome so many challenges.” She shared that what felt different about this experience than others in the past was that this time, she wasn’t experiencing these conflicting emotions as a pendulum, moving back-and-forth between them. Instead, they were all intensely present at the same time. “It’s strange to feel lightness and heaviness simultaneously–like I’m being lifted up and dragged down. There is so much mish mashing together,” she said. She told me that she loved poetry, and used to use it to help her sort through her feelings. “I’d like for this poem to help me make sense of my own experience: to offer some closure where there is no closure, and to remind me what’s important,” she said. “Maybe it will inspire me to start writing poetry again…”

Interviewee: Anonymous, Medical Student
Listener Poet: Jenny Hegland

1.
Adrenaline and
caffeine can
get you through
the 1st
95-hour
work week

But by the 2nd
chronic exhaustion
leaves you only
one option:
to go through
the motions

…2.
…Getting through
…takes giving in
…to a certain degree
…but not letting
…yourself be taken
…over by it fully

…The hardest part
…is choosing
…which pieces
…to hold on to
…and which
…to release

……3.
……With every
……new wave
……you’re afraid
……the worst
……is yet
……to come

……but the ICU
……is packed
……with patients
……so you keep
……going, hoping
……you’re wrong

Notes from the interview that inspired this poem:

He had been through a tremendous amount of transition this year. He was working as a resident in March, when the first COVID-19 wave hit. Now he was a cardiology fellow. He was seeing the ICUs fill up again at his new hospital. He told me about his experiences working consecutive 95-hour work weeks, and described what it felt like to function in a state of exhaustion. Most recently, out of an abundance of concern since he was treating coronavirus patients, he had made the difficult decision not to see his family anymore. “I’m hopeful for the future, and that we can learn from this to prevent the next pandemic from having impacts like this,” he said. He was realistic that the road ahead was still long. He dreaded the thought of going back to chronic exhaustion, but he still felt hopeful that he could make it through this time without letting it take him over fully.

Interviewee: Anonymous, Medical Fellow
Listener Poet: Jenny Hegland

Standardized tests were always the monkey on my back…
Despite good grades in medical school,
it took me three times to pass Step 1.

I didn’t have a single Latino role model or mentor.
On the first day of my OB GYN rotation,
I was mistaken for the housekeeper–
instructed to clean the delivery room.

After I witnessed the unethical transfer
of a migrant farmer,
I handed in my residency resignation…
but I came back, more driven.

Medicine’s past is filled with remarkable
innovations and discoveries.

But we need to acknowledge and apologize
for structural oppression, exclusionary practices.
We need to stop repeating
the harm we’ve caused for too long;
the harm we’re still causing today.

We all have a role and response-ability
in learning how to become anti-racist.
But we just don’t know how to do it.

Just because I’m a person of color
doesn’t mean I know how to do it.

Still, it starts with us.

We have to dismantle systemic racism
and prioritize equity expansion in medicine.

We have to do our part, as leaders, to be intentional;
to hold each other accountable for change.

We have to invest in our learners
instead of finding ways to weed them out.

We have to–
acknowledge what we don’t know;
acknowledge we can’t do it alone;
acknowledge that the communities we serve
…………already know some of the solutions–

Will we find the courage to ask?

I’ve worked my entire life
to disprove stereotypes
and free myself from feeling
like an imposter.

How will we treat our most vulnerable?

When will we truly become healers?

Notes from the interview that inspired this poem:

This poem was derived from a conversation via the podcast, “Behind the White Coat.” The episode touched on one leader’s journey to become a doctor, the AAMC history of racism, and current ways which the AAMC is committed to countering racism and expanding equity within medical education.

The leader being interviewed was a family medicine physician and DEI leader in the academic medical community. “Understanding and being sensitized to our own historical traumas informs present-day issues and realities we face,” he said. “From that place of understanding, we have to begin to own our history and carve out new ways to integrate antiracism into medical education,” he said. As a Latino person, he had experienced the impacts of racism and discrimination first-hand. This led him to build a career portfolio centered around health equity, population health and DEI education and training. He expressed that he believed if we’re going to dismantle systemic racism, we need transformative change and systems-based leaders who also inspire other leaders along the same route. “We have to be invested in the success of our learners, as an institution. If one student fails, then we have failed. This is the mindset we need to re-imagine medical education,” he said.

Interviewee: Anonymous, Administrator
Listener Poet: Jenny Hegland

Quarantine came, and we were in a
groove, until our nanny moved.

Next came 8,000 lists, box-checking,
ordering all the things to send

a baby out into the world, at a time
when everything was dark…and then

we started gardening as a family.
We got our hands dirty and worked

outside. Now our six-year-old
wants to be a farmer. And our

four-year-old, a farmer’s helper.
We had been trying to keep everything

normal, but normal never had us
growing flowers and food together,

back when it was. Now, everything
is day-to-day…like it used to be,

and our children are growing gardens.

Notes from the interview that inspired this poem:

“I definitely don’t want the poem to be sad,” she said, “but it feels like everything has been sad lately.” This woman and her husband were both medical educators, and they had three daughters under the age of six. Keeping up with their work and parenting felt manageable under quarantine, until their long-time nanny moved. The transition to school and daycare had been challenging. They spent most of their time trying to keep things normal and fun for their kids at home, even though normal did not exist elsewhere. In an effort to find something they could do outside together, she began teaching the girls about gardening, like she’d learned from her father. The two older girls learned to love it. “Now my oldest wants to be a farmer when she grows up, and the four-year-old wants to be a farmer’s helper, instead of a doctor!” she said. “When they leave for different schools in the morning, they give each other huge hugs and say how much they will miss each other. Amidst all the darkness and stress, it’s been fun to see how they’ve grown so close to each other during this time.”

Interviewee: Anonymous, Educator
Listener Poet: Jenny Hegland

It felt like sinking in quicksand,
swirling and curling with currents

as the hourglass funneled. Whipped
right then flung back left, tossed

upside-down then right-side up. She
was disoriented; spinning; falling

somewhere sight unseen she wondered
if ground would ever find her feet.

Yet somewhere deep inside she knew
that even if it couldn’t, she’d do

what she could…she’d trade guilt
for grace ‘n learn to surf on sand.

Notes from the interview that inspired this poem:

This woman was a medical educator, and had two teenagers who were attending school from home. She faced incredible health challenges in 2020, unrelated to COVID-19. She had been diagnosed with cancer, and had reconstructive surgery, and she was also diagnosed with three chronic medical conditions. “They’re not fatal, but they’re not going away,” she said. “There is no space for me to fully process everything I’ve gone through. And it’s hard not to feel guilty. How dare I feel sorry for myself, complain, or do anything, when there are people dying?” She also wondered about the collateral damage yet to come after COVID, both of her not being able to process her own grief during this time, and also of an entire cohort of medical students who had to learn under these conditions. “Everything else just keeps moving, despite COVID. We have to get these students graduated on time,” she said, “but how do you keep moving when you can never get a foothold?” She wanted the poem to remind her that it was ok she was struggling with all of these things, even though it was amidst a pandemic.

Interviewee: Anonymous, Educator
Listener Poet: Jenny Hegland

These days,
the uncertainty stretches
as far as the eye
can see,
rolling and unfolding
like Ireland’s landscape:
pear, juniper, and seafoam greens
never-ending, shades blending
……….until
a rainbow is revealed
through the mist.

Spanning from valley to valley,
colors alive, it reminds me:
where I look, lives what I see;
my eyes, they are
my agency;
somewhere out there
the gift of gold
exists where sky meets land,
……….and there,
it is waiting for me; there,
it is waiting for us all.

Notes from the interview that inspired this poem:

He was a physician and medical educator in The Bronx, New York. “I’d like my poem to be about the tolerance of uncertainty,” he began. “Most of the students I teach aren’t used to having an unclear path, or situations where the rules aren’t clean.” He shared that he believed the ability to be adaptable, and to delay inferences and let information come before making meaning, was a critical part of a medical education now. “With everything we’re seeing this year–from the pandemic, to social injustices, to the political climate, to the loss of RBG–there’s been an onslaught of sadness and heartbreak. This makes it even more difficult to hold ambiguity and uncertainty,” he said. “It feels uncomfortable; sometimes even crushing, especially as we start to see another uptick in COVID cases. Sometimes I have to compartmentalize. At the same time, we have to be able to envision our future and focus on what agency we do have. When I watch how my children are rising to the occasion, I know more hope is coming. I would like the poem to remind me of that hope amidst the discomfort of all the uncertainty.”

Interviewee: Anonymous, Educator
Listener Poet: Jenny Hegland

Finally, I can talk about it
without anger in my chest.

I fought an uphill battle
that wasn’t mine to fight.

No matter what I did,
I couldn’t improve.

Day-by-day, it ate away
at my self-image,
for two and a half years.

Two and a half years!

I can speculate as to why,
but broken trust

is broken trust.
I’m not the first.
I won’t be the last–
the past is far from past.

But with time, space, distance,
feeling became healing;
crystal-clear seeing.

And my story discovered
its voice–
powerful, honest, fierce;
not in spite of injustice,
but because of my courage.

Notes from the interview that inspired this poem:

“It was so disheartening, expecting progress from trying, but consistently underperforming,” she said. This person was a fourth-year med student. She learned during her third year that she had a learning disability she was entitled to receive support for, but the results from an assessment she took at the start of her program were never given to her, despite her multiple requests. “After learning about this, I spiralled down before building back up,” she said. “It’s painful thinking about how much that experience deteriorated my self-image, knowing now that the information was available and the resources could have helped me.” She had since moved through many phases of grief and healing. She told me she drew strength from Stacy Abrams’ story, knowing that what she was able to do after initially losing her election was arguably much greater than her original intention. “I believe the patient population I’m supposed to serve will benefit from this experience, and the perspective it has given me,” she said.

Interviewee: Anonymous, Medical Student
Listener Poet: Jenny Hegland

With reverence
For the sacred–
Ancestors, elders
Earth, language
Story, ceremony

I come as one
Of the first
Here;
Our arrival
Far too late

Nothing to celebrate;
Only birthright
Stolen,
Slowly being
Reclaimed

Long before yesterday
Our tribes deserved
What medicine
Had to offer,
Other than neglect

But now I see:
Medicine needs
Our sacred knowledge
To be made more
For tomorrow

Notes from the interview that inspired this poem:

He was one of the first two people from his tribes to go to medical school. He told me that it was a difficult time to be away from his community because they were being hit so hard by the pandemic. “The oppression we face is showing itself through health,” he said. “We’re losing many of our elders, and when we lose our elders, we lose the sacred knowledge we’ve fought so hard to keep.” He told me he missed the ceremonies that had to be cancelled this year. While he was excited to be able to go back to his community to practice medicine as a doctor in the future, he didn’t see being one of the first to become a doctor as cause for celebration. “It’s more of an unveiling of a problem; it shouldn’t be this way. I might be one of the first, but I need to make sure I’m not the last. We have many gifted people in our community.” he said. I left this conversation with the sense that the field of medicine needed him and his community’s knowledge, perhaps as much, or more, than his community needed the field of medicine.

Interviewee: Anonymous, Medical Student
Listener Poet: Jenny Hegland

On the day before
my 25th birthday,
I’m happy. I’m on
the step I should
be, as I progress
on the path I’ve
always known was
for me. I grew up
living next to a
hospital–my dad
was a surgeon in
Ethiopia. I have
always been work-
ing toward some-
thing ahead, or
looking back to
reflect. Today my
intention is to
be fully present;
there’s no need to
postpone everyday
happiness…….!

Notes from the interview that inspired this poem:

“Tomorrow is my 25th birthday. I’ve been reflecting a lot on where I thought I’d be by now,” she said. She told me she’d been born in Ethiopia and moved to the U.S. when she was in high school. She took her education seriously, and was always working toward something bigger than herself, looking ahead to the future. One thing she never expected was to be living this close to her family again. “My family is a very big part of my life. After six years of being away at school, I’m close to them again; my mom works only five minutes from here,” she said. She told me she was excited about the future, but that she realized she also wanted to learn to be more present and find happiness in everyday life.

Interviewee: Anonymous, Medical Student
Listener Poet: Jenny Hegland

I was a fourth-year medical student. We were pulled
from the hospitals in March. I volunteered to help

with COVID testing at the health department. It gave
me a way to be part of contributing to the solution.

Personally, I was lucky. My family and friends were
healthy. But when I went back to the ICU in June, I

saw how sick the patients were. It stayed with me
(I started micro-managing my friends after I saw

the suffering, first-hand). I wanted to lock both my
parents in the apartment with me. After surviving

being alone for so long, I realized how much I valued
my relationships. This, too, will stay with me. All

my residency interviews were virtual; there were
a lot of awkward silences and no seeing cities.

When I think back on 2020, I want to remember it was the
year I survived isolation…this is my commemoration.

Notes from the interview that inspired this poem:

She wanted a poem to commemorate her experience living through COVID-19. “I’ve been thinking a lot about the significance of living through this piece of history, and what I want to remember when I look back on this time, twenty years from now,” she said. “I envision this poem on the wall of my office when I’m a physician–as a way to remind myself what this time was like.” She told me that the most memorable part of her experience this year was being alone in her apartment and living by herself. “It’s profound knowing I can survive something like this,” she said, “but I’m glad not to do it again.”

Interviewee: Anonymous, Medical Student
Listener Poet: Jenny Hegland

Many interests play
…….on our differences
……………in an attempt
…………………to pull us apart

I believe we
…….can do better

I believe we
…….can come together

I believe we
…….can be more united

But we have to want it

We have to work hard at it

Each one of us
…….must do our part

Notes from the interview that inspired this poem:

Her third year of medical school had been full of ups and downs, unknowns, and quite a bit of feeling unsafe as she navigated her year of rotations amidst COVID-19. At the same time, she was deeply inspired by seeing so many medical professionals working tirelessly to help their patients. She wanted to contribute to the solution, in part, by helping to correct misinformation. “I believe we have the power to choose how to read situations, and I believe in the power of listening to help with divisiveness,” she said. She told me she had been practicing this with her parents as she was both helping to educate them on the science to keep them motivated in the home stretch of the pandemic, but also learning how to listen more to understand where they (and others) were coming from. “For me, it’s about putting lives first. I know we can be more united, but we have to want it and work hard for it,” she said. I got the sense she was deeply committed to doing her part.

Interviewee: Anonymous, Medical Student
Listener Poet: Jenny Hegland

The call to be consistent
in an inconsistent world
is resounding, compounding,
deafening for some–

leaving faint, the echoes
of claws on casket, legacies
long gone, reminding we’ve only
recycled the struggles for show.

In medicine, we keep going
when everything else stops–
until the day we don’t. Some
will live another day;

others will take to the clawing
until someone hears their calling.

Notes from the interview that inspired this poem:

“When everything else stops, we keep going,” she began. This woman had always wanted to be a physician, and as a medical school student, was about to become the seventh generation of physicians on her mother’s side of the family. Her paternal grandmother never had a chance to go to medical school, but even so she found a way to contribute behind the scenes in the medical field. “I’m not sure why she’s been on my mind so much lately, but she has,” she said. She shared that she had lost a close friend this week who was the same age as her, which reminded her that life does just stop sometimes. This had caused her to contemplate the pressures of medical school and the medical profession–especially the unwieldy expectations on women in the field now. “Sure, I can be a surgeon and a mom, run three clubs, be head of a board, and start my own research lab. But just because I can do these things doesn’t mean I want to do these things. Parts of my life have to be sacrificed, even now as a med student. All of this comes at a cost,” she said.

Interviewee: Anonymous, Medical Student
Listener Poet: Jenny Hegland

Unity and balance call her to the middle
over and over and over again. Here, the

weather can get rough. Sometimes she feels
unsteady; so many perspectives, opinions,

pushing and pulling, every which way, cause her
to bend and sway. Unprotected, she feels every-

thing from this place. But she is clear-eyed
and wise–the middle is where she thrives.

She does not stand rigid or resist. And just as
the trees rely on the winds to help their roots

grow stronger, so does she.
Grow stronger, so does she.

Notes from the interview that inspired this poem:

“I’ve played the mediator role, all throughout my life,” she said. “I can’t not intervene–it’s something I’ve always been drawn to. I feel most satisfied when others are satisfied, and when there is balance.” She told me that she was able to help bring unity and balance between people in situations where multiple perspectives or opinions were present or competing. “I do this because I can. There is also a cost. It often means my own voice doesn’t get heard. But the truth is I can’t always trust others to listen to my perspective, even when I do share,” she said. She told me that even though there were times this was a hard role to play, she knew it was a unique ability, and her nature as a Libra! But she also worried that this tendency, combined with her empathy, could be a weakness if she didn’t develop a strong enough center herself. “Sometimes it feels like I can easily waiver, but I know I can also learn to be strong and composed from this empathetic position in the middle.” She told me she was committed to continuing to cultivate that strength within herself.

Interviewee: Anonymous, Medical Student
Listener Poet: Jenny Hegland

her words
told a story
of the power
of presence
and proximity,
but her eyes
savored the sight
of whatever
she saw
in the silence
that was still
curiously unclear
in the distance

Notes from the interview that inspired this poem:

She had just finished a long hospital shift and was tired, but also grateful for the space to pause and reflect on her experiences and story. After months of physical distancing from others and not being able to be present in the hospital, she was appreciating the team of colleagues she had been working with, even though they’d been seeing patients with difficult social and emotional challenges. “Coming together at the end of the day to collaborate with others across disciplines to provide the best overall healthcare is part of what brought me into medicine,” she said. As we continued to talk, I was struck by how she seemed to savor the moments of silence and stillness even more than the sharing. As she reflected, she would gaze to the side, and each time I noticed a deeply curious look in her eyes. It gave me the sense that she could see or sense something that wasn’t quite ready to be spoken, or that she was anticipating exciting possibilities on the horizon. “I’d like the poem to offer a moment of pondering,” she said.

Interviewee: Anonymous, Medical Student
Listener Poet: Jenny Hegland

Having my medical school process end in COVID is crazy
because I don’t know how to feel. I’m grateful for more

time with my partner and dog. I’m grateful for enough
time to sleep. But the time is also filled with sadness,

frustration, and confusion about everything else. I
don’t let myself process the feelings. I don’t think

anyone else is letting themselves process, either (not
just within medicine). The other thing I don’t usually

let myself do, is settle in–to a place, or with people.
But somehow, I’m hopeful looking ahead, that I’ll end up

where I’m meant to be, with the right resident family and
attendings. I believe I’ll find my home in this group of

friends and mentors, hopefully in warmer weather! And that
together, we’ll find creative ways to change the healthcare

system to reach, and give voice to, the often-forgotten
families who deserve to be heard and served much better.

I do believe my days of settling in are ready to begin.

Notes from the interview that inspired this poem:

She was in her fourth year of medical school, and had recently completed many virtual residency interviews. “It’s hard, not knowing what it will be like where you’re going to train, and having to make decisions based on videos,” she said. She was holding many conflicting emotions at the same time, but was hopeful about the future. What she looked forward to the most was becoming part of a cohesive and like-minded family with her co-residents and attendings. Ideally, this would be somewhere warmer than she was now, as she missed the warm weather in California, where she was from.

Interviewee: Anonymous, Medical Student
Listener Poet: Jenny Hegland

She wasn’t able to speak much, but I
knew her favorite color was purple.

Cancer took her too fast–without
family by her side when she died.

Who was I to be in her presence when
even her own sister was not allowed?

I was the one who wore purple gloves.

Notes from the interview that inspired this poem:

“I try to focus on the glimmers of hope and humanity–on the goodness amidst all of this,” she said. She was in her third year of medical school, and her training, like everything, had been especially challenging because of COVID-19. She knew it would make her and others more resilient in the long run, but she also knew interacting with patients through masks could never be the same as touching a shoulder and seeing a face. She shared an unforgettable story with me about one particular patient who had touched her deeply. The patient’s sister, who had been her caretaker for years, wasn’t allowed to visit, so she would call her with updates as often as she could. The sister was devastated she wasn’t allowed to visit, and by the time she was, it was too late to say goodbye. She told me the patient couldn’t speak due to her disability, but that she knew her favorite color was purple, and so she would purposefully look for purple gloves to wear when she cared for her. I was blown away by this simple, but profound gesture–an act of compassion; a loving honoring of her patient’s humanity in her final days of life.

Interviewee: Anonymous, Medical Student
Listener Poet: Jenny Hegland

I am not a test.
But if I were,
these are the questions
I’d be asking:

1.
Why are we being made to suffer
(as opposed to sacrifice)
in order to become
physicians?

2.
Why do we put so much emphasis
on a test like this,
when we know it impacts
our health?

3.
Why do we continue
to use standardized testing
when we know it was crafted
for a certain crop of people?

4.
Why aren’t we asking
these questions
(seriously)
of our profession?

Notes from the interview that inspired this poem:

She had been studying for board exams and was experiencing a tremendous amount of stress and adverse impacts on her health. This had caused her to contemplate medicine and standardized test-taking, who does well and why, what it means to be a good test-taker, and how people can be impacted for many years to come. She wasn’t where she wanted to be yet in her preparations, and was trying to remain both faithful and realistic. She had already overcome challenges much greater than this in her life, and she knew there was hope on the others side. “In the grand scheme of life, should I be stressing over this or thanking God for all the other things that are going well?” she said. I got a sense the questions she was holding had been with her for a while: “I don’t have a problem making sacrifices. But is this suffering really making us better?” she asked.

Interviewee: Anonymous, Medical Student
Listener Poet: Jenny Hegland

It’s only my first year, but so far, so good
(especially considering the circumstances)

Blessings, that may not have seemed so otherwise,
include:

• Fern, and her spot right next to my desk

• Monday afternoon rest after Monday morning tests

• My apartment, that’s now full of plants

• Getting to know the city by running

• Connecting intentionally with my little sisters
  (not being there tugs at me)
  
• Study-free mealtime that incentivizes
  slow-cooked meals

• Dropping compost every other week at a friend’s
  (and staying for a home-cooked meal)
  
• Watching Bob’s Burgers and Steven Universe
  to give my brain a break

• Taking time for self-care, every single day
  
  It’s not what I’d imagined medical school would be,
  but I trust it’s what’s right for the making of me.

Notes from the interview that inspired this poem:

This person was in his first year of medical school in Cincinnati, which was a new city to him. “It’s challenging, but it’s going okay. It’s impossible to know what it would be like otherwise since this is all I know!” he said. He walked me through his daily routine that was starting to take shape with most of his classes happening online. He shared about the things he cared about, including his family, his cat, plants, and self-care. It wasn’t how he’d imagined his first year would be, and he missed friends back home. But he trusted this was where he belonged. He was committed to staying the course. “I hope the poem can reassure me of just that,” he said.

Interviewee: Anonymous, Medical Student
Listener Poet: Jenny Hegland

It was my first time actually
seeing someone die.
We’d just met, but as she
took her last breath
I had the feeling I’d known her
for a long time.

As I watched her family
I felt myself tearing up inside,
feeling the fragility of life.
After we left, I wished
we could talk about it,
but that’s not part
of our culture in medicine.

She could have been my mother.
She could have been me.
Part of living is dying,
but it’s not healthy
obsessing over death.

I long for resolve, release–
a way to find peace
and dance with the grief;
a way to find more beauty
in the everyday.

Maybe it’s finally time
to get to know
my own soul…

Notes from the interview that inspired this poem:

“I’ve been thinking a lot about my own mortality and the fragility of life,” she said. She was a third-year med student and had just finished her palliative care rotation. She shared a story about losing a patient, and told me it was the first time she had ever witnessed someone die. “There’s not a lot of space or time to process emotion,” she said. “I actually felt really sad.” She told me that since then, she had been obsessing about death, and she knew it wasn’t healthy, but the experience had triggered a lot of fear and worry in her. She wanted to learn how to be able to accept death (as it was an inevitable part of all life), without thinking about it all the time. She asked me if I had seen the movie “Soul,” and said it had reminded her of the importance of learning to see everyday beauty as a way to find joy in the present moment.

Interviewee: Anonymous, Medical Student
Listener Poet: Jenny Hegland

I love to create–
build, manifest, fabricate
all kinds of things
like furniture, longbows
meals, tree forts, clothes
halloween costumes, santa hats,
snow sculptures, plush fur scarves

Up next:
a knee-length peacoat
or maybe,
a lightsaber…
anything is possible!
and it would be so much fun
……………………..to be a Jedi–

Notes from the interview that inspired this poem:

He was a physician who loved the process of creating things. He told me he loved puzzles, problem-solving, and breaking down the base components required to get to an end goal. “I love the opportunity and possibility in creation,” he said. “Anything is possible.” He told me about different things he had made over the years, and described how much satisfaction he got from the process of taking an idea from inception to creation. He also had an incredible appreciation for the fun and the magic of life. “I never grew out of loving the magic of the lights and snow, and all that comes with the Christmas season…or of the excitement from the music at the beginning of Harry Potter,” he said. This also fueled his love for creation, prototyping, and inventing.

Interviewee: Anonymous, Physician
Listener Poet: Jenny Hegland

I wasn’t sure, at first, why,
but his story transported me
to Loughcrew…

……….maybe it was his last name,
……….or his Irish accent,
……….or the way he described
……….the cemetery he carried.

When I arrived,
a faint drumbeat
sounded
in the background:

……….Lub-dub.
……….Lub-dub.
……….Lub-dub.

Rattling rattled,
then silence
synchronized.

It was cold;
the fog hovered
just above
a grouping of gravestones,
fairly fresh.

There were four,
……….maybe five.
The mist made it hard to tell.

No one had come to pray,
or weep there,
in a while.
The grass was too upright;
knees on these blades
had not yet been felt.

Then, I heard a small choir
whisper from the dead:
……….“This is not yours,”
it simply said.

I took a deep breath,
engulfed by the gravity of what I’d felt,
and knew it was time to leave.

This passageway could only hold
enough space at a time
for one grieving soul,
……….and he was ready to enter.

Notes from the interview that inspired this poem:

He was a surgeon who had worked in emergency medicine for thirteen years. He told me that he’d been contemplating the French practitioner Rene Leriche’s quote: “Every surgeon carries within himself a small cemetery, where from time to time he goes to pray—a place of bitterness and regret, where he must look for an explanation for his failures.” He knew this feeling, intimately. “The cemetery in my head is still small–probably less than five–but I do carry it with me,” he said. “I wonder how much right I have to that second-hand pain when it’s not my loved one who has died?” He shared that physicians often talked about “cases,” but the experience of what it was like to carry this pain and grief was widely un-discussed and undisclosed. “Sometimes I wonder what it would be like to go through the list–to look at each gravestone I carry with me,” he said.

As we were about to close our conversation, he reflected on a recent experience he had observing a trauma response in the E.R. “I can tell I’m progressing in my practice,” he said. “This time, I was observing, but not detached. Detaching is an old friend of mine, but this time I was present, focused, and connected.”

Interviewee: Anonymous, Physician
Listener Poet: Jenny Hegland

I’ve been through something
that I thought would never end;
then I walked again.

Notes from the interview that inspired this poem:

This woman was deeply grateful for a meaningful career that had enabled her to make a difference as both a medical provider and educator. She wanted the poem to remind her of the meaning of her work when things got tough, and of her bravery and strength. She had been struggling with the impacts of COVID-19 and with witnessing how racism and systemic inequity was impacting the country and the people she served. She was no stranger to adversity. For six years, she’d had a medical condition that left her unable to walk and in constant pain. She had accepted she’d never walk again. Then, after receiving a different diagnosis and treatment, she’d regained her ability to walk again and function without pain. “When things feel hard now, I try to remind myself where I’ve been before. I found a way to make it then, so I know I can find a way to make it now,” she said.

Interviewee: Anonymous, Physician
Listener Poet: Jenny Hegland

Sometimes life has to
cut through something
that isn’t entirely dead
in order to help it heal
and grow to new heights

Her pruning wasn’t like
the rest because life knew
she was like bamboo, and
wouldn’t regrow from the cut–
she’d grow back from the base

(when she realized this,
she knew her next yardstick
could never be made of wood)

Notes from the interview that inspired this poem:

“I’d like my poem to be about resilience and reinvention,” she began. “These are the things I’m most proud of about myself.” After being traumatized and then publicly fired from a high-profile job in academia, she was forced to reinvent herself. Coming from a family who already valued these things, it had been easier; her mother had reinvented herself on multiple occasions. “What I learned is that it’s critical not to have a life that’s monolithic and tied only to a role. I need other interests and people to support me, so that I can have enough internal reserve to rebuild,” she said. She shared that she just accepted a new executive leadership position and was preparing to move to a new institution. “What allowed me to do this is the experience of having survived what I did. If I hadn’t been fired and gone through that trauma, I wouldn’t have grown to the heights I have grown,” she said. She went on to share that her father was a giant in the field of medicine. Now that she was no longer living in his shadow, she was having to redefine the yardstick she measured herself by.

Interviewee: Anonymous, Physician
Listener Poet: Jenny Hegland

She’d been searching for
the right words or metaphor
to describe
her pandemic experience–
Was it like two sides of the same coin?
(not really)
Was it like living in two worlds?
(not quite)

Maybe it was more
like a pot of simmering stew–
flavors blending, melding
a heaping helping of gratitude
with a reasonable ration of guilt,
and a few too many grievances
(not-yet-grumbling)
for her taste buds’ sweeter liking?

Notes from the interview that inspired this poem:

“My experience during this pandemic has been many different things,” she began. “It’s been odd.” This woman and her husband were both physicians. She was a hospitalist, and he worked in a clinical setting. They were new parents, and she was grateful for the additional time they got to have at home together as a family since the pandemic began. “That’s the good part,” she said. “The hard part is that I feel guilty for the parts of the pandemic that have been beneficial to our family because I know others are suffering.” She also mentioned that though she lived in Canada, she worked in the U.S. To get to work, she had to cross the border. “It feels like I’m living in two worlds sometimes, but not really,” she said. “As a working mom, and I don’t think I’m alone in this, it also feels like I’m doing more of the behind-the-scenes running of our family. From grocery shopping, to preparing meals, to 4am feedings, to all the other extras unseen, it’s a lot of work. I’m not sure my husband understands.” About mid-way through our conversation, she left for a moment to go “stir a pot,” as she was also meal-prepping as we talked.

Interviewee: Anonymous, Physician
Listener Poet: Jenny Hegland

Medicine woman.
Teacher.
Shaman.
Poet.
Shield-maiden.

She is a fighter.
She is a forcefield of love.
She will see right through,
……….seduce you with truth.

She is emotive.
She is devoted.
She will lure you into a full-circle
……….love affair with medicine.

She is passion.
She is purpose.
She will give you permission to settle
……….in the essential elements of life.

She is divine connection.
She is peace, embodied.
She will nurture everything around her
……….to burst into life and thrive.

She knows that we must unmake
……….the things that are destroying us.

She knows which anchors can bear
……….the weight of that unmaking.

She knows that her presence
……….is prayer.

Notes from the interview that inspired this poem:

I got a sense right away that this woman had deep wisdom to share. She had been a doctor in Emergency Medicine for twenty-four years, and was working now as a leader in medicine and medical educator. “I’m going to use the right side of my brain for this conversation,” she began. She shared with me that she’d recently written some of her own poetry and shared it with her colleagues. They were deeply touched. It reminded her that her words can help others figure out how to be in times like these. She had been focused on equity, diversity, inclusion, and wellness for a long time in her career. “It’s mind-boggling to me we have to write papers on the most essential elements of life,” she said. “Now that I’ve trained myself on the scientific aspects of medicine, I have more ability to use my intuitive side; to see and feel people fully in order to build trust. This is how we move into a right relationship with medicine.” She realized that lately she had started swaying, but not yet drifting, away from her own right relationship with medicine. “I knew I needed to re-anchor myself, and so I did. I live in a world where I am truly grateful,” she said. I left this conversation feeling deeply impacted by this woman’s presence, and by the conviction and clarity that flowed through her in this conversation.

Interviewee: Anonymous, Physician
Listener Poet: Jenny Hegland

Do you (really) know
how much you’re loved
and appreciated by me?

Maybe I’ve forgotten
to remind you
with enough frequency

So much around us
is breaking, crumbling, struggling,
but with you, everything is right

Everything you do is right

You make it look easy
to shoulder
tremendous responsibility

You carry it with swirl
and swagger, under pressure,
as if you were simply sailing

I don’t know when this storm will end,
but I know you’re more than my keel–
you are my guiding light

Everything you do is right

Notes from the interview that inspired this poem:

This man wanted a poem that conveyed the deep love and appreciation he had for his family, and especially his wife. “They are my heart and soul, and my number one priority,” he began. He and his wife had been married for almost eighteen years, and had two children who were eleven and fourteen. Their lives were busy and extra chaotic in the time of COVID-19. Both were physicians working in leadership positions at the same academic institution. “Our house shoulders a lot of responsibility,” he said. “I want to make sure my wife knows that amidst this time when everything else is breaking down and hurting, she can do no wrong in my eyes. We joke that every sailboat needs its keel, and she really is that, and more, for me–especially now. I probably haven’t told her enough lately, all the things she does right. She does everything right! I never want her to doubt that, or forget how much I love her.”

Interviewee: Anonymous, Physician
Listener Poet: Jenny Hegland

You were the answer to our prayers–
the missing heartbeat in our lives.

We’re grateful you made us parents.
Your presence made us whole.

Now we’re left with all that love
that has nowhere to go.

We loved you dearly, little one.
We will always love you fiercely.

So, yes, grief will fade with time;
our hearts, now hollow, will fill,

but still, you’ll always live in us
because love with nowhere to go

can never fade; can only grow.
Can never fade; can only grow.

Notes from the interview that inspired this poem:

She told me that her and her husband had desired a child for a very long time. They had struggled with infertility, but had finally learned they were pregnant just before Christmas, and had seen the baby’s heartbeat. “I spent Christmas alone, because my husband was working, but I didn’t feel alone. Our hearts were so full, and I remember feeling so grateful for the gift of this child who we had wanted for so long,” she said. At her next ultrasound appointment, she learned they had lost the baby. “It was shocking. We really loved our baby, even though we never met,” she said. She told me that she knew her body did all that it could to keep the baby. As she reflected on her grief and what she might want to convey at the memorial, she said, “I want you to know you had two parents who loved you, and you had the most wonderful father. Thank you for making me a mom. We’ll wait to meet you next in heaven.”

Interviewee: Anonymous, Physician
Listener Poet: Jenny Hegland

I’ve been told I look like an astronaut in
outer space when I walk into patients’ rooms.

Wearing a PAPR makes the space around me feel
alien. It’s bulky, weighty, loud; always whirring.

A constant physical reminder of the weight of
our work, the responsibility, the barriers between

us and patients. I wish I could touch their skin,
listen to their hearts and lungs, as I care for them.

Underneath, I wear scrubs; the white coat seems one more
unnecessary layer (I wonder about what it symbolizes).

Sometimes I’m overwhelmed, lonely, wistful. Sometimes I’m
humbled, grateful. I’m always hopeful because my days are

also sprinkled with moments of love. I felt cared for when
they brought us apple pie–that was such a nice surprise.

Notes from the interview that inspired this poem:

She was a physician working in an inpatient setting with COVID patients. She was unable to wear an N95, so instead she had to wear a PAPR every day. “It’s loud, and a constant physical reminder of the weight of this work right now, and of the barriers between us and patients. It symbolizes the complexity and extra layers we’re dealing with because of COVID,” she said. She told me that while it was a hassle putting it on, taking it off, and cleaning and wiping it every day, she still felt deep gratitude for the work she was able to do. “I realize this is an inconvenience for me, whereas others have had the entire fabric of their lives disrupted,” she said. “I try my best to help every patient. Even when I’m worried inside, I provide the best care I can.” At the end, this poem references a specific time she felt especially cared for, which she appreciated because it was what she strived to do for her patients. She wanted the poem to be both wistful and hopeful to capture the multiplicity of her experience.

Interviewee: Anonymous, Physician
Listener Poet: Jenny Hegland

There we were–gathered around her in the ICU.
She had decided it was her time to stop fighting.

She didn’t have COVID, but almost all of our other
patients did. We had been working in the ICU for weeks.

In medical school, we were taught not to cry in front
of patients. But that day, we cried. We all cried.

Behind our masks, somehow, we had more permission.
The built-up emotion needed somewhere to go.

There was nothing else to do. There was nothing else to do,
but to be there, and cry. All of the other stuff we surround

ourselves with day-to-day, fell away. I want to remember
that feeling. I want to take it with me, wherever I go.

It needs a place to stay. Where can I give this grief a home?

Notes from the interview that inspired this poem:

One week into her ICU rotation this year, her ICU had been converted to COVID-only. It was an incredibly challenging time for her. “We’re used to being able to sit with our patients and be by their sides. Not only could we not do that, but there was no safe space for family members. I saw so many heroes–nurses and others–doing what they could to comfort patients. I don’t want to leave this story behind…it was a difficult time but somehow revealed what was most essential. It’s like I don’t have anywhere to put these experiences so I can remember them,” she said. She recounted one particular story from a time her team was caring for an older patient who had traumatic injuries that could probably have been treated, but the patient decided she didn’t want to pursue them. She had lived a long, beautiful life and was ready for it to end. This poem speaks to that story she recounted, and the emotion that was present not only for her, but for the entire team of providers. “I’d like the poem to be raw and honest–just like I felt that day,” she said.

Interviewee: Anonymous, Physician
Listener Poet: Jenny Hegland

When the weight of the New day
rests upon your chest

Making rise and fall of breath
impossible to feel, and everything is numb

May you find, inside,
a sanctuary for your soul

Where the sun meets morning
with a golden glow to warm you

Where the chill of wind meets your cheeks
with a sweeping offer of serenity

Where the thinning October maple outside your window
wakes you to the beauty of fallen leaves

Where the colorless chrysanthemums in the garden remind:
nothing in nature blooms every season

Where the traveling song of birds
leaves space for tears to grieve

Where the rainclouds reveal how letting go
makes possible all of life to grow

Where the chirping of crickets at dusk
helps you hear your own heartbeat, and return to your body

Where the stars in the sky smile upon and guide you
to rest in the softness of soon-to-come snow

Notes from the interview that inspired this poem:

This person was experiencing a tremendous amount of loss and overwhelm as a daughter, parent, spouse, physician, and champion for medical school students. Together, the pandemic, racism, and the political environment were weighing heavily on her and had begun hitting close to home. In the past few months, she’d lost three very close family members. “There are many external needs right now because of these losses; I need to stay strong. But the weight is incomprehensible. I can’t see clearly; everything is too clouded with thoughts,” she said. “As a caregiver for so many others, I can’t fully mourn. I feel more numb than anything else.” As a practitioner who advocated for and taught humanistic and compassionate care for patients, she wanted this poem to be an offering of that, to herself. “I’d like for the poem to offer relief, comfort, and validation that what I’m doing is enough,” she said. “I’d like the poem to feel like a hug.”

Interviewee: Anonymous, Physician
Listener Poet: Jenny Hegland

Family is every-
thing to me.
So many others
want to be defined
as doctors.
I want to be
known for being
a good husband,
a good father,
someone with a
heart for kids
who also happens
to be
a good doctor.

Notes from the interview that inspired this poem:

“I will choose work life balance over being consumed by my profession every day,” he said. He was a third-year medical school student, and was beginning to think about what specialty he might pursue. While it was very important to him to become a committed and competent doctor who built relationships with his patients over time, he was also very close with his family, and wasn’t willing to sacrifice his family life, now or in the future, for his profession. “Sometimes I worry I may be looked down upon for this, since so many in this field prioritize medicine above all else in their lives. I hope the poem can reassure me I can still be a good doctor and make a difference while living a balanced life. I always knew I wanted to be a doctor, but it’s not who I want to be known as. I want to be known more as a good husband and father,” he said.

Interviewee: Anonymous, Medical Student
Listener Poet: Jenny Hegland

I’m not supposed to say it’s a priority because
my husband is here. As women, we’re expected to

do a lot. To deal with a lot, without needing a
lot. Some would say my career should come first.

The possibility of being apart, of being somewhere
without my biggest support, scares me. I know he’ll

be wonderful no matter where I go; it’s a gift
to have a relationship this patient and loving.

I’ll be grateful when I know where I’ll be, and I’ll
be happy and relieved if we can stay here, together–

Notes from the interview that inspired this poem:

“There’s not a lot within your control in the match process, and I think that’s creating anxiety for me,” she said. She was going into her fourth year of medical school, which is where she’d met her husband. They were friends at first, grew closer over time, and were married earlier this year. “I know every specialty is competitive, and the possibility of being in different locations scares me. Residency is trying, emotionally and mentally. I think I’m fearful of being somewhere alone without my support system.” She told me how loving her relationship was, and that she was incredibly grateful to have such a sweet, supportive, and patient spouse. She didn’t feel any pressure from him. She knew he would do whatever it took, but she did feel some pressure that she wasn’t supposed to say her preference was to be where he was. “A lot of people would tell me my career should come first,” she said.

Interviewee: Anonymous, Medical Student
Listener Poet: Jenny Hegland

In the ER we see people on their worst days;
now-a-days, it’s their worst day amidst a pandemic.

I don’t see them as patients with problems–
they are people, and it’s important how I treat them.

But the more I see patients as people,
the tougher it can be to accept tough outcomes.

Even so, my priority is making sure I’m proud
of how I care for patients and their families.

It’s what makes the hard work so fulfilling;
It’s how I know I’m in exactly the right place.

Notes from the interview that inspired this poem:

This person was an emergency medicine physician in her first independent job since graduating from residency. “It’s been a challenging transition,” she said. She told me that she was adjusting to having fewer resources now that she was no longer at a large academic institution. She still felt good about her work, as challenging as it was. “In the ER we see raw humanism, and now it’s mixed in with the pandemic. But the most important thing is that I make sure I’m proud of how I treat people; that I can connect well with them.” she said. She wanted her poem to convey the contentment she felt about her work, and the high value she placed on seeing patients as people.

Interviewee: Anonymous, Physician
Listener Poet: Jenny Hegland

I feel helpless,
for the first time,
like I’m spiraling downward; drowning.

I spent years training to be able
to spot all the health effects
of an untreated pulmonary embolism.

I made the right diagnosis.
The patient left with a treatment plan.
But he returned, weeks later, much worse.

He couldn’t afford the blood thinners he needed.
We spent hours with social workers, case workers,
pharmacists, and still

We failed him. As a healthcare system.

It was all preventable.

I learned how to diagnose disease, but not
how to treat a broken society.
Or a broken healthcare system, plagued by disparity.

They didn’t teach me how to swim in THIS.
How am I supposed to help…to doctor,
when I can barely keep my head above water?

Notes from the interview that inspired this poem:

This woman was a medical resident. She had just finished a three-week rotation that left her feeling helpless and burned out, for the first time. Throughout her training, she’d often felt tired, but she’d always felt the time spent was productive, until this rotation. She enjoyed the patients she cared for, and was interested in their cases, but she saw how the system was failing patients. At times, it was insurance refusing to cover necessary medications. Or the inability of some patients to pay for the rehabilitation support they needed. She knew what needed to be done, but wasn’t able to see the treatments through because of non-clinical factors out of her control. “We spend hours meeting with the social workers, case workers, and pharmacists. Sometimes it feels like it’s all pointless as it doesn’t translate to patients getting what they need,” she said. “I feel like I’m treading water, helpless, almost drowning.” She had been confronted with disparity in a way she’d never witnessed first-hand. She shared a story about one patient that was particularly disheartening to her. “We, as a healthcare system, failed him,” she said. “Frustrated isn’t even the right word; I feel helpless, hopeless–this isn’t what I was trained to do.”

Interviewee: Anonymous, Physician
Listener Poet: Jenny Hegland

The first is not-at-all foreign.

I’m comfortable with the kind of tension

that has come from my choosing:

— A career as an anesthesiologist

   and an education administrator

— Not having children of my own

— Responsibility for 1100 trainees

    who I want to (but can’t) know individually

— Institutional obligation to a role and

   personal obligation to my heart

The second is completely foreign.

I’m not (yet?) comfortable with the kind of tension

that has not come from my choosing:

— Do I need to dedicate more time somewhere else?

— What will it be like to lose a parent?

— What else (like meditation) have I neglected

    or forgotten?

— What else haven’t I (ever) thought about?

Notes from the interview that inspired this poem:

This person had always identified strongly with her career as a physician and medical educator. She felt she’d been lucky, both in her career and life, because both were full of meaning (and relatively full of ease). The last few months in her leadership role during COVID-19 had tested her. It was the tension outside of her work, however, that she’d really begun to notice for the first time in her life. “My mom was in the hospital twice this summer,” she said. “It could have been the straw that broke the camel’s back. Even though I’m a physician and my parents are 86 and 87, I’d never thought about what it would be like to lose a parent.” As I listened to her share, it was evident that tension was not foreign to her in her professional role. Perhaps, though, there were other kinds of tension she hadn’t yet encountered that were knocking on her door. “I’d like the poem to leave me curious,” she said. “Perhaps it could point me toward something I hadn’t seen before.”

Interviewee: Anonymous, Physician
Listener Poet: Jenny Hegland

For others, she’s mastered

the art of holding space,

the gift of giving grace.

For herself, she’s learning

to listen. In stillness, she knows

the artist inside

is calling her home.

Notes from the interview that inspired this poem:

She was the only psychologist at her institution. It was now a full-service COVID-19 facility. She had been providing support to both patients, as well as her colleagues, since the pandemic began. “This is the first time everyone is going through the same thing, including providers,” she said. “But I can’t tell a patient, ‘Oh yeah, I’m feeling the same way,’ when I’m the one providing stability.” She was visibly tired. When I asked her what drew her to this experience, she lit up. “I came to psychology later in life,” she said. “I used to be an artist, and I haven’t sketched anything for at least fifteen years. Psychology is a different kind of creativity than the immediacy of pen on paper. I want to reconnect with this side of me. I’m looking forward to picking up new skills.  Who knows, maybe I’ll continue.”

Interviewee: Anonymous, Psychologist
Listener Poet: Jenny Hegland

Sometimes I wonder
if this career
is really worth the cost:
— what (maybe) could have
been a happy marriage
— being a stay-at-home mom
(I don’t want to be
a stay-at-home mom)
— not getting time to pee;
every ten hours a bite
to eat; chronic fatigue
— only taking what I’m
given; never asking
for what I need
— the possibility of never
having a family

But then I remember there’s
a reason I haven’t given up.
I have so much passion
for the people I serve.

Today I got to readjust
a femur! How intimate–to get
to touch someone’s body
to help them get better.

In the operating room,
people trust us to control
their breathing; to keep
their bodies functioning.

When I’m sewing up wounds
I never wonder about
the cost. I only feel
focused and closeness.

I am a human force amidst
IV lines and white coats.
I am resilience and endurance.
I am on the right path.

Notes from the interview that inspired this poem:

This person wanted her poem to be about the resilience, sacrifice, and endurance it took to pursue a medical career. She told me she was engaged when she first began medical school. Eventually, she had to make the hardest decision of her life to call it off. “We had been together for seven years. I already had a wedding dress,” she said. “I don’t know if it’s worth it, to be giving up so much of myself for a career.” She intended to pursue neurosurgery, and told me how others who’ve gone this path have found it impossible to maintain a relationship or have a family. “There is so much burnout, but I also love the operating room. There’s a reason I haven’t given up,” she said. She came alive when she described what it felt like to be entrusted with people’s lives in surgery. She was holding many tensions at the same time, but even so, she said she still knew she was on the right path.

Interviewee: Anonymous, Resident
Listener Poet: Jenny Hegland

when you want
to meet people
where they are,
never travel
untethered;

before you go,
always remember:
stay connected
to you compass
and your center

Notes from the interview that inspired this poem:

Part of her responsibility was to help medical students with their professional identity formation and to support faculty development. As a social worker, she knew the value of human connection, listening, and centering patients and families within the healthcare system. “This is the compass that guides me, and can keep us connected to our values,” she said. “It’s easy to get sidetracked by outside forces like agendas, stakeholders, and infrastructure. Instead, we need to align the system with our values, and keep our patients and families at the center of everything we do, by staying centered ourselves.” She acknowledged this wasn’t easy. “We’re supposed to be able to set aside our needs to take care of others, but then we turn around and say we need to take care of ourselves. It’s not always possible to prioritize both of those things. But if you’re not struggling with it, you’re not in it. If you’re struggling, it means you’re connected,” she said.

Interviewee: Anonymous, Social Worker
Listener Poet: Jenny Hegland

she is gorgeous
brown, black, white
long mane
long, full tail

we’re having so much fun
in the fields
on the trails
galloping around the pasture

we’re bravely crossing bridges
and facing
our fears
together

I’m grateful
I’ve got her on track
for getting
all healed up

I’m grateful
she’s got me on track
for getting
all healed up, too

Notes from the interview that inspired this poem:

She grew up with horses, riding. It was a big part of her life and teenage years. Losing her first horse after fourteen years (and too young) was a traumatic experience. After that, she graduated from college and got married. She rode her friends’ horses, never thinking she would own one again. This year, the stars had aligned. She’d found a horse that changed that conviction for her. She decided to once again invest in a relationship, even though it meant facing her fears and knowing she’d eventually have to lose another love. She radiated so much joy and life as she told me about her new horse. “We’ve just been having so much fun together. She is so beautiful, and I’m so proud of how far she’s come. I see now that we’re both facing our fears together. It’s been a very difficult year working in healthcare, but she’s reminding me there is beauty all around us in the world, even when things are hard. She has inspired me to pursue my dreams, even though life is short,” she said. It was clear their bond was a powerful source of healing, light, and learning how to trust–for both of them.

Interviewee: Anonymous, Staff
Listener Poet: Jenny Hegland

before she sleeps
she tenderly tucks in
each hidden story,
each unshared secret,
each ask for a hug
with the love
of a mother
and the endearment
of a soul
who has discovered
a piece of herself
in another

Notes from the interview that inspired this poem:

“When you get to hear the hidden sides of people’s stories, you never look at people the same,” she said, with a noticeable tenderness in her voice. This woman was a therapist who supported physicians and residents. “Sometimes as I lay in bed at night I inhabit the stories people share with me. It’s almost like a mother tucking her children in at night, endeared to some of the people I talk with who don’t always get to express their humanity in their work,” she said. She went on to talk about the “hidden curriculum” in medicine, which is a set of unspoken rules for medical professionals: always be objective, don’t appear weak, don’t cry in front of patients, you’re never sick, don’t ask for help, don’t let anyone know anything personal. “I’ve been working hard to change this culture because doctors deserve to be real people,” she said. “Seeing the hidden side of providers is a sacred experience. My ears hear so many secrets and so much that people barely dare to give utterance to elsewhere. To embrace these realities as my life’s work is the most amazing gift I can think of.”

Interviewee: Anonymous, Staff
Listener Poet: Jenny Hegland

Notes from the interview that inspired this poem:

This woman had been working in diversity, equity, and inclusion since the ‘90s. She was frustrated and angry that such little measurable progress had been made since then. “Lately I’ve been most concerned about efforts to quiet people’s voices and votes, which is tied to the situation we’re in. It’s all so disturbing,” she said. She shared that she was half Japanese-American, third generation, and that most people didn’t realize she was a person of color. When her parents married in 1960, interracial marriage was illegal in seventeen states. “I admire people who can see the opportunities amidst the despair–especially millennials. They are so much more accepting and inclusive than my generation. Seeing how my children react and treat people gives me so much hope,” she said.

Interviewee: Anonymous, Staff
Listener Poet: Jenny Hegland

Why am I in the middle?
Why am I so lonely?

Am I good enough?
Am I doing enough?

How much better
will ever be enough?

What can I say aloud that isn’t
hidden, haunted by not-enough-ness?

She is surely the most
devious demon I’ve battled…

that I’m still battling,
in the shadows, every day.

My only consolation is knowing
I can’t be the only one…

Notes from the interview that inspired this poem:

“These are the words that keep coming up for me,” she said. “‘Enough,’ and ‘in the middle.’ She had been in a constant push and pull between being okay with who she was and what she did, and always wanting to be better. She had become used to lonely roles in her life: she was an educational administrator (and the only one at her institution who held the role she did). She was the only professional woman in a large family. Her husband stayed at home to care for their children. She held a doctorate, and when she got married, she was sure she’d be a stay-at-home mom. Things hadn’t played out that way, and she was proud of where she had ended up, but she had rarely ever shared her desire from earlier in life with anyone. “It’s another element of me, and I wonder if it’s an element of other professional women that they can’t ever fully share, because it would be a sure-fire career stopper if you said it aloud,” she said. “I would love to see myself in this poem in a way that’s validating. I hope it can help others, as well, to be able to see someone else’s struggles and legitimize that they are okay, and enough, too.”

Interviewee: Anonymous, Staff
Listener Poet: Jenny Hegland

When all of the injustice
gets to be so big,
the one thing
I know I can do
is listen.

When all of the pain
starts to cut so deep,
the one thing
I know I can do
is speak truth
about the things
that are hard.

When all of the truth
starts to come into light,
I don’t know yet,
if anything,
will be left.

Notes from the interview that inspired this poem:

She had been spending a lot of nights laying awake thinking about all the things that had gone wrong this year. “I don’t even have a short fuse anymore…I don’t have any fuse! There’s just nothing left. The stress and uncertainty are constant. I can’t get away from it,” she began. The pandemic was taking a toll on her daughter’s school and mental health. The social unrest had brought her own privilege to the forefront in a way that was more concrete and real than ever before. She believed now was the time to uplift Black Lives Matter, and she was working hard to simultaneously serve as an ally to the LGBTQ+ community, who had their own unique needs at this time. All of this was happening in the backdrop of realizing her marriage was over. She hadn’t yet told her husband and some of her family. Her mother-in-law had recently passed away. Her mother had been diagnosed with lung cancer last year and was living with tremendous fear every day now. “I really don’t have any fuse left,” she said.

Interviewee: Anonymous, Staff
Listener Poet: Jenny Hegland

This has been such a hard year;
it started off rough for us

even before COVID darkened the door.
I didn’t know how I could cope

with the danger (I had been denying)
of my daughter’s depression, while I

was at the end of my tether too? I needed
to do things to keep me strong,

so I started getting serious about my own
self-care: sleeping, nurturing relationships,

unplugging from news, poetry, biking.
I’m happy about the progress I’ve made–

I feel like I’ve tapped into some resilience,
but damn…we’re gonna need it.

__________This just grinds on and on and on.

I wonder and worry: how close will it come
to my own inner circle? Will it be my aging mother?

My smoking husband? All bets are off.
But it doesn’t have to be tragic.

The slowing down gives space to sit
and think about what matters.

People matter. Love matters.
Truth matters. Beauty matters.

My connection to the universe matters.
The natural world matters. It will show us ways

to be there for one another, to bear witness
to the unburdening, throughout all the seasons.

Notes from the interview that inspired this poem:

Right away, this woman radiated warmth, kindness, and a generosity of spirit that shone in her eyes. She shared that her year began with a terrible scare from her daughter’s depression, and trying to cope with that crisis had prompted one of her own. She began going to therapy and committed to prioritizing self-care so that she could make it through this time of uncertainty with enough strength to also support others. “Anything we can do to foster resilience is needed now; we’re in a log slog here and I’d like that to be my topic of unburdening today,” she said. “We just don’t know what lies ahead, so I’m focusing on what I can control. We’re making slow progress toward a new normal, and it doesn’t have to be tragic. But we’re going to need to tap into a lot of resilience together…and to our connections to the natural world, the universe, and to the sublime.”

Interviewee: Anonymous, Staff
Listener Poet: Jenny Hegland

/………——————————………\
/ …………Together they wove………..\
/ a web so strong it became haven \
| to joy-soaked grief; sacred weaving |
\..revealing sun’s light gleaming../
\ on salty raindrop diamonds, /
\..portaled by poetry into../
\ this life, reminds of /
\ the time before /
\ they were /
\ three /
\ — /

Notes from the interview that inspired this poem:

This was a beautiful and heartfelt conversation with three women who all worked in medical education. They were connected through a poetry group they’d created together. The women wanted to share their experiences of building deep friendship and co-creating joy through poetry. Toward the end of the conversation, after they had offered anecdotes about their favorite poems and most meaningful shared experiences, one of the women began to cry as she reflected on a particularly memorable moment she recently shared with one of the others. “It was the kind of experience, like after a storm when you notice raindrops clinging to the plants, especially the ones with spider webs. The raindrops shine like little diamonds. For me, knowing that our time is limited, I want to capture and hold every one of those moments, so precious like those little diamonds of water on spider webs after the rain,” she said.

The other woman (who had been referenced in the aforementioned memory) shared next. “I have been treated for advanced cancer for several years now,” she said. “There is no cure for it. What’s been most meaningful to me is that we’ve been able to share life together in a way that is different than how we normally would–like the little diamonds on the spider webs. We’ve created a precious thing together.” The third woman connected with the imagery as well, and in that moment everything softened and blended. The metaphor revealed the sacred essence this group of friends had cultivated through poetry. Poetry was their portal to shared vulnerability, meaning-making, friendship, playfulness, joy, love, and grieving the inevitable impermanence of it all. I left the conversation feeling deeply grateful for the rare privilege and gift of bearing witness to their story.

Interviewee: Anonymous, Group of Staff
Listener Poet: Jenny Hegland

I’m learning to see
all that hides in the shadows

I’m learning to listen
when confronted with not knowing

I’m learning to sense
where and when to engage my energy

I’m learning to discern
what’s mine to own and what I can discard

I’m learning to recognize
my own power and voice; my own truth and choice

I’m learning to be
unabashedly more of me

Notes from the interview that inspired this poem:

This woman was currently a medical school student. She was one of only two Black students in her class. She had first worked in the corporate world before deciding to pursue medical school at age twenty-five. Recently, she’d finished an essay for a service-learning scholarship. “Writing this essay has really helped me uncover insights and access clarity within myself,” she said. “I’ve realized how internalized some limiting beliefs have become, especially as a minority. My classmates just assumed that since I was there and Black, I must have received help or scholarship funding, but that wasn’t the case. I realize now that I felt like an imposter and wasn’t talking with many classmates, even though I learned how to speak up in a corporate setting.” She went on to share how this motivated her to step into leadership roles to create networking opportunities for underrepresented women to meet and receive support from other women. “I would love for this poem to convey the peace available within clarity,” she said.

Interviewee: Anonymous
Listener Poet: Jenny Hegland

Three stories
up there’s a
tree-top
backdrop,
where
summer’s
green is
holding
a nest.
When the
storms roll in,
it’s protected well
so life may find its pace.
There’s a spinning top there,
that’s made this nest its home, and it’s
moving in every direction. It spins and spins
and spins and spins as it rides the currents of the winds.
Wind surfing is a scary sport, but this nest,
a blessed arena. When summer ends and
the leaves drop orange, it’s true the
nest may fall. But either way
will be just the same,
because by then,
the seasons
will
have
changed.

And by then the top will have spun so much, it will have shed what needed to go.

Notes from the interview that inspired this poem:

“There is so much movement happening,” she began, “and somehow it’s among the stillness.” This woman shared that she felt like she was starting over in many ways. Recently she had moved to a new state, her two daughters had moved back in with her after graduating from college, and she had begun a new graduate degree program. All of this happened while she was working remotely and developing new ways to serve patients. “How can I be so still and so exhausted at the same time? I am taking in and processing so much more information now,” she said. “I feel like a spinning top, moving in every direction at the same time.” She went on to share that her new third-floor apartment overlooked beautiful trees, making the new place feel like a nest. “In the morning, on my balcony, I’m able to feel one with nature, with the birds. I feel like this is a safe nest for movement, for starting over, and for learning how to shape-shift,” she said.

Interviewee: Anonymous
Listener Poet: Jenny Hegland

I’ve been thinking
about the luxury
of a simple routine–
a steady job
working mostly from home;
exercise, cooking,
and space in between.
It’s a good one,
this routine.

At the same time,
I’ve been thinking about
how others are losing
their dreams.
So in this predictable
tale of two worlds,
from here on the fortunate side,
I’m simply bearing witness
instead of turning a blind eye.

Notes from the interview that inspired this poem:

“I’ve been thinking a lot about how much COVID seems to have amplified however people were doing beforehand. If you were doing well, you’re probably doing even better; if you were not doing well, you’re probably doing a lot worse,” he said. As a physician, he had been bearing witness to a lot of people whose struggles had only been made worse. “I don’t think this is anything new…it’s the tale of two worlds,” he said. “I may not have a house in the Hamptons, but I am on the really, really, really fortunate side. I have a steady job. I’m able to work from home, exercise, and cook. I’m in a routine — a good one. I realize it’s a luxury not everyone has,” he said.

Interviewee: Anonymous
Listener Poet: Jenny Hegland

“give until it hurts”
has been her mantra at work–
hurting numbs the pain

Notes from the interview that inspired this poem:

“The pandemic has taught me a lot about the cost of my own sacrifices,” she said. This woman was a hospitalist who worked on the front lines during the COVID-19 surge in Boston. “I have a mantra at work: ‘give until it hurts.’ I believe I’m here to give of myself through acts of service,” she said. She also expressed this was how she viewed her relationships with her four children and her spouse. The pandemic had been an incredibly stressful time at home. After the surge got under control, she was spending more time at home than ever before. “I was suddenly trapped in my house and I didn’t realize the extent that traveling had been a solace for me; a way to escape and have my own downtime. Now I was forced to come face-to-face with my kids and my spouse. Everything became so concentrated, and I came head-to-head in all of my personal relationships,” she said. She was wrestling with many questions related to her identity, including, “Who am I in all of this?”

Interviewee: Anonymous
Listener Poet: Jenny Hegland

David clearly won the battle, but
You wouldn’t know it by his face:
Turned up and away unreadably,
Struck by a purposeful ray of light
You can’t know what he’s thinking

But is knowing the point?
Trying to read him is a challenge
And if your soul hurts you,
Wrestling against sharp-toothed ambiguity,
Maybe you relied too much on certainty
In the first place

Notes from the interview that inspired this poem:

For the past fifteen years he had been creating workshops for young medical students at an art museum. He believed that the systemic issue of burnout in the field of healthcare could be mitigated by training healers in the emotional resilience necessary to witness suffering and death on a regular basis. By encouraging students to contemplate the complexities of artwork, he could help them build the emotional intelligence and openness to ambiguity that were rarely sufficiently covered in traditional medical education.

Interviewee: Anonymous, Educator
Listener Poet: Elle Klassen

The human heartbeat creates
A regular pulse,
A pounding anticipation,
A jump of non-expectation

This, the rhythmic flow
Of life
Fills the atmosphere
That we all share. And yet
Life gets away from us,
We fall into external cadences
Our hearts beat off-kilter,
Our wavelengths lose harmony
We dance to artificial refrains
And we embrace rational thought

As we search for alignment,
We recall that life flows
Through all of us
Our hearts beat uniquely. We
Learn to harmonize their tides
We allow our pulses the courage to
Waltz with each other,
Connecting our spirits and
Restoring our wholeness

Notes from the interview that inspired this poem:

This woman’s career involved teaching medical students and physicians how to communicate, empathize, and connect with other people. It thrilled her that although the science-minded people she worked with were regulated and driven by structure and theory, they could not succeed without human connection. Every doctor she knew was driven by some scientific fascination that had its underpinnings in empathy for humanity. She loved helping science-minded people become more comfortable with empathy and human connection and was fulfilled by the corresponding improvements that she saw in health outcomes.

Interviewee: Anonymous, Educator
Listener Poet: Elle Klassen

All this time I’ve been
Held to a high standard
Of detachment, and
It doesn’t really serve me
It presents itself as resilience,
As perseverance,
As necessary
But all of that is a lie
No one is detached as they
Head into another surgery
After watching a child die

The falsehood is a heavy one,
But I was convinced otherwise
I thought I let things go
As they came,
But really I pushed them down
And they built up inside me
Until I was incapacitated

Did you know that up to fifty percent
Of people who do this work
Experience PTSD?
Maybe it isn’t to you,
But this was news to me
So now every day I work to make sure
That it isn’t for others
I spend my life making sure that
The future is connected

The high standard of the future
Is being in touch

Notes from the interview that inspired this poem:

He was a pediatric physician with a focus on heart issues. Most of his career had involved high-intensity heart surgery on children. Many of them died. Because of the intensity of the job, the work culture implicitly stressed the values of strength and detachment in the face of deeply emotional experiences. After years of bottling things up, the weight of his work began to adversely affect him. He started avoiding interacting with families as much as possible because of the painful empathy that it required, and he became angry and closed off in his home life. After he lost a close friend and colleague to suicide from these same pressures, he realized that neither of them had been dealing with work experiences in healthy ways. He learned that empathy, reflection, connection, and introspection were essential parts of their daily work. In his new role arranging curriculum for medical students, he worked hard to emphasize the importance of these skills in any medical career.

Interviewee: Anonymous, Physician
Listener Poet: Elle Klassen

It’s a different experience
To teach mostly online
It’s harder to connect with my students
On video calls
Than it is in person
And I never know if I should be looking
At their faces,
For authenticity
Or at the camera,
For eye contact

But if someone forgets the name
Of their prescription,
They can just go get it
And if we interview a child,
We see them in their natural habitat
And we can do so much more
With these advantages
It’s not a bad thing
To teach mostly online
But it’s different

Notes from the interview that inspired this poem:

Every year he taught and advised a small group of eight or nine medical students, meeting with them in person two or three times a week. This year was the first time that most of these meetings were on Zoom. It was frustrating not to be able to interact with students the same way he used to, but there were also advantages to meeting online. Reflecting on the shift, he kept returning to the juxtaposition of opportunities and challenges that his group was experiencing as they embarked on the new style of learning together.

Interviewee: Anonymous, Physician
Listener Poet: Elle Klassen

colour, bursting
behind my eyelids;
I possess it alone
awe of nature
and humanity
tucked inside my heart,
hammering to escape and
diffuse into the world
I have all of the love,
but passing it on is
no longer simple
I’ve learned new ways to
share the joys of life
I let go,
I breathe in
anew

Notes from the interview that inspired this poem:

He’d been diagnosed with Parkinson’s Disease a few years ago and it had changed his life. He was a doctor and a college professor, and the disease had taken a huge toll on his ability to express emotions in conversation. Everything he experienced still gave him strong emotional reactions, but he could no longer physically express them like he used to. In the past, his expressiveness and empathy were some of his strongest teaching tools, and without them, it was much more difficult to engage learners. He had decided to retire and seek joy and self-expression in new ways, but hoped to stay in the social circle of the college forever.

Interviewee: Anonymous, Physician
Listener Poet: Elle Klassen

everything has changed
this tragedy breathes new life
I am so inspired

sometimes I wonder
if I’m doing the right thing
I reflect; I am

Notes from the interview that inspired this poem:

She loved kids and was in her second year of residency to become a pediatric medical professional. There was a lot of administrative work to do, so she had to work really hard to find time to spend with the children receiving care. She sometimes wondered if she should have chosen a job where spending time with them was more central. She always arrived back at the conviction that she was in the right career. The pandemic had caused her to step back and reevaluate what was important to her, which had given her a burst of energy to start new projects at work. Lately, she was focused on initiatives that recognized patients’ humanity and aimed to leverage it to improve the quality of care they received.

Interviewee: Anonymous, Resident
Listener Poet: Elle Klassen