Ganesh Chilukuri

Pressure.
Squished.
Walls closing in on me.
Constricting passageways, constricting airways, constricting existence,
No room to be, yet still, I am free.
I shall press on;
I bend, I flex, I slip, I slide, squeezing through every twist and turn.
A silent force keeps pushing me, so much left to learn.
I lose small pieces as I go—the other cells steal from me: the fuel for their fires.
MY oxygen, bound to heme.
But I share my gifts willingly, I let them go.
Onward I flow through winding ways, feeling the pull of hands take what may and rarely give, But something in me knows my role.
I carry life, I guide their living,
I am meant to provide.
Though bits of me decay, a part of me gains.
Still, my identity remains.
Then comes a space that opens wider, capillaries morph into veins stretching far and free. Now in a breathless, quiet sea, I drift, I glide. No walls collide.
In all this room, I carry what’s new, proteins to sustain and molecules to recycle.
Though some of me is left no more,
My essence remains to ensure my world’s health.
I surge and rush, feeling the heart’s embrace.
My journey ends, yet begins anew—for every beat, a steady race, I’ll still push through.
As I travel, many goals cloud my mind: to carry, to replenish, to heal.
With loss and gain, I fulfill my appreciable journey.
And, the reward to breathe again.

Ganesh Chilukuri

Lost in a world of dissection,

her eyes fix upon the brachial plexus,

gaze darting around the ‘M’.

She moves with intention,

her interest evident,

a blend of confidence and compassion,

in every word she recites.

Every body she learns.

I admire the balance she holds,

finding joy and laughter in stress,

with friends, classmates, and professors,

amid the smell of formaldehyde.

A life well-lived.

Her focus captivates,

the way her eyes narrow and brows furrow,

veering between tags,

she smiles at the correct answer.

She moves to another donor,

every action deliberate.

With focused determination,

no cut and no detail goes unnoticed.

The essence of her motivation,

a passion for her training,

the way she remains curious and kind.

She inspires.s here

Braden Bubarth

“Doctor O’ Doctor, please hurry. Come quick. 

I think something’s wrong.  

I think I’m quite sick.  

My elbows are bendy. My fingers are too.  

Please, Doctor O’ Doctor,  

tell me what to do. 

There’s a lump on my face, right here, in the middle.  

When I hear something funny,  

I can’t help but giggle. 

The top of my head is all covered in hair. 

Doctor, you must help.  

I’m starting to scare.” 

“I try to sing songs, but I can’t chirp or tweet.  

I looked down at my legs,  

and I found two big feet.  

I stood in the mirror and looked everywhere. 

But I can’t find my feathers 

just tiny brown hairs. 

The worms that I eat taste slimy and gross. 

And all of a sudden,  

I can’t perch on my post. 

I forgot how to nest. I can’t find the right sticks 

Doctor O’ Doctor,  

you must know the fix.” 

The doctor looked puzzled at the man in his office. 

“No, don’t be so silly.  

You really must stop this. 

Two times a week, you come to my clinic.  

Each time, a new creature  

you’re trying to mimic. 

What’s a doctor to do? It’s mad, what I’ve heard. 

How can I help? 

The man who thinks he’s a bird.”

Josette Graves

A sullen man tears minuscule pieces  

of stale bread off a tiny loaf. 

The bits play around in his fingers  

Within a pill-rolling tremor.  

He squints through diamond wire,
the fence dividing him
from beggars stomping in the parking lot.
Behind him, the highway roars unnoticed. 

He winds back his right hand 

To catapult his shares. 

They have risen! 

Only to fall to the greedy coos below. 

A smile began at the ulcerated corner of his mouth.  

He relished the consummation of 

Every last morsel of bread, 

Now accounted for in the creatures’ bellies. 

None remains for him again. 

Empty palms pat pockets  

To check for forgotten crumbs. 

He will be back tomorrow. 

For those who feed the pigeons, 

Become deaf to the growls of hunger. 

Yasmine Azzi

She walked in like a shadow, 

wrapped in a silence too heavy to name.

With clenched fists and eyes that searched

for answers on the clinic walls,

between the lines of paperwork, in the cracks of the linoleum floors. 

I could see the bruises

in the spaces between her words.

Etched in the tremble of her hands resting on her growing belly

where I gently placed the ultrasound probe.
I met her there,
in the quiet between her breaths,
where words felt like wounds. 

This choice was Hers.
Not his, not anyone else’s.
She held it tight like a lifeline,
even as it cut into her palms.

"You're safe now," I said,
though I knew safety was a fragile promise.
We offer what we can- 

A steady voice, a hand to hold, 

a ripple in a stream whose path we carve together. 

She reclaimed her body that day
as we moved through the motions,
transforming trauma into autonomy,
A first stitch in a wound too deep to see.

Outside these walls,
there are men
who think they own bodies
they will never carry.
Men who shout from pulpits
and podiums,
who cast votes
as if they are casting stones.

I think of the women

whose wounds bleed in silence.

Those who travel miles across state lines,

and those who cannot.

Those whose names we’ll never know,

and those we know all too well.

I think of Savita Halappanavar and Amber Thurman,

and dream of a world where their names are the last we ever have to speak. 

Where no woman’s life is lost

in the shadow of a decision

that should never have been out of reach.

Yasmine Azzi

Sawfa Nabqa Huna, a song sung by steadfast healthcare workers outside of Al-Awda Hospital who refused to abandon their patients amidst hospital bombardment in Gaza, October 2023.

In the midst of crumbled buildings,

where the earth trembles with sorrow,

they walked, not with weapons,

but with the quiet strength of those who heal.

I wake up to the news

a nightmare never-ending,

Students, just like me,

the same white coats,

the same dreams of healing,

now lost in the rubble under

American-made bombs

Paid for by my own tuition.

I think of them

those students,

who never made it

to the operating table,

who never saw their first patient

recover,

their stories only whispered

in the silence of our classrooms

While theirs are reduced to ash.

How do we continue

when the promise of healing

seems a cruel joke

against the brutality of a world

that turns Hippocratic oaths into hypocrisy,

leaving us with nothing but grief?

But their sacrifice is not the end.

It is a call to remember,

to honor,

to stand for a world where compassion

is never the casualty.

Where the only "complex issue" is whether you will speak up now,

or wish you had spoken yesterday.

Their deaths are not just statistics.

From here, across oceans of distance,

we take up the torch ripped from their hands,

and make a promise:

we will not forget.

We will not stand by

as their stories are buried

under the weight of ignorance and evil.

We will speak their names

until the world has no choice

but to listen.

Fan Tang

Eyes dart to and forth

Did I study this before?

My alarm clock rings

Vineetha Yadlapalli

“Thank you!” 

Now, grab the cup, and sit down at your chosen seat.

Feel the spoon in your hand and the cup in front of you, both cool to the touch.

Admire the honeycomb sitting proudly at the top. A little yellow flower peeks out from the side. It’s a little worn down… but happy to be here. The mix of espresso and sweet barley tea pools toward the bottom to form the foundation of the cup, topped with a swirl of barley tea soft serve. Sunlight streams in from the café windows onto your table—strong, unwavering, making the honeycomb glisten despite the clouds outside.

Scoop some of the soft serve and savor the flavors. Note the layers to the taste. The smoothness of the honey. The bitterness of the coffee. The graininess of the honeycomb. The almost floral element. 

It’s an experience you think you’ll get used to, but it’ll keep surprising you.

Let it surprise you.

Michael Rogan

My handwriting strolls along the paper turning a blank nothing into

something.

Studying. I am recreating someone else’s words.

My heart yearns for itself, for its own ache and its own bliss;

to create something that will persist

despite the mercilessly endless change

that smothers its desire.

A flock of birds flies by the window.

My heart flutters inside my chest.

it calls out to them.

They land among a sea of fleeting autumnal bliss.

You see, the trees are done reminiscing.

Their leaves kiss the ground, bidding farewell to infatuation,

to love.

Somewhere

a priest’s gaze is beckoned away from his prayer to bear witness to their fall.

A young girl wonders why her mother weeps for the leaves she plays in.

A lonely man rediscovers his smile hidden in the crimson red of a somber

autumn day.

Hello, again, my love. Does blood still flow through these leaves, just as in me?

Pieces of my own heart have been buried under cold fall soil.

Our hearts long to find the fragments we have left behind.

But, we cannot unearth them.

This way, they never change.

Our blood,

Our love,

Our ache,

Our very hearts

seep up through the soil to give the trees their color,

but

this cannot last.

As time carries us past that Autumn day into Winter,

I wish it would have left without me,

please, just once allow me to hold onto the love we created from nothing

for I no longer yearn for the youth of Spring.

Gazing at the birds, my smile is traced by tears whose origin I don’t even recall;

I watch as they fall and combine with ink as color is released from the confines of

what was written.

My mind may one day forget for whom I weep;

my heart, however, will always remind me of its love for the leaves.

Anonymous

No matter what, the world will continue to spin—
this holds true: some things just go away.
It may get better with time, but for now,
the feelings and thoughts remain unchanged.

This holds true: some things just go away—
old friends, conversations, memories.
The feelings and thoughts remain unchanged,
but the warmth begins to fade.

Old friends, conversations, memories
leave your mind empty, yet overfull.
As the warmth begins to fade,
no matter what, the world will continue to spin.

Angelica Arshoun

Arriving in the emergency room, we met

for the first time.

Initially, a standard conversation.

We exchange pleasantries, discuss current

issues.

We quickly diagnose, plan, medicate, admit.

Throughout this conversation though, I feel

something is wrong.

I wonder what I am missing.

A symptom I hadn’t considered?

A question I hadn’t asked?

Because behind those eyes was a feeling

that didn’t fit our diagnosis.

Behind those eyes was something that I

could not name.

Was it fear? Was it pain?

For the next seven days, I would continue to

contemplate.

For these seven days we met each morning like clockwork.

Initially, a standard conversation.

But now more adorned with friendly

dialogue, and less with diagnostics.

Stories of our families, our hobbies, our

joys.

I look at my patient as she smiles back at

me

And I realize what I see behind those eyes

Is not just a reflection of my patient’s

emotions.

It’s a reflection of my own.

Day 7, a meeting is arranged.

A meeting to discuss our new results.

Results that shaped the kindness I once saw into a newfound fear.

A biopsy which showed metastasis.

After receiving the news, she lay in the hospital bed 

Speechless, motionless, stoic. 

Her eyes darted around the room 

As if searching for an answer hidden behind one of the walls.

She cautiously avoided eye contact with anyone in the room.

Her panic, her pain, 

Her sense of complete loss 

Transferred between us with nothing more than a quick, unintentional glance.

One look in her eyes and suddenly, I felt it.

Any remaining hope after these 7 long days

Instantaneously sucked out of the room, 

Out of my soul.

There was nothing left. 

Only a solemn, grim emptiness remained.

And in its place 

Crept in that familiar unnamed, unsettling feeling.

It was like a surgeon had tightly clamped something in the center of my chest with a large, sharpened, claw-tipped tool.

Dragging it down to the depths of my stomach to create a solid heavy pit, 

Shearing whatever remained into unrecognizable shreds. 

Creating a newly hollowed cavity 

Just big enough for this dark, unnerving feeling to insert itself and grow.

A somesthesia unlike anything I had ever experienced.

An experience so unexpected, I became overwhelmed with emotion.

I quietly excuse myself from the room and regain my composure.

As I prepare to reenter, I am finally able to name that familiar feeling

It is more than fear.

It is more than pain.

Absolute devastation.

Meetings are arranged.

Meetings with oncology.

Meetings with palliative care.

Meetings with family.

A decision is made to fight.

Surgery is scheduled, Chemo is planned,

Family and friends are ready to help in any

way they can.

Devastation turned into determination.

We continue meeting every morning like

clockwork.

We continue our conversations, both

standard and friendly.

We exchange book recommendations,

movie suggestions.

We share stories of our heritage, our

backgrounds, our origins.

Suddenly, an emergency.

An overnight RRT.

Chest pain, shortness of breath, low

Oxygen levels.

A bilateral PE.

We meet the following morning

Except now, a new room in the IMU.

Complete with additional monitors,

additional medications,

And now, supplemental O2.

Meetings are arranged.

Meetings with oncology.

Meetings with palliative care.

Meetings with family.

A decision is made.

A new decision to let it be.

The room is filled with a different feeling.

Not devastation, but defeat.

I struggle to continue meeting every

morning.

I struggle to continue our conversations.

I no longer know what to say.

I no longer know what to do.

I begin following other patients,

But this one never leaves my mind.

I try to visit in the afternoons

Whenever I have the time.

For 3 more weeks she remained in the

hospital

With her son visiting as much as he could

stand.

We just had to wait for hospice placement.

Placement that would not come as planned.

She passed in the presence of family

She passed completely pain-free

My team had to mark the time of her death.

06:43.

I compose myself once again.

I reflect on what she has taught me.

I reflect on the moments we shared

together.

I reflect on what I learned from her care,

and how it can make me better.

This was my first experience with the death of a

patient.

And while I sometimes still struggle to cope

I like to believe that through our relationship

I can continue to give other patients hope.

For she taught me something no textbook

ever could

About dealing with death and dying.

I never had to know all the right things to do

or to say

Because in the end, she simply appreciated

that I was trying.

Trying to make a difference,

Trying to make her feel seen.

Her memory is a blessing to me,

And her teachings, Evergreen.

Fahmida Sarmin

You became collateral

In a war between adults 

Who could not solve their problems

And resorted to the deadliest sorts

We were supposed to keep you safe 

Yet in pursuit of our selfish desires

We led you to your final resting place

And chalked it up to crossfire

The guilt I carry 

Knows no limit

My sense of powerlessness

Has never felt more salient 

Though difficult to fathom

A world without you in it

I pray you are in a better place 

One worthy of your innocence

We were supposed to protect you 

I’m sorry we failed you, child

Jane Bozsik

I’m standing in front of a display. A small skeleton stares back at me through the glass,

what is left of a woman named Mary Ashberry. The plaque says she lived in a brothel

and died in childbirth. The doctors couldn’t maneuver the baby through her pelvis,

which was too small. Mary had achondroplasia, an autosomal dominant disorder, I

dimly remember from our first course in medical school. In consequence, they

butchered her baby, crushing its head trying to get it out of her while attempting to save

her life. She and the child both died in the process.

Of all the skeletons and specimens at Mütter, I wonder about her. Did she know

her pregnancy was a death sentence? Did the physicians see her as a patient—or a

spectacle? Did Mary know women now would face political hurdles that made giving

birth dangerous still? What was she like? Did she have a bright smile, a loud laugh?

Did women crowd around her in support during the birth?

I walk on, browsing bones brittled by osteoporosis, a colon exaggerated with the

effects of Hirschsprung disease, preserved brains showing aneurysms and tumors. All

things I’ve studied in the past few months.

A man walks past. “Who makes this kind of place?” he says to his friend. “They must

have been some kind of gremlin to collect stuff like this.” He enunciates the last word

with relish.

It’s funny, I didn’t think of it that way.

As an undergrad, years before medical school, I had visited Mütter, but I never really

understood the medical jargon, the information on the plaques. Where I stand now,

years later, having had clinical experience and studying as a medical student, what strikes

me most isn’t the medical phenomena, but the people. Thinking about the skeletons, the

specimens, belonging to real people.

A year ago, I would go to the thrift store after work at the clinic. At the time, I didn’t realize how it helped me process what I witnessed. As I browsed, patient stories would come to mind, and I’d let them linger, then pass, like that therapy exercise—“leaves on a stream” or something. 

The woman trying to move on after the loss of her husband. From the outside, her poise

and style would never reveal the anxiety she feels within. What a gift to have had

a beautiful marriage but a thorn to have lost the one who could calm your fears.

The patient I can’t forget who admitted, in monotone, that she’d thought about ending

her life, slitting her wrists in the bathtub.

The woman who cried at her appointment. She had been bubbly, overly friendly, even,

before the pancreatic cancer diagnosis. Then we watched as she wasted away, too sick to

eat, too tired to smile.

My brain brought these images to mind like a picture book. While I mentally read

them, I’d flip through the clothes, pausing for a good find, casting aside anything too

expensive.

Working in healthcare feels like living two lives, one where you’re shopping and one where you’re contemplating death. We hold it inside, shielding others from the harsh reality. When Damar Hamlin collapsed on the field in cardiac arrest, how many people responded with shock. How many social media posts informed us of the “collective trauma.” Yet this is—or will be—our everyday.

When we entered the anatomy lab for the first time, I wondered how I would feel seeing my

donor body. A calm and contemplative overthinker, I figured I’d be ok in the moment

but a bit harrowed afterward. As we lifted the shroud from his face, a man

who passed from pancreatic cancer, I found myself thinking of our old patient at the

clinic, her smile and her liveliness. I thought of my grandma, who loved to cook and

gossip. She passed away a year ago. Before me laid a body housing a complex soul. A soul who had wanted to do something good with their physical remains as they left this earth. 

I felt at peace.

I think back to the man wandering Mütter, repulsed by the reminders that life is, a lot of

times, ugly. And entirely up to chance.

What a privilege to deny reality. But what a privilege to know it, and welcome it.

Anonymous

What is captivating, hideous,

alien, universal

about the small intestine

pulled through a new orifice

?

isn’t hidden or pampered 

in any of the journals’ lyrical reports

proclaiming an uncynical

honor when its cage of words

has always been 

about control.

Privacy is only a written word

when 

Look there, 30 minute

Signature and a checklist

Of comprehensive what

What? This is not a body

This is what it is

What I say it is

What I know it is

Says everyone in the room

But the paralyzed

Unknowingly unmoving in the restraints

Of immovable declarations

Silence from mechanical 

Breathing

Silence from trained

Silence

Like a question would

Burn this place

To the ground

Anonymous

June 2024?

12/28/2024 Goya

“we support you”

--We must say

“we are surprised by you”

--Another human exists?

“we didn’t know about you”

--Medical Student Record Number ____

“we don’t want to sink you”

--Negate our power

“we only want you to succeed”

--Our way

“it’s like a job application”

--Performance

“we want both sides to be held accountable”

--How dare you

“we are impressed by you”

--I could never

--It makes no difference to us

“I would never upset what audience is left”

I am your empty theater

I am here to tell you there is no show

There is only your own drowning mirror constructed from the sands of a plundered beach

Scattered with the wrong footprints

Anonymous

Fire x Fire

After George Habash

The knife twists and heals

The drug destroys and renews

The violence cleans as much as it destroys

yet we don’t moralize about cancer/cure

except in terms of war.

There is no good or bad

only violence

only pain

for means, for means

what/which body gets to

opportunity/for what

land/on which blood

gets let/go

Go

go where/why

must destroy without revenge/

let love/fight

be the end

Let the knife be a means

Yes, hold it like you were born

clutching