Harmony Magazine (2011)

Harmony
a humanities magazine
The exploration of the human experience in its entir ety -- and thr ough all available mediums -- is the goal of the medical humanities pr ogram.
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Moonlight 2
Vicky Stromee
Harmony
The exploration of the human experience in its entir ety and thr ough all available mediums is the goal of the medical humanities pr ogram.
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Harmony
Director Ron Grant, MD, MFA Editor-in-Chief Jeanne Feuerstein Visual Arts Editors Aaron Putt Hal Strich, MPH Kevin Riley, MD Copy Editors Anne Coleman Anna Marie Lopez, MD Stephanie Pearmain Nikolas Robina Edwin Wong McKinstry Graphic Designer Roma Krebs, AHSC BioCommunications Special Thanks Steven Goldschmid, MD The Hill Family T. Philip Malan, Jr., PhD, MD Helle Mathiasen, Cand.mag, PhD Kenneth J. Ryan, MD Nancy Koff, PhD Rebecca Parada
For more information, please visit the Program in Medical Humanities website at http://humanities.medicine.arizona.edu Complete guidelines for subscriptions, donations, and submissions may be found in the back of this journal.
On the front cover:
Harmony is a publication of the Arizona Health Sciences Center and is sponsored by College of Medicine and the The University of Arizona
Medical Humanities Program
Kenneth Hill Memorial Foundation as a gift for the community. All works in Harmony,
both visual and literary, of the artist or author and are published
are the exclusive property
with her/his permission. Authors retain their copyright for all published materials. Any use or reproduction of these works requires the written consent of the author. Views expressed are solely the opinions of the individual authors and are not representative of the editors, advisory board, or AHSC.
On the back cover:
Into the Blue

Vicky Stromee
Reality
Haylee Schiavo
PR OGR AM IN MEDIC AL HUMANITIES
Harmony
A HUMANITIES MAGAZINE
Editor
Harmony serves many purposes. It may be the prompt required to begin the creative process, or the incentive to just take a step back from your crowded days and inhabit a different space. I suggest that Harmony serves to unite.
Welcome
Director
Welcome to this years new and improved edition of Harmony, the University of Arizonas, College of Medicines foray into the world of art, writing, and humanities. Having been subject to the Ron Grant, MD, MFA depression and rgrant@email.arizona.edu anger that comes with receiving rejection letters, I can tell you that this years editorial task of denying good and thoughtful work resulted in a great amount of personal internal distress. For the first time since my tenure as the Director of the Medical Humanities program began three years ago, I had to make hard choices in deciding who and what to print. Its certainly no fun to tell someone that their submission wasnt quite good enough for this years magazine less fun when you know some of the faces behind that work. What this ultimately means, however, is a dramatic increase in not just number of submissions, but quality of content. This is good news, and not just for me and the state of the publication, but for all our contributors and readers. I must admit that I do feel better knowing that with more rejections comes prestige and by effect more readership. The end result, a magazine we can all be proud of. Thank you for your submissions and your continued contributions to the field of medical humanities. As we are learning, the art of practicing medicine is more than making a diagnosis on an ill patient or removing diseased tissue with a scalpel. It is about treating the patient (and the person who treats the patient!) as a human being with distinct human needs.
In the hospital people function in distinct roles the nurse, the patient, the cafeteria cashier, and so on and we can lose ourselves to these institutional positions. This narrowed view is a common struggle. But, through writing and reading and thinking about the scenes, and stories that inhabit our lives, we can move beyond these prescribed roles and in doing so become better at our jobs. We can become better patients, better administrators, better students, and most importantly better people. Late last year I saw a patient in the Emergency Department with Chronic Obstructive Pulmonary Disease. We talked about her family. About her siblings, the twin sisters who had died during childbirth, about the boat her mother had taken along the Mississippi River. Her stories were a relief from the monotony of school and study. I decided to write about the patient, and in doing so, thought about her stories: about her family and her disease process, her suffering and perseverance, her personality and laugh. I let the whole experience stew for days, and then wrote a poem. More than anything I had done previous in medical school, writing that poem helped me shed my role, making me feel more like a human being than a medical student. Perhaps it seems a stretch, but I think that Harmony has this ability, both for the people who contribute and for the people who read it. Hopefully you will have time to come back to this issue again and again, discovering new stories, shedding a bit of the role you come to find yourself inonce in a while glimpsing into the stories of other peoples lives.
Jeanne Feuerstein
jfeuerst@gmail.com
Please enjoy this years exceptional magazine.
Harmony
Mathiasen Prose Award Winners
Award
winners
After a false start at a career in academics My Fathers Gift Margo Barnes left Purdue Universitys graduate school and went to work as editor in page 45-50 chief of a small newspaper, only to be recruited away a year later into a 20-year corporate career that culminated as senior vice president of Bayer Corporation. In 2001 she left Bayer and moved to Tucson to pursue a long-held dream of creating a nonprofit animal welfare agency AWASA Animal Welfare Alliance of Southern Arizona, which was founded in 2002 and where she served as chairman of its board for several years. My Fathers Gift is an iteration of the first chapter of her memoir Crybaby, which is currently in the hands of a New York literary agent. Margo is currently working on her second book. Vicky Stromees professional career began as a psychotherapist and she continues to teach and supervise internship students through the on the front cover Masters of Counseling program at University of Phoenix. Shes been interested in photography all my life from her earliest memories of her dads basement darkroom and the magic of watching pictures emerge from the chemical bath to her first brownie camera at age 7. She loves exploring the natural world and looking for essential elements and the interplay of color, shape, texture, and pattern. 10 years ago Vicky shifted her focus from amateur to fine art photography. Shes currently represented by PhotoPlace Gallery in Middlebury, Vt, and art+interiors in New York. www.VickyStromeePhotography.com
Into the Blue
Kenneth Ryan Visual Arts Award Winners
Upon Waking from a CABG page 17
Steve Cushman has published two novels, Heart With Joy and Portisville, as well as a short story collection, Fracture City. For the past eighteen years, Steve has worked as an X-Ray Technologist and now currently works at Moses Cone Memorial Hospital in Greensboro, NC. For more information on Steve and his writing, visit www.stevecushman.net
Greg Cheeney is a 4th year medical student at Brooklyn Park the University of Arizona College of Medicine. He attended the University of Arizona as page 25 an undergraduate where he majored in Biochemistry and Molecular and Cellular Biology. He took a year off after his second year of medical school to pursue clinical research at the University of Iowa where he took Brooklyn Park. While in Iowa City he cut through this forest park everyday on his way to work. The picture was taken during the first winter white out of the 2009-2010 season.
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Declaration of the Abstruse

Karren Seely
Harmony
Declaration of the Abstruse

Karren Seely
Harmony
Laila Halaby
I will walk with you awhile

for Howe
lovers liars saw
is that talk with walk with next to with hands brushing intimate eyes snagging digging deep doesnt mean it has to go down
talk with you a mile or two or twenty depending on the weather and the conversation
my debris spread out along the shoulders scattered untidily waiting on a furloughed prisoner to come along and stuff it all into an orange plastic bag
this road is desert not deserted yesterdays freeways are behind me I tossed my luggage out watched it bounce down embankments contents flung across sharp grasses
this road right here right now is quiet and obscure welcomes a walking journey your voice covers me nicely like a grandmas shawl on a cool spring night still full of hope
that road
maybe its better than all that
maybe it just is
a cloud of sweet little children run behind us not trying to catch up just happy in each other
drivers in eighteen wheelers hustlers
the beauty of today I can finally see
Harmony
Dallas Schoolbook Depository

Skip Kriegel
Harmony
Autumn on the Kenai

John Murphy
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Nichole Goff
My Sunflower Heart
my sunflower heart blossoming pulses dilating blood-nourished bloom your face is always finding its meccas looking toward Home
strong-stemmed the column of my spine you unfold slowly and I tend to you i tuck my fingers into your bloodied soil and feel Love
Janet Alessi
Bad Artist
Blood draw, third vein blown, Bruising spreading pain. Just a Little prick you said.
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Jeanne Feuerstein
Beside Ethel
Momma took her down the Ohio River. Twenty-four of those kids Four dead Twins during labor buried with their momma Out in the yard.
Sternum to her chin Couldnt even hear her heart But it was full and backing up Creeping on her neck Just like her daddy.
Not sad I think Leaning over Under her mans grainy eyes. Her teeth on a side table, tubes in her nose, Bruises on her arms and legs and stomach.
I press my fingers to her shin And she smiles. She is a farm girl. A hunter, a fisher, A bible, an old story.
My imprint stays On her leg Until after I have left The room.
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Si Pha Don
Elisa Rogowitz
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Jan Degan
An Ambivalent Legacy
The phone rang so innocently like most evenings in the drama of after-work and trying to get dinner ready. I grabbed it, thinking of the million things I had to do by bedtime. I had just arrived home, and my 3 little children were all clamoring for attention. My husband was home out of earshot - somewhere else in our house. Her voice simply said although I balk at remembering even now Dads gone, he hung himself in the basement. Flat, then silence. My world spins down to head and heart. I try to think to gain control by shifting down. But my immediate thought is of the irreversibility of what shes just said. Hes gone not sick, not en route to the hospital, but gone dead, in fact. Hes now past-tense. He was my Father, but he is no more. In a millisecond, I absorbed that. Unreal. I call 911, and all the awful events begin. Like a dream. I walk and talk and react. We console each other and our Mother. She acts as though shes done this before, but we know. ~ So many triggers for memories good ones and bad ones. Once during the movie Blazing Saddles, there is suddenly a common Western scene of a cowboy with a noose around his neck, sitting on a horse, waiting for the horse to be kicked out from under him. The cowboy was funny, and the audience was laughing. I covered my eyes at the first glimpse and sat unmoving and wanting to vomit. The phone call comes to mind, and then I block it from my mind to keep from flying apart. So many times, triggers would start the train, and in the end Id block it, swallow it, and leave it deep down inside of me. He left us because this kind and gentle mans brain was riddled with cancer, spread from his cigarette-weary lungs. Having smoked a lifetime while at his newspaper job, his lungs gave up, but not before spreading disease throughout his body. He was in pain, although always denying that, and would never want anyone to have to care for him. He was the giver, not ever a taker, not ever a bother to anyone. Terminal illness ends in demanding much from those who love you, and finally ends in death. His good intentions to spare us ended in a legacy well never escape. When a brother-in-law threatened suicide years later, he gave me the warning message. The burden was mine to react, protect, and intervene. I counseled him with such sadness of memory wishing my Father had called someone, had asked for counsel and maybe delayed his own death. My panic that day caused an outpouring to those around me of my own story of suicide, the legacy that lives within me. The very act of telling became my path to salvation and peace. Once faced, I could go forward, stop the blocking, the panic of being overwhelmed by memories. The unexpected blessing from my Fathers death eventually became my gift to others. I lived the loss of my loved one dying by his own hand. I was there, and I am still there sometimes. Many times, Ive witnessed others falter and tear up as they begin to remember their own legacies. To just say the word, suicide, can recall all the heartbreak we struggle to bury. So, we begin to talk, to unearth some of the sorrow and pain. With that we can remember, forgive, and ultimately find peace. Reason tells me there will never be an answer, a solution, or a better ending. Deep within me now is a growing acceptance and genuine forgiveness in the legacy Ive been given. And I am better for it.
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Morphed Which Way

Janet Alessi
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Mary Knatterud
De-(g)loved
I knew it would be gruesome when I looked up degloved: a type of avulsion abruptly and completely torn-off skin severed blood supply a limb, a ring finger, a whole face peeled back away from itself all at once a once tight-fitting glove forcibly removed, lightning-fast disfiguring trauma, if survived
Mary Knatterud
Cataracts Out, 2010

The long-retired principal, going under for surgery muttering to the nurse about his daughter working for surgeons its the craziest thing, by golly, theyre all way down in Tucson but shes sitting home in her kids old room in the Cities their dolls and stuffed animals above she wakes up early, too engrossed to talk nobody right there anyway
But Ive never quite looked up again after being de-loved: one less letter and the mockery of a connecting hyphen yet the definition is the same
turns on, and to, her monitor, (whose opening trill he hears from the guestroom bed) and stays in there till a quick brunch, then supper, going all over the medical world, drinking in the manuscripts, a far cry from his years patrolling high school halls to see her trolling screens so merrily, still at home enabling track changes on Word electrified and e-connected
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Mary Knatterud
Telling, muting, telecommuting

Tonsils Out, 1960 The long-absent kindergartner, coming up after surgery musing to herself about her dad and mom greeting the surgeon its the neatest thing, my goodness, theyre both way down past downtown but shes going home to her dear old room in a second her dolls and new teddy bear await she wakes up early, too hoarse to talk nobody right there anyway turns away her water glass (whose gentle slosh she hears from her St. Ansgars bed) and stays in there till the nun leans in and hisses youre not going anywhere, youre not drinking enough a fraught cry as her parents hurry down the halls to see her rolling tears so miserably, still not home unable to croak out a word stupefied and disconnected
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Quiet Afternoon on the G.C.

Mary Matthews
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Steve Cushman
Dream Job
Last week a baby was brought in with 39 cigarette burns, each no bigger than a pencil eraser, all over his body.
When I asked the mother about the burns, she said we do it when hes bad or wont stop crying.
And in some sick way, since Ive seen it so many times before, this doesnt surprise me because she looks exactly like all the other mothers who have told me such things, strung-out and nail-biting nervous.
Steve Cushman
Upon Waking from a CABG

Guy opens his eyes, scans the room, tries to focus, white and blue clothes, hears the voices of men and women paid to care for him. He is thinking about his wife Stella, about a Tuesday in January, back in 74, hed snuck out of work early to go fishing and found Stella asleep on the couch, napping, their baby boy on her chest and his plans for fishing slipped away as he sat beside her on the floor, kissed her forehead, watched them breathe together, knowing he could never leave them, not then, not now.
But what Ill never understand is why she cries, and even seems surprised, when we take her baby away.
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Sunset
Kyle Jensen
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Nancy Coleman
Found!
Serendipity is when you find something wonderful unexpectedly and I do it all the time, like the dogs grin as soon as I open my eyes and the long wooden toast tongs that stand between me and electrocution, and the night-blooming cereus that practically shouts its lavish arrival, loud showy bride of the garden for a single day, when all I expected at 6am was the morning paper on the porch, in which wonderful things are so rarely found. And my missing favorite ring in the ivy at work after they re-tarred the parking lot. (They didnt retire the lot and they didnt retard the lot, they re-tarred it. And there it was, my ruby ring.) It was a miracle. And the snow this morning in the desert! Each long frozen thorn on the cold brittle lemon tree wore its own caterpillar of snow and the half-melted little snow peak sitting atop the round rail on the trail down into the wash slipped every so often to wind around the pipe like a garland and then came up on top and kept going; I never did figure out what law of nature allowed that to happen but whether legal or not, it was a small wonder, and lucky that I came along at that exact moment in the surprise snows disappearing act, because you couldnt make a ribbon of snow do that if you tried all day. And this afternoon I found a new word, completely by accident, and its a splendid complicated word that hints at the mystery, and I wont say it here because I plan to build a poem around it. Maybe even a career. And it will be both literary and witty and everyone will say, isnt it brilliant, so clever, isnt she good. And the sunsets, the flowering sunsets! Each one blooms out of the western sea arriving in the desert as its own new self that stuns you a little bit and in a while you notice your jaw is still slack and you and your dog and your frozen lemon tree are awash in a deepening blush
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Peggy Gigstad
From Here
(On the anniversary of the shootings at the College of Nursing) We come together to heal to loosen the bands around our hearts, solar chakras, our tired minds Some here lived through the unthinkable the violent quake felt in every corner of every college The epicenter Bullet through fabric, warm skin, muscle Bullet through ivory halls, masonry walls Bullet through history and future Bullet through persons in our paradigm Bullet through Maslows bottom rung We come together to heal the room where one survivor continued to teach, walked each day over the thin carpet covering the crime scene over the spot where she comforted one husband as he knelt to kiss the blood stained tile now, done over in heartless high tech there is no remembrance, no stained glass in this holy place unknown to those learning there until the anniversary of the murders when she placed one white flower on the table and told us We come together to heal quake survivors who moved through newly painted halls retreated into divisions, courses, blood huts, forts and foxholes gathered the strength to stay or walk away, still stunned and help reinforcements understand the dizzying aftershocks We come together to heal to lay down our collective pain, shame, and fear and carry each other from here
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Believe
Elisa Rogowitz
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Heart Transplant
Zach Orman
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Zach Orman
Heart Transplant
A safety line from above, Teddy bear by the bedside, Whispered words of confidence, We all have our lifelines.
Invisible or flagrant, they are crutches Left generously in our path by fate So that our wounded bodies Might find their way to peace.
My mother is not afraid to take hold of them, Not any more.
She graciously accepts the rope, and trusts That it will save her if she slips. And somehow she accepts this new heart, and trusts That it will carry her for years.
Because of this gift, Her gratitude to the donor is ours to share; Her peace is found along the path to healing; Her love is even bigger than before.
She named it Aloha.
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Ana Marie Lopez
Holding Hands
We talked today. Your face anticipated my words. Your pain more disease in your bones. Your shortness of breath ascites from the liver mets. the spread of the disease to your brain. And the new blurriness of your vision
We spoke of the disease. You told me how you felt.
We spoke of the prognosis. You told me of your plans.
We spoke of treatment options. You told me of your dreams.
And then you asked me, How much time do I have? I held your hand. Together we recalled our losses: dear pets youth loves parents family friends function forgotten friendships
all in the moment that we looked into each others eyes and you squeezed my hand.
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Brooklyn Park
Greg Cheeny
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Allison Theony
I Call Him Grubby

I call him Grubby she says, a hoarse laugh following. We are watching a blonde, bounding two-year-old who has been running around the dusty courtyard, suddenly leap onto a large pile of dirt. His huge grin emerges from the grimy mess as he turns to look at us gleefully. Well, you were right-on with that one! I respond chuckling. He gets up for round two, and we all smile in amazement at his ability to conquer his make-shift playground. Andrew, along with his older brother and mom, has been at the domestic violence shelter for only a few days. In fact, Arizona is new to them as wellthey are one of very few shelter residents from out-of-state. I shudder at the thought of what they were escaping, since it was necessary for them to cross state lines. Im here with other female classmates from American Medical Womens Association decorating t-shirts with the women and children of the shelter. They are creating messages of hope against domestic violence; ones that will be hung up in the streets of Washington DC along with hundreds of others from shelters across the country. Andrews mother, Vicki, has been very quiet, intent on her t-shirt painting. She is content letting one of the other residents look after her son for a few minutes. The women in the shelter are a family in that way, sharing responsibilities. I sit down beside Vicki to eye her artwork, but mainly happy to have a moment of rest for myself. Its been a long week. We chat as she carefully fills in the stenciled letters with black paint. I begin to piece her together, bit by bit, as if Im gathering information from her history for a diagnosis. Chief Complaint: Utterly exhausted. Present Medical Illness: Shes had difficulty sleeping, worried about money. Doesnt have a car, has to use the bus system. Doesnt know the city. Past Medical History: Recently moved from California to leave an abusive relationship. Social History: Is getting support from the shelter and other women living here. She wants to publish a book one day. Family History: Is she safe? Are her kids safe? How long can they stay here? Then what? I discover that she is attending the student-run free clinic tonight, the one that I happen to coordinate from the patient-end. I tell her that her sons can be seen as patients as well, and that we have vaccines. She seems relieved. Mr. Grubby suddenly runs up to the table and climbs next to me on the bench, trying to reach a bottle of glitter that he spied. Do you want to paint with me? I ask. Andrew nods his head excitedly. We pick out a few colors and I help him dip his brush into the sticky paint, and smear it in colorful circles across the white t-shirt. Thanks Vicki says, pausing for a moment, for keeping him busy. A week later I am out running errands on a rare yet lucky afternoon off from studying. Im walking slowly into the drug store, almost at a snails pace. Its been another tiring week. Well, who am I kidding? Its been a tiring year. My second year of medical school is more than half-over. How can it fly by so fast when each week seems so long and exhausting? I look down at my to-do list that I scribbled in pencil on a post-it almost three weeks ago. There is one item crossed off out of ten. Studying seems to be the only item that ever gets accomplished, but since its a bottomless pit, it is constantly reappearing. Arguments about nothing that turn into everything, trying to fit a work out in to the day, a presentation that is due tomorrow, third year clerkship schedules, a bathroom desperate for cleaning, praying my husband gets the job interview, THE BOARDS! Every stress is like a brick thats added to my pile, weighing me down. Each one pushed deeper to make room for the next. Im waiting to emerge weightless, but my pile keeps getting heavier, and Im starting to find myself short of breath.
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I turn the corner from the deodorant aisle and a little blonde boy with a dirt-smudged face and clothes races by, almost running me over. Wait, is that, Andrew? Hi Vicki I say as she appears. How are you doing? Oh fine, thanks. She looks tired as before. Hey, did you meet my older son the other day? This is Henry. She says gesturing towards an older boy, about ten, rummaging through a candy bin. Henry, say hi to Allison. She works at the doctors office that we went to. Without looking, I remember the tenth item on my todo list: call the womens shelter. Vickis test results are in and she should come back to the clinic next week to go over the results with the attending physician. Im glad I ran into you! I say, happy to be killing two birds with one stone. Its funnyI was going to call the shelter today to let you know your results are in. We sent them over, but the lab coordinator wanted me to suggest you come to clinic next week if you have questions. Also, we have the rest of the vaccines ready for your boys. Are they really bad? She says cringing, referring to her test results. Wow, I am really callousI didnt even think that this could be a truly scary moment for her. Suddenly Im kicking myself, trying to remember the skills we learned from our delivering bad news practice session we had with our clinical mentors a few weeks ago. Then I realize that I dont know the results and even if I did, I cant explain them to her, only the attending physician can. So I say sheepishly, I havent seen them, but Im also not trained to explain them to you. Im sorry. You should definitely come to clinic next week though if you have any questions. I am feeling very much like an awkward student, unsure of whether I have been helpful to her at all.
Surprisingly, she seems perfectly content with this for now. Maybe my answer was more useful than it sounded to me? We chat for a few more minutes, I high-five Andrew and Henry, and they head off. I walk back to my car in the parking lot, a bag full of toiletries in my hand. Item 3, check. Item 10, check. Im feeling slightly less weighted down. As I drive, I find myself thinking about Vicki and the boys; hoping her test results revealed nothing serious, how much their sad story touched me, and how I wished I could have done more. After a moment, it dawns on me that this lightness I feel cannot simply be from another item checked off my list, but rather from arriving at a place of usefulness; a place where, bumbling though I may be, I have the honor in being trustworthy.
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Discarded Dreams
Linda Alterwitz
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Discarded Dreams
Linda Alterwitz
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Steve Cushman
Biopsy
When the dermatologists tells you the biopsy came back benign you stop listening to what else he has to say, to his warnings, his recommendations because you are already on your boat in Mosquito lagoon, a cool Bud in one hand your fishing pole in the other the sun on your naked back, and a huge redfish is on your line but you are fighting it, not about to give up, holding on for dear life.
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Rufous Hummingbird
Tessie OTalley
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Hari Ghuman
Karu the Alarm Clock

You have an alarm clock, Son I have to catch a flight at eleven
Pop, we have an alarm clock called Karu She wakes us up She manages our sleep She tell us when to clean She tell us when to feed
The clock is lil Karu Sweet lil karu
We are happy to serve her Even if tired
She keeps us fired Even if we are tired With a little smile With a little talk With a little and sometimes a big cry
You think Karu will wake me up, Son? Yes, she can. Yes, she can.
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Gila Monster
Mark Thaler
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Sonoran Serenity
Keven Siegert
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Vanessa Frisinger
Leavings
I One star fell. The firmament loosed and frangible. Such an omen, such a void in familiar constellations, such a fissure scored the sky; blazed and faded. Then such darkness against the pinprick in my mind where your effulgence remains. Then such darkness and clinging to the phone that brought the news, as if youd land on our telephone wires and materialize in my hand. II Tracing figures in the sand, pictures for my daughter. Tracing words on a page, trying the train I may leave. Do our leavings race forward like train rails or follow like tracks in the desert? Id like to leave at least a wake in water; filled to overflowing. Like our dog comes running, ecstatic from his bowl, drops flinging off his jowls, baptizing us in his affection.
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Toil
Ron Pust
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Loss
Ron Pust
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Van Worm
Love on the Wards

My sleep was always fretful in those days of residing at the hospital every forth night. When I did fall asleep, I dreamed of leaving patients unexamined on the floors, or tucked away in closets or without crucial medicines or diagnostic tests or IV fluids. These on-call dreams did not relent throughout their entirety, the same way the universal nightmare of failing to attend a college class all semester with a final exam looming recurs to torment anew, unrecognized by the subconscious mind as imposter. The terror of the dream is real every time. And the dreams were punctuated by alarms from my pagers. Even today, these many years later, a mortal anxiety surges inside me every time the shrill call of a pager awakens me. Seven floors were stacked above me as I lay there in the call room. The buildings perpetual, unnerving hum was most apparent when lying there. One of the graduate students from one of the floors above had once referred to it as the intrinsic vibration of the building. She had complained to me that the vibrations somehow interfered with her lab experiments, which relied upon precise measurements. We residents had given the on call bedroom the nickname the Fallout Shelter. (The building itself had literally been designated a fallout shelter decades earlier during the cold war.) The affectionate nickname may have been an attempt to mitigate the anxiety associated with the capricious holding chamber. After entering for respite, we knew that at any moment the relative safety might be torn apart by a sounding pager an unwelcome summons into the unknown. The lounge adjacent to the bedroom was entered through an unmarked, nondescript door like others that lined the meandering hallway beyond. Fallout shelter signs with their three upside down yellow triangles circumscribed by a black circle were permanently fixed to the hallway walls. The signs suggested to all refugees in the hospital that a plan for the worst thing possible was in place. While on call, I carried one pager for in-house pages from the ER and the nurses on the floors. I carried another for pages from other hospitals. And the code pager. Each pager had a distinct tone. Each device seemed not like something inanimate, but capable of cruelty, delighting in bringing bad news. They waited until I had just fallen asleep to pierce the night. My heart raced every time I startled awake to answer. Pages about admissions from the ER were unwelcome. Worse were the pages from doctors at other hospitals who wished to transfer patients to this, the states only Childrens Hospital. But the shriek of the code pager was the most dreaded. It was a clarion call to move, a civil defense siren after missile launch by the Warsaw Pact. A pneumatic tube system dating to the 1970s continually transported drugs, blood specimens, and medical equipment throughout the hospital. The tubing traversed a path just beyond the walls of the call room en route from the pediatric pharmacy and microbiology lab to the floors above. The rushing and clanking noise created as the canisters floated by were an uneasy lullaby. There was something reassuring about the sound: it was evidence that others were working, still on watch, as I lay there. It was reassurance that I was insignificant, out of the spotlight, perhaps only a molecule buried deep inside this living, breathing mammoth of a structure, hidden by its intrinsic vibration. Reassurance that my incompetence was negligible against the inertia of the institution. The contents of some of the canisters were doubtless the fulfillment of orders I had written earlier in the evening. The very words I had written now materialized and existing in the form of sample vials or medicines inside the clear plastic canisters that floated by just behind the wall next to my bed. Orders that would continue to evolve and ultimately be scrutinized the following day by my superiors. I had admitted 13 patients to the hospital since my shift began at seven AM. At nine AM, I learned from my neighbor that the power company had turned off electricity to the run down house that I was renting. The real estate agent that showed me the place had described it as a bungalow when I first spoke with her. I usually paid the bill at a place called Big Daddys Pawn. Big Daddys had an arrangement with the power company and offered a service for people with overdue bills to pay instantly on the last possible day before interruption of service.
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The line at Big Daddys was always ten deep or more. The people in the line, we who stood on the margin of society, stood in an orderly fashion. Perhaps our intent was to impress upon others that we were not as desperate as it may seem. While we stood in line together we never spoke or made eye contact. Only once had I seen someone I knew in the line. She was a nurse from the hospital. I stood three patrons behind her. She was accompanied by her two small boys, perhaps aged four and six, and she held them close to her, the store no place for small children. I had hoped to avoid her altogether, to spare her the embarrassment of being seen (after all, my financial future seemed relatively bright). But after she had paid her bill and turned to exit, her younger little boy brushed against my leg. Our eyes met when she looked up to apologize to me. Her eyes sparkled as she laughed and questioned You too, huh? I told her this was my monthly routine. She laughed. But this time I had not been so lucky. Yesterday I had forgotten to go to Big Daddys. A shrill, unrelenting beep pierced the night, awakening me at two thirty AM. This was the sound I was most afraid of: the code pager. I groped in the darkness and located the sounding device. From that moment I floated into action, as if propelled by something outside my body. The automatic things that must have occurred, rising from bed, tying shoes, walking, running, opening doors, are lost to true memory and my recollection is as if watching myself from above. But the sights and sounds are trapped there all these years later, in sequence like a track that I can replay at will. I suspect the memory may be there long after my mind can fit it into the context of my life, that it will surface as spoken word if I live to be 90 years old, even when I am unable to recall the events of earlier in the day. I had a great aunt who, in her senility, focused on one single event that occurred in her childhood during the great depression. As best I could tell, the event was a train trip she took when her family moved from the countryside to Birmingham, Alabama, in search of work. Dont forget the suitcase, she would say. It has my clothes and Teddys clothes in it. Teddy was her little brother. Each time she
emphasized and Teddys clothes in her appeal, as if otherwise her clothes may be left behind by her parents. Give the epi again, I might say over and over. Code nine, fifth floor, Childrens Hospital, came a ladys voice on the public address system as I made my way into the meandering hallway. It was official sounding, cool, as if dispatching legions of medical personnel were her routine, as if she had no anxiety that a life hung in the balance, as if she did not know that her communiqu were no guarantee that a licensed doctor would even arrive on the scene. Not at this hour. There is only me. And my power was turned off yesterday just as this call began. I set out in the direction towards the elevators that would take me to the fifth floor of the Childrens Hospital, moving against the cold war evacuation route. I arrived there before any other responders. Adjacent to the first floor elevators was a chronic care unit where several children requiring ventilator support lived. One child, Marcus, had lived on the ground floor of the Childrens Hospital for five years and was now 15 years old. He and his nurse were outside the door of the unit that was his neighborhood, waiting in the common area that served the four elevators. Marcus had a boom box fixed to the back of his wheelchair. He played a few songs repeatedly and sang along at key parts, his breath only able to sustain bursts of high pitched sound. Earlier in the evening I had been near his room as Sexual Healing by Marvin Gaye played on his jam box. I sang along. His nurse had abruptly turned the station as the chorus began, stating that Marcus did not need to learn the words, lest he repeat them incessantly the way he repeated Kiss from a Rose by Seal. Now his nurse asked me, Whats going on? I dont know yet, I answered.
The elevator arrived. I used my identification badge to override the elevator and go directly to the fifth floor without stopping. Still the ride seemed slow and left time for internal torment. I could not imagine who the sick patient on the fifth floor might be. I had admitted three to the fifth floor that day, and all had seemed
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stable. I tried to focus on the fundamentals of critical care medicine as I had learned in pediatric advanced life support training. Airway. Breathing. Circulation. I remember I could not recall the proper dose of the code drug atropine, although in a calmer frame of mind I had known it. The elevator doors opened at the fifth floor. I floated through. Heavy fire doors opened to two long hallways, one to my left and one to my right, with a nursing station and other ancillary rooms in the middle of the two hallways. I could hear that the commotion was to the right, so I veered in that direction. I saw that a crowd was flowing out from the forth or fifth door on the right, perhaps fifty feet ahead. One of the nurses, made a pointing motion to me and then to the room, as if she were a guiding a passenger liner to its gate. My brain processed every sight and sound from the moment I entered the hallway. Thats what I think people are describing when they say that time slows down when they recount the events from some moment of crisis. Then I saw something precious in the distance. It was the nurse I had seen when I was paying my electric bill at the pawn shop. One of the questions troubling my soul since the pager sounded, who will be there to help me?, had been answered. Jenny. Her story is this: she has two small boys and she works nights to feed them, their father is scarcely involved. She is smart. She is reliable. She may even respect me as a doctor. I briefly wondered where her two boys slept this night. A mother stood in the doorway of the first room I passed. I had admitted her little girl earlier in the night. I was relieved that the code was not called for her, for the 18 month old was a medical mystery to me at that time. She had arrived with a bloated, firm abdomen. On exam it seemed as if the top portion of her stomach just below her diaphragm contained something with a hard, sharp edge, like a flattened aluminum can. When I had questioned the mother about what the child might have ingested, she simply shrugged and continued talking on her cell phone. I later found out that the little girl had eaten an entire bag of dehydrated apples. Swallowed them whole apparently. They had expanded in her belly and become too large to pass out. The next room housed another little girl. She too had ingested something: turpentine. She had tipped up the family bottle of turpentine, smaller aliquots of
which they purposely imbibed as an anti-helminth. Members of her matriarchal entourage, big sisters, aunts, mother, and grandmother, now stood near the doorway, looking down the hallway at the commotion. I remember the little girl had an affinity for one of her aunts, preferring her to her own mother. The little girl, whom they called something sounding like Muh Ca (which I imagined to be a contraction of money cat) had been hard to corral during my exam. The women attempted to charm her with a see-through zippered plastic sleeve that contained several dollar bills. Their technique was effective. They dangled the package in front of her and she focused on it like so many children might focus on a cherished doll. Peering into the room as a I walked by, I saw that now the little girl sat in the lap of her favorite aunt, just as she had earlier. Relieved that neither of the two ingestions I had admitted had unexpectedly deteriorated, I continued my levitation toward the chaos ahead. It was the room of a patient I did not know. I entered the room amid frantic interventions over a lifeless body. We were too late. That was apparent. Death has a knowable look, even to the untrained. It is gray. I remember that I called for a chaplain even before I formally assessed the patient. Looking back these years later and many codes since, that was one of the most sensible things I ever did. Still we continued with every possible intervention. I quickly assessed the patient, a young teenage boy with dysmorphic features consistent with some congenital anomaly. I asked for an overview of the patients medical history but I was given none. To this day I am unsure why the nurses remained silent to my request. Perhaps my presence hardly inspired confidence. No matter. The history would not change anything we would do at this late juncture. Even as one of the nurses continued to force air into the young mans lungs with a resuscitation bag, I searched for a pulse. There was none. We attached defibrillator pads to his chest. The pads also served to monitor the electrical activity of his heart. There was only a scarcely variable, low amplitude quiver overlying a flat line on the monitor, the quiver created by random electrical impulses of dying cells or by the buildings intrinsic vibration, for all I knew. At some point well into our efforts, I became aware that the childs mother was in the room. At some point the chaplain arrived and she ushered the mother out of the
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bright room, away from our brutal methods meant to give her son one more chance. I uneventfully intubated the child, his flaccid muscles offering no resistance as I slid the endotrachial tube through his oral cavity and into his airway. Thats when Jenny joined me. She was to my left at the head of the bed, using tape to secure the endotrachial tube that I had just placed. I began to force air into his lungs using an anesthesia bag and the newly secured artificial airway. The nurses performed chest compressions, the effectiveness of which we could judge by the amplitude of the waves displayed on the monitor. Though it was unspoken, we each watched as if viewing a competition among the nurses as each took turns performing the futile compressions. One of the nurses stood nearly seven feet tall. His chest compressions caused a large sinusoidal wave, his technique textbook perfect and aided by his great mechanical advantage. He was the winner. I ordered epinephrine. Still there was no response. I ordered more epinephrine. Still the monitor showed no effective heart beat. I ordered a third round of epinephrine, but the child remained as lifeless as when we had found him. A staff physician from the ER had arrived. She announced that it was time to stop the code. It was time to assess the child one final time and declare him dead. We were not formally trained in reverence for the dead. But a natural silence descended upon the group. The mother had been taken to a room for the grieving and was attended to by the chaplain. We cleaned fluids from the skin of the child. We positioned his clothing. Jenny carefully removed the tape from the endotrachial tube and I pulled it from his mouth. They turned my power off this morning, I said to Jenny. Huh? she asked looking directly into my eyes.
administrators that show up to the scene in the wake of tragedy, were there to get the scoop. We reassured one another that we could have done nothing more to save him. He had been admitted for a surgery to replace a feeding tube. We were unsure of exactly what had caused him to die at this moment. I was given a packet of paperwork to fill out. There was confusion about the time of death. We estimated 3:10 AM. A deep sense of relief overcame me. A sense that the worst thing possible had occurred, and I had performed as expected. I had emerged on the other side and recovered my belongs after the train ride into the unknown. And Jenny had seen me. She saw me performing as I had been trained. Machinelike at a time when emotions were a liability. Maybe I had impressed her. From where I sat I looked for her. I saw her standing alone near a window next to the nursing station looking out into the silent night beyond, her arms folded. I imagined her to be thinking about her own children, asleep at home in their beds. I watched as she reached with her hand to wipe a tear before it rolled down her cheek. I wanted to tell her she was beautiful.
The power company cut my power today. I forgot to pay the bill. To the bungalow? she smiled. I couldnt help but smile back as I assisted in cleaning the deceased young mans face. Dont forget to go to Big Daddys next time, she replied. The small crowd that was in the room now gathered around the nursing station. Officials,
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Speed of Light
Joaquin Hernandez
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Michael Young
Whistle My Sun 2
Lemon lipped parsimony nibbles over waffle clouds of cola soaked carpet stains and lipstick lined cheeks (striated with laughter lines, she never saw the sun) Oh; oh. the rays she never saw like corn syrup down her neck it crept with a tingle tumbling like toddlers of hair portending her fate as she would soon leave the barber shop and see her son or sun, whichever killed her first.
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Get Off My Rock

Nancy Huff
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Margo Barnes
My Fathers Gift
When I look back on everything that happened all those years ago, I dont even feel the pain I felt at the time. I remember it, but its like remembering something from a book. I cant feel it any more. I just feel sad, and lonely somehow too. Todays my dads birthday. He would have been seventy-seven. Sometimes when I think of him I think of how people say, I did the best I could. Ive said this of myself. I guess thats true of my dad, too. Journal entry, December 3, 1999 long draught of vodka. The chaos he created turned our picture-book family into a horror show, and set in motion the events that would devastate my mother and my siblings and me, affecting each of us in ways as unique to us as we were from each other, snowflakes in the family storm. Twice, during my childhood, my father went to Hazelden, the renown Minnesota rehab clinic, for twenty-eight-day dry-outs. He underwent the counseling, the peer support, the Twelve Steps, and still, soon after his return home sober, he began to stop off for just a pop on his way to his AA meetings, and we began to pick up the familiar odor of SenSen like a cloud around him, this drinkers chewing gum effectively masking the scent of alcohol on ones breath but giving the secret away with its own distinct smell. When Dad came through the door at night, long after dinner was over and the dishes washed and put away, his eyes bloodshot, a fresh stick of gum cracking and snapping between his teeth, the challenge in his eyes just daring his wife to accuse him of being drunk, we knew he had not made it to AA, that he had not been to an AA meeting in a very long time. My father once told me, Dolly, using his pet name for me, the problem with Alcoholics Anonymous is that they want me to say Im an alcoholic. But I am not an alcoholic, he insisted. Is it so terrible that I would like to have a drink once in a while? Your mother simply does not want me to have a drink. She cant stand to see me enjoying myself, he said, asking me, tacitly, to share in his incredulity. Would you believe it? She doesnt even want me to have a beer at the baseball game! Thats the problem. My parents remained deadlocked in this argument throughout my life. At issue was whether my mother objected to my father having a drink or whether she objected to his spending the afternoon in a bar having
By the time my father died, I had already missed his bright wit, his loving sweetness, even his craziness, for years, as drink and mental illness took away from him, and from me, everything cherished and special about him and replaced it with the chaos and rage and despair I came to know. I was nineteen when my father died. One week and five days before he died, my mother gave up, after twenty-eight years of marriage, after twenty years of praying, pleading and threatening; after two years of AlAnon, where she learned that we must not bail them out, must not make excuses for them, nor hide the consequences of their behavior, or give them second, and third, and hundredth chances, all those husbands, wives, fathers and mothers, brothers, sisters and children fighting a losing battle with alcohol. My fathers sad, lonely death came two years after my mother learned and committed to memory, adopted as her mantra, the serenity prayer that begins all Alcoholics Anonymous meetings. I dont know whether she learned to accept the things she could not change, or change the things she could, or know the difference, but I know that my fathers death, even after the living hell their life had become, and the impossibility of going on, broke her heart and left her ragged and empty and lost. My father was born doubly cursed. Coiled like a sleeping snake deep in his DNA lay not only the genes that drove his addiction, the genes he passed on to my brother and later to grandchildren my father would never know, but the genes of madness, of the manic depression he bequeathed to me. During his lifetime, so very different from mine, there was no help for my fathers mental illness. There did not even exist a name for the condition that caused the soaring grandiosity, the wild torrents of creativity, the boundless energy I loved in my father and the crippling depression for which he sought relief in the searing pleasure of a
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ten, or twelve, or fifteen drinks, and coming home to his family, if he made it home at all, falling-down drunk, stinking and belligerent. And so my mother, despairing and out of options, twenty-eight years after walking down the aisle in the fairy-tale wedding of the season with this handsome, wealthy young fighter pilot, hired a lawyer and filed the papers for a legal separation from my father. In Indiana, in 1973, before any divorce became final, the warring couple had to have lived apart, under the terms of a legal separation, for one year. At the twelve-month mark, the couple could either terminate the separation and give the marriage another go or allow it to lapse seamlessly into divorce. My mother presented my father with the legal filing for separation and asked him to move out, and because we had lost our home and now lived in my maternal grandmothers house, he had little choice. By this time, it was just my mother and me, and his drinking had become a steady, debilitating, heartbreaking drumbeat in the rhythm of our life. My two sisters, nine and seven years older than me, had vastly different experiences of our family than I had, and when the family they had known began to disappear, I watched them flee like so many bathers scrambling for the beach when someone yells Shark! This is how it felt to me, left behind. But this is unfair. The timing was simply right for them: they had college to go to, careers and marriages to begin. They moved on with their lives, and took with them their memories of the golden years of Trish and Jack Harrington, toasts of the town, pillars of the community. My sisters missed the horror that was still to come, when they left home. My father moved out during the summer after my graduation from high school, shortly before I left home to begin my freshman year at Purdue University. I hid in my bedroom while my mother presented him with the separation papers. I heard his drunken anger, his nasty sarcasm at being thrown out of my own home. And yet, the next day, sober, he was gentle when he told me he was leaving. He told me he had decided to get his own place for a while, take some time alone; it would be good for him, good for my mother too. His concern for my mother touched me. He was jocular, light. He told me it would be temporary, a fun adventure, I could help him decorate and come over for dinner. And then, when he and Mom had taken a little break and gotten things all straightened out, when his ship came in, then
hed buy us a little farm and I could have that horse I had always wanted. This was a bizarre reference to a time when I was still in grade school, when during one of his manic phases my father cobbled together all the cash he could find, including the proceeds from selling my mothers car right out of the high school parking lot while she stood before her classroom inside, and made a nonrefundable commitment to buy a run-down little farm house in a neighboring town. It had a little corral and a two-stall barn, and I fell in love with the place. He had, too. When he failed to come up with the rest of the purchase price and lost his down payment, and the house, we were both crushed. But now, as I prepared to head off to college with the help of grants, scholarships and my mothers sacrifices, it was too late for farm houses and horses. My heart ached for my father, this broken down, beaten middle-aged man who had lost everything and now had nowhere to go but deeper into his own hell. I hugged him, and returned his light-heartedness, as if he were simply going on a little retreat and would be back soon to a happy reunion. This was our family tradition: pretend, deflect, cover up, play-act, keep our secrets and dont ever acknowledge to others, or even to ourselves, the devastating truth of our circumstances. Sure, Dad, Ill come over and fix you dinner. But first, I said with a wink, Ill have to learn how to cook! Selfishly, beneath my sorrow for my father lay the profound relief that he would not be joining my mother as she delivered me to my first year of college, to my dorm room, and my new roommate. I was eighteen, and I was ashamed of him. When I returned home for the summer after my freshman year, exhilarated by the freedom of having been away from home for the first time, of being outside the stranglehold of my family, it was more from a sense of obligation than from love that I swallowed my dread and visited my father in his tiny apartment above his landlords garage, not a mile from my mothers house. As he opened the door at the top of the stairs and welcomed me into his kitchen, I was assaulted by the smell of garbage and something else, faint but familiar. Under the stench of rotting food, I caught the lingering smell of vomit, and I recalled the times he had dropped to his knees and vomited on the
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carpet of our living room as my sisters and brother and I clung to each other on the stairway above. In the sink, dirty dishes piled among crusted foil TV dinner plates. A garbage bin overflowed with trash, and I saw the waving antennae of a cockroach as it scuttled under the refrigerator. I thought about my mothers spotless kitchen, her modest, tidy home, beds made, dishes clean and put away, everything in its place. I remembered how my mother had so often told my father that the one thing she wanted in her kitchen was a dishwasher. My father laughed, said, Why? You already have four of them! The four dishwashers were my sisters and my brother and me; my dad would have made the fifth, but of course he never washed a dish, never dried, or put away. My father had gone from his mothers pampering, to the Air Force, to a college fraternity, to his marriage. Throughout his life, he had never had to lift a finger. He had no idea how to take care of himself; how to feed and clean up after himself, how to fix a simple meal, wash the dishes, make a bed, sweep a floor, do his own laundry. I did not want to see the rest of the apartment. Dad, I said, fighting tears. The stench was tugging at my gag reflex, and I did not know how he was living in it. Lets clean this up. Do you have any big trash bags? Oh, no, Dolly. Ill do it later, I guess Im not much of a housekeeper. Ill take care of it later. Lets you and me go get a hamburger. Come on, your ol dads buying. He was jovial, as if Oops! I forgot to put those dishes away! He was swaying slightly, his eyes bloodshot. He didnt smell good. It wasnt just the booze; he smelled like spoiled meat. I opened the refrigerator. Inside were dozens of large paper cups; nothing else. In the freezer, more of the same. I tipped one forward and found the remains of an old milkshake, vanilla. Dad, I said, as the tears spilled onto my cheeks. When did you eat last? Are you eating? Why sure! he said, squeezing my shoulders in a brisk hug. Hey, whats with the tears? Im fine! I just like milkshakes! Im doing great! But I knew that the milkshakes, easy on his stomach, made up his entire diet now; that any traces of spoiled, dried-up food in the filthy kitchen had been there for weeks. I worried about my dad, but it was a conflicted concern. I was still a self-centered teenager home for the summer, with better things to do than babysit the man who bore much of the responsibility for making a living hell out of my childhood. I got my first waitressing
job, in a sleazy cocktail lounge at the Ramada Inn near the highway. Dressed in my uniform a bright red contraption with a tightly-laced bodice, low cut ruffled neckline and a flared skirt so short it failed to cover the matching ruffled white panties I served drinks nightly to already-drunk men and garishly made-up women, my tray held high as I passed among the tables on the sticky carpet. A week into my new job, I realized that people didnt tip very well when they were sloshed, and I was frustrated. When the man on the far end of a booth for four pulled his empty glass away so I had to lean low, far across the table, to retrieve it, and the guy on the near end took advantage of the opportunity to grab a handful of my ruffled panties, I had had enough. I felt that hand on my ass, and reflexes got the better of me. I turned swiftly and my arm swung, hard, and my fist caught him on the temple. It felt like an accident, but there was satisfaction in the feel of my knuckles on his face. He toppled backward, more from shock and drunkenness than from the impact of my puny fist, but as he hit the floor I knew my job was over. I fled to the ladies room, changed my clothes and stormed into the managers office. He was already on his feet, red faced and sputtering. You stupid cunt, he shouted. Youre fired! Oh, no Im not, I shouted back, flinging the whorish uniform at him. I quit! During that summer of my parents separation, after my brief career as a cocktail waitress, I got a day job and spent my evenings with my best friend Joe, who lived a few blocks away and attended a mens college close enough to Purdue that we often attended each others dances when we didnt have a real date. Joe and I spent most of these summer nights at a nearby amusement park, where the spinning lights of the carnival rides, the cries of giddy children and the taste of cotton candy were a welcome diversion from the bleak reality of my family. We battled each other in high speed go-cart races and frenetic whack-a-mole contests, and brought home dozens of cheap stuffed animals for our efforts. I spent the summer at play, hiding from my sense of obligation to my father and swallowing my worry, dreading each brief visit with him. It was early August, the summer waning, when my oldest sister Francie came to get me. My father had shown up at her house that morning with a dozen roses. Happy anniversary, Punkin! he slurred, the nickname my sister cherished now bittersweet. He
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announced with an ironic smile that it was not only my sisters and her husbands wedding anniversary; it was also the one-year anniversary of the day my mother kicked him out of his own home. It was official: his twenty-nine-year marriage was over. He had received the divorce decree that morning. To the end, my father remained incredulous, bitter, at the unfairness of it all. My wife doesnt want me to have a beer! hed say, palms up. Would you believe it? To the end, my father refused to acknowledge that his drinking had run out of control, that it had ruined his marriage, his family and his health, his very life, and the lives of those he loved. But my mother had spent the last twelve months waiting: waiting for her husband to call, to say Lets try again, to concede that he had a problem with alcohol, to promise, once again, that he would get help to stop drinking. My mother had spent twenty years begging and pleading, and she would not, could not, do it again, now, at the end. She would meet him half way, maybe even more, but she simply would not open the door to him without some acceptance of responsibility on his part. It was up to my father to come to her this time, to ask for one more chance, to show some commitment to reform. But he could not, or would not, and so their one year separation lapsed into divorce with not a word from either side. My sister was stunned by the sight of the man on her doorstep. His face was sunken and gaunt, his bright white dentures unnaturally prominent, protruding from his bony skull. His arms were skeletal, muscles eroded by alcohol and illness, his shirt collar slack around his stringy neck. His skin was jaundiced, the whites of his eyes a ghastly yellow. Most alarming was his stomach, round and taut under his stained shirt, like that of a woman nine months pregnant, his popped navel a conspicuous protrusion beneath the fabric. Following my sisters horrified gaze, my dad gave his enormous belly a pat. I know, he said. Gotta lay off those milkshakes! And then, Dad! my sister cried. Whats wrong with your feet? Why arent you wearing any shoes? Oh my father said, looking down at his swollen legs and feet, wrapped in rags torn from old shirts. I dont know, my shoes dont seem to fit any more, so I made myself some new ones. What dya think? My father declined my sisters plea to come in and sit for a while, have a cup of coffee, maybe some breakfast, and when he left she made an urgent call to
a neighbor, a doctor, and described what she had seen. Get your father to the emergency room immediately, the doctor said. Hes dying. My sister did not want to do this alone. She came and got me at my mothers house and we set out to find my father. We checked his little one-room office. I had a key, but his car wasnt in the lot, and the office was dark; when we knocked, there was no response, so we moved on. We tried his apartment; the door was open, but he was not there. My sister, seeing the apartment for the first time, was horrified by the condition of the place worse even than when I had visited just weeks before. We tried the local bars I knew he frequented, with no success. Out of ideas, we returned to his office to see whether he might have phone numbers there of anyone he might have gone to see, anyone who might know where he was. This time, I used my key, and we let ourselves in. He was sitting behind his desk in the dark; in front of him were several fifths of vodka. One bottle was half empty. In the waste basket beside his desk were two more bottles, already drained. I didnt know how he was still upright. I didnt know how he was still alive. Dad, my sister said, come on, we have to get you to the hospital, youre really sick! My dad didnt answer; didnt seem even to see us. I approached his desk, reached for his hand. He was not able to give it to me. Dad, I said, do you want to die? Sitting there in his dark, shabby little office, behind his little second-hand desk, slump-shouldered, his bony hands folded in front of him, he began to cry. He cried with his whole body, his shoulders heaving, his face open and contorted, tears and saliva and snot running unchecked from his face and dripping onto his desk. He cried unashamed, not only with tears, but with a sound I had never heard from him, nor from any man, a helpless, childlike blubbering he made no attempt to hide or stop. Unable to lift him to his feet, we called an ambulance, and he was admitted on arrival into the hospital. When I visited him later that day, I was bombarded with memories of my own times spent hospitalized, a sickly kid struggling with chronic illness. The smells of sickness and antiseptic, the squawk of intercom chatter, the squeak of nurses white shoes on worn linoleum as they went about their hushed duties, glimpses of other peoples illness in their dim rooms as I passed, unleashed a horde of memories, of pain, and fear, and loneliness. I dreaded reaching my fathers room.
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I girded myself to see him trussed in IV tubes and monitor lines, blinking machines and hissing devices churning, as modern medical technology worked to save him. Instead, I found him alone in his darkened room, no tubes, no monitors, just him, a wrinkled sheet over his huge stomach, his swollen feet propped on a pillow. They had taken his dentures away, and his mouth had collapsed in on itself as if he were already dead. He was not able to rise to hug me, so I leaned over and gave his forehead a kiss. It was damp, oily, tasting of salt and unwashed skin. Again, during this first visit with him in his hospital room, my father cried. I sat beside him and held his hand as he wept quietly, his shame and fear and sadness coursing down his cheeks in his tears. I cried, too. Neither of us had words for the pain we shared that day in his dim hospital room I spent time with my father twice a day while he was in the hospital, visiting him mornings and evenings, wiping his face with a cool, damp cloth and rubbing lotion onto his swollen feet. My sister and I were his only visitors. My mother did not visit him; they were now divorced. On the fifth day of my fathers stay in the hospital, during my morning visit, my dad said more to me than he had in my previous visits combined. I leaned close to him, the better to hear what he wanted to say to me. Dolly, he said, why dont you take a break? You dont want to be stuck in this hospital every night. Youre young. You should be out having fun. Im doing just fine. How bout we just take tonight off? You go out tonight and have a good time, and when I see you tomorrow you can tell me all about it. Please. Dont come back here tonight. Besides, he said, and he reached for my hand, pulled it to him to bring my ear down close to his mouth. Let me tell you a little secret. Im going to get better. And when I get out of here, Im going to stop drinking. Im going to get your mother back, and Im going to start over. Everythings going to be great. Go out and have fun tonight, and tomorrow well all start over. This was my father, castles-in-the-sky dreamer, sanguine even in his final days. My fathers doctor had told us that the liver is one of few organs in the human body that can actually regenerate, if enough healthy tissue remains after the
disease has taken its toll. He also told us, when my dad was admitted, that he did not expect my father to last through the night. So when my dad continued to be alive after twenty-four hours, after two, three and then four days, we were optimistic. There was nothing to be done, his doctor said, but wait. On that fifth morning, I left the hospital giddy, filled with hope, my step lighter than it had been in months. My father had finally acknowledged that he had a problem, that he needed to quit drinking to turn his life around. My father had a plan. He still loved my mother; he was going to win her back, and I couldnt wait to tell her the news. Most of all, after five days, my father was still alive. As he lay in that darkened hospital room, the few remaining soft, live cells in his hardened liver were busy at work, regenerating, reproducing. I could almost hear them, so certain was I of their industry. My father would beat the odds. I was sure of it. Joe and I made plans for another evening at our amusement park. That night, more than any of the other nights we had spent at the park, we had a blast. We arrived before dark, with the whole night before us. We rode the Ferris wheel and the Tilt-a-Whirl, the roller coaster and the merry-go-round; we ran through the house of mirrors and peeked in at the bearded lady. We gorged ourselves on greasy corn dogs and sweet, sticky cotton candy, and we laughed at the carneys, familiar as friends to us now, at the end of our summer there, as we outsmarted them at target shooting and ring toss, dancing away with our arms full of prizes. For this one evening, I was carefree. We laughed and carried on and closed the park down, Joes car filled with silly stuffed toys when we headed for home. When Joe dropped me off around eleven, carrying my booty into the house for me, I didnt notice that my mothers car was not in the driveway. I called out for her, before I saw the note on the kitchen table: Dads taken a turn for the worse. Come to the hospital. Joe drove me there; I could not speak. My fear was physical: I shook, my teeth chattered, my hands and underarms slickened with sweat. I said a little prayer, repeating it over and over and over as if my will alone could make it so: please, please let him be alive. Please, how could this happen, he said he was going to get better, please, he told me his secret, Im not ready, please, give me a chance to tell him I love him, to tell him Im sorry, to say goodbye, if thats what must be.
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As we pulled up to the hospital, I saw my mother out on the sidewalk, her arms around my sobbing sister. I was too late. My father had died while I was at play with my friend, giving not a thought to my sick father. My sister was with my father in his final moments. My mother had chosen not to go to him. She feared, she said, that if he saw her there he would know he was dying, and she did not want him to be afraid. It wasnt until the next day that I learned of my fathers final gift to me. Early on the morning I last saw him, on his fifth day in the hospital, five days after he received notice that his divorce from my mother was final, and even as he took my hand and promised me that he would get better, and get my mother back, and turn his life around, my father had already begun to vomit blood. When a cirrhotic liver hardens past repair, blood that normally flows to a healthy liver is shunted away from the dying organ and it backs up into the veins of the esophagus, creating engorged veins similar to varicose veins. When the liver reaches its point of no return when no healthy tissue remains to absorb any of the blood flow the veins of the esophagus will begin to rupture. As the rupture of these veins accelerates, the hemorrhaging into the esophagus becomes uncontrollable and the patient, at the end, bleeding convulsively from within the esophagus and into his lungs, drowns. When the nurses checked on him early that morning, long before my visit, they saw faint traces of blood around his lips and gums, and they asked him when he had begun to vomit. Around three that morning, he told them. I learned this from my sister, who had gotten the report from the nurses on duty. Thats not possible, I said. He couldnt have known that was happening! They must have made a mistake! No, my sister said. There was no mistake. He knew. This was the final, fatal stage of cirrhosis; he had accomplished what he had set out to do on the day my sister and I found him sitting in the dark in his office, fifths of cheap vodka lined up and waiting like eager little soldiers. In classic Harrington family tradition, even as he begged me, that morning, not to come see him that evening, my dad was keeping a secret. He would be dead by days end, and he knew it. He did not want me to be there to see him die.
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Jumping Spider
Mark Thaler
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Waiting
Ashley Dickerson
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Lori-Linell Hall
Nothing I Could Do
for Brian
My skin bristled after The resident called Telling me about You sixty-five year Old white female Metastatic cancer Vaginal bleeding They wanted us to Do something about The bleedinga pill Surgery something Something to make your Last days less messy
Retracing steps to Nurses Station of Protocols unsure I asked do I need To gown mask special Permission to enter Your room to tell you You there was Nothing I could do
Walls surreal you at Center mounded in Bed your head mostly Bald except white tufts Skin glowing oxygen Mask against face sheets Pulled under chest Your daughter sitting To your side her blue Pantsuit an island
A nurse perky brunette In green scrubs said no They removed Neutropenic
Of color
You were still but your eyes I could not say what Color they were looked Up as I introduced Myself the doctor In charge How is the bleeding You said not too bad I said good My consultation Concluded I said Take care young lady
I went to see you Throat tight eyes wide glass Walls and doors your room Separated from The rest of the cancer Ward I had not been On a cancer ward Since Dads illness my Colleague ducked after Referring Dad to Hospice said there was Nothing he could do
Precautions I Shuffled to your Room washed my hands At the sink outside Your door thinking I Must put on my best Face to inform you There was Nothing I could do
I entered your room So white holy floors
You laughed
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Allison Theony
A Stolen Moment
5:51 pm on the 25th of January, the sun lowers beneath the rocky mounds orange and brown folds cover the suns shoulders mimicking the patterned weave in my yarned and tattered blanket. Quiet ensues, drowning out the jingle-jangle of dog and neighbor; the purring car engines move further on. I am left to my thoughts without distraction
today they are of contentment.
A long list of Latin terms beckon as the amber glow illuminates the page, But I am not swayed; the peace envelopes me.
Much has been learned on this day, My gloved fingers have met the smooth encasement of the great saphenous vein, I know the sheen of a titanium knee. Not even the metabolic pathways, which await me in zeal deter me from my spot.
A day is passing and for this moment, I simply watch.
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Makin a break for it

Hal Strich
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Zoe Sorrell
The Boy Who Owned the World

He is three years old and the world is his. He sits on the floor, legs crossed, staring forward transfixed at the glass sliding door. His right elbow leaves a crease in his blue knee-length shorts and his chin leans in the palm above, his fingers gently caressing his near cheek. His skin is a warm, soft colour, the hue of butterscotch. He fidgets, having been in this same position for many minutes now. But he doesnt dare move too much. His eyes run along his left arm, the hand of which is plastered against the refreshing cold of the glass. His fingertips are spread as far as they can reach, the ends whitening as gravity forces the blood down his arm. The fingernails are dirty, ten little milky declarations of many afternoons spent playing in the hot sun outside. The muscles in the hand tighten as he pushes it even more determinably into the glass. For where this youthful hand has left sweaty smudges on the glass, there is another hand reaching in from the world outside. This hand is slightly smaller than his, rounded and furry. The colour is golden and the sun makes it dance. The paw is segmented into four pieces, each adorned with a tiny white sliver of a claw. Someone has spilled little dark freckles all over this paw. As the boys eyes travel, he sees that this paw is attached to a whole creature, the most beautiful creature in the world. The bobcat stares at him with hopeful eyes rimmed in black, ovals tilted upwards. A flare of white fur shoots out and upwards from both of the eyes. It travels downwards also from the inner corners, attaching to the white fur rug that plays background to the nose, mouth, and whiskers. Four whiskers on either side of the slit of a mouth. Two giant perked ears protruding from the top of the head, black fluff feathering the top of one. A beautiful creature with his paw pressed to the hand of a beautiful boy. Only a thin piece of glass in between Now his head reaches his fathers knees and the world is smaller, but still all his. He stands in the front door, bobbing gently up and down in excitement. He clasps his hands together and stays back, watching quietly. The most admirable man in the world stands at the edge of his porch, wearing boxers, an old t-shirt, and a gentle and knowing smile. The boy resembles him shockingly in appearance, and dreams of doing so in more than aesthetics. He stares up in awe as the man raises his hands up to his mouth and cups them, creating a megaphone of knuckles and nails. Chiruupppppp. Suddenly, the two tall trees, the guards to the porch, come alive. They shake and leaves begin to hurl themselves to the ground, spinning and soaring in the wind of a fresh day. The reason behind the commotion is revealed when all of a sudden, hundreds of birds take flight from the tree. Birds of every colour, shape, and size. A fiery robin lights up the yard, quickly followed by a graceful earth-toned hummingbird that navigates the sky as if flying is the easiest of feats. A flash of blue over there, of yellow over there. So many birds that the sky was momentarily blocked from view. And the noise, the chaotic tweets and caws and squeals from every direction. Colour everywhere, the discordant harmony behind a thousand mixed bird songs, the sun forgottenwhat a beautiful world. Years pass and the world is small now, just a bouncy ball in a bag. He stands in his kitchen and clutches the bag, however, proud at the fact that these were extra special bouncy balls. He has given one to the man with the gentle smile. The man is standing at the sink, looking at the ball in his right hand. Nobody moves. Then in one split second, the man clasps his hand around the ball and throws it with such power at the ground. It skyrockets off the floor, ricochets off the ceiling, and from then on is purely a series of sharp angles and a symphony of crashing glass. Crash. Crash. Crash. A young woman rushes into the kitchen looking concerned. She takes in the damage in front of her, the young boy still staring up in awe, and the man next to him, whose eyes have crinkled in amusement. She makes a feeble attempt at anger before eventually surrendering to laughter. And in a second, they were all laughing. Looking around at each other and chuckling big hearty chuckles. Standing in a destroyed kitchen, but whole nonetheless. More than kitchen glass has been broken. Hes nearly eleven and he sits on his bed in shards, fragmented, broken beyond repair. He has gained
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weight yet hes smaller than ever. Two arms hug his knees to his chest, trying to somehow hold himself together even though hes already fallen apart. Tears stain his pudgy cheeks, catching at his jaw line and gathering there until they have enough weight to drop to his shirt. Lights illuminate his room, yet everything is in shadow. The purple and blue on his arms stands as a souvenir to the most recent fight. Hey, fatass
He had grown up instead of out the last four years, but he wished hed grown in. Hed marched through each day, coming out on the other end with his smile still pinned securely to his face. Hed walked the walk, hed played the game. Yet, he looked through that glass, smiling securely, and saw nothing. He was alone.
His whole body is racked with sobs, his rib cage heaving. He lets out air in short spastic puffs and gasps for more in between cascades of tears. His lips tremble uncontrollably and he rocks himself back and forth. In a sudden bout of anger, he smacks his bed with his left hand, simply eliciting a gentle wrinkle in the comforter. He looks down at this and his eyes take in his arm, the arm that once clasped the worlds bounciest balls, that used to wrap around the legs of that most amazing man on his porch, that a very long time ago reached out to the world on the other side of the glass door. The world that was no longer his. Carved into his forearm was a smiley face. Three simple, thin white lines. Two slits for eyes. A mouth curled into a soppy grin, eternally happy. He couldnt ever forget to smile with that smiling face with him forever. But the boy wasnt smiling. Four years later, he wears his smile like he wears his shirts. He puts it on in the morning, and takes it off before bed. He practices it like he practices the shiny trombone lying in the corner. He paints it on like the woman upstairs paints on her lipstick. And he swears its honest like she swears she loves the gentle man. Now he sits on the floor, legs crossed, staring at glass. Theres a small crack running from top left to bottom right, zigzagging through his field of vision. He raises a long-fingered hand to the window and presses it to the cold glass. He stares out into the gated yard outside, but the light is just wrong. He sees nothing and instead glares at his own reflection, skewed and twisted by the cracked glass and the scheming sunlight. His backside is uncomfortable from the floor.
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Mirceas State of Wonder and Bliss

Florina Catalina Florescu
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Zoe Sorrell
Ode To My Teddy Bear

youre staring at me again from the toy cupboard with eyes and fur as black as the monster under the bed
id take you out but you make me feel ill your perfect dark form and six perfect whiskers and the smell of polo by ralph lauren
fine, ill hold you one more time close, so close, too close i run my tongue along your stitched curves nestle your downy cheek into my breasts consummate my childhood notch the bedpost of my four-cornered life
until all im left with is an empty bed a stone four years premature and you, teddy, my reluctant ally
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Bill Marshall
What do you want to be when you grow up?

The first week of July can be a time of reflection for doctors, especially those of us lucky enough to have an extra day off and not be on call. All of us, especially those of us involved in medical teaching, remember the start of our own residencies in Julys past, and can measure what has happened since in our lives and our careers. There is a sense of dj vu in the warm summer air and holiday barbecues. Doctors, maybe more than many other people, arent content to just remember, and arent quite comfortable in the present (its important to know the call schedule for next week), and so we plan and project our futures and those of our patients. Its part of our collective personality and, indeed, a large part of our work in primary care. An overweight, hypertensive middleaged man with multiple risk factors for cardiovascular disease needs a look through our crystal ball. One of our senior attendings (at the introductory luncheon for the new residents) remarked that he was still exploring what I want to be when I grow up. Its a common phrase, used in many contexts, and is often a humorous, sometimes bittersweet, way to talk about future plans. Many physicians change their specialty during their careers; most of us know or remember a brilliant diagnostician or skilled surgeon who inspires thoughts of being like him or her. As a pediatrician, I tend to use this phrase in its literal sense, as a question for children who are indeed growing up. Its a fun and time honored question for talking to young children. Many pediatricians will have favorite responses theyve elicited; just this past week I heard answers including four (from a three year old) and a butterfly from a four year old. Besides including the child in the conversation and making the visit enjoyable for the family and doctor, the question allows a bit of valuable insight into the childs mind, the family context, and the cultural setting. Many children in southern Arizona want to be Border Patrol agents. No matter what their height, many eight year old boys want to be basketball players. Many elementary school girls want to be doctors or teachers. The six year old daughter of two brilliant and successful professors once told me she wanted to be a stay at home mom. (She went to Harvard.) All of this was on my mind when, at the conclusion of a routine well visit, I asked the (age modified) question to Jan, an 18 year old young woman who had graduated from high school the prior month. I dont know, she said. She smiled, but I was puzzled. Most older adolescents have some sort of plans or goals. I was expecting something more. I tried some prompts: What about school? A job? Travel? I just dont know, she repeated. Had I missed something? I had reviewed her home life, her relationships, and her school history during the interview; she wasnt using drugs or alcohol, she had no high risk behaviors, she had no signs of depression. I asked our social worker to interview the patient; she had met the family in the past. Did Jan have an occult depression, did she lack initiative, or did she have secret (at least from her doctor) plans? The social worker spent some time with Jan and her family while I saw the next patients. The social worker reported back. The family lived outside of town on a small ranch; Jan helped her parents and siblings with the ranch work and helped sell their produce. For the moment, the social worker concluded, the teen (and the family) seemed content with that. This was a cultural divide. Jan was indeed living in the moment, ready for serendipity. No one in the family seemed worried about Jans lack of long term plans, but I think the family did sense my puzzlement and concern. Before they left, Jans brother went down to their truck and brought me a huge, home grown watermelon. This was both a thank you gift and, perhaps, an invitation or suggestion to not worry quite so much about tomorrow.
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Jellies
Nancy Hoff
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Mary Maher
TWINS
Didnt have a pulse Names unspoken. Souls alone. Changing lifes timeline.
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Madkam
Ronnette Benke
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Long Haired Woman

Nicholas Dunayi
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Laila Halaby
Jeans
I sit my slim self down at the back of the number 6 my stylin jeans shroud my trim body a fat woman my age sits across from me handfuls of cellulite stretch her worn gray sweat pants to their limits old perm growing out old eyes looking in her thick hands hold a quiet yellow newborn all red around the eyes my jeans begin to squeeze me tight steal my breath how many stops back was she me? jaunty hopeful was it a short ride? an illness? lost job? mean boyfriend? in a flash extra flesh hanging from her arms eyes lost in that sad sick baby or was she always that way? my jeans they are so tight I cannot breathe I must get off this bus this is not my stop
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Nichole Goff
Twenty Eight Pills

1 Coffee with hazelnut cream and sugar skin, saturate me. Bare-chested in swells of sheets, move me with your sex-scent Profane. 2 10 p.m. I am purring rubbing against your feet. How do you tame me? Language drips wilting from tinted lips. 4 Seven days, I am zen. I am untouchable, at least until Sunday night. Then, I am itching with your lack of touch. Fuck you. Your restraint and saintly patience. Do you see my body boiling over? 3 You make my nakedness feel
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White Rocks
Greg Cheeny
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Short Haired Woman

Nicholas Dunayi
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Steve Nash
Promise
1 Me and her took the blacktop out to the hoodoos turnoff, made a tight left onto a road dynamited, picked and shoveled through Utah sandstone during the uranium boom of the 1950s. We locked the hubs then inched up the sandy/rocky steepness to the crest and the first drop shelf. Roll down your window, I said. Dustll get in. One front wheel dropped about a foot. My head smacked sideways against my window. She cranked hers down so fast she looked like a cartoon. The other wheel dropped. Her head whipped sideways into the breeze. Almost lost the rear bumper when the duallies slid off. We did our bit to lower that shelf with our scrape. In first gear we waddled down to the bottom of the draw. I leaned over the wheel to look up at the climb. It looked too steep. I grinned at her. She grinned back. I gunned it. Couldnt see over the hood when we lipped out. I hoped the road didnt take a sudden turn. It didnt. There was a sign, though. Not a County Maintained Road. Now they tell us, she said. Yeah, I mumbled, not knowing how she wanted me to take that. There was rightful distance farther than across the bench seat. Wed grown up in the same two streetlamp wide spot. We left town different times, come back, left again without ever meeting up til today on the bus back home. Had us a snow cone down to the gas station and on a spur dumped a couple packs into my pickup parked at Dads place and lit out. Hadnt even told nobody we was back outside of a note saying to Dad that it was me who took the truck. Where to? I asked. We looked across miles of rusty-pink solid-rock hills. Only man thing was the road to the horizon, twisting and dipping, contouring where it could. Driven sand filled low places. In the sandy bits foot-tall bushes sprouted the way a gardenerd plant them to best advantage poor soil. Hidden were all the sudden ditches, maybe a hundred feet wide and three times as deep, that you never see til your next step is lots of nothing. That away, she said, gesturing at it all. We rolled. The truck bottomed and rattled and chirped for most of it. On the smooth wed make some time. Then wed slow to first or second and warm wind brought our rooster tail into the cab. Bout 15 miles in the road ended in bunchgrass between the tracks and no more tracks. Checked the sky first thing and saw only little puff clouds. That was fine. Didnt want no flash flood where we was heading. We beat dust off clothes and I tipped a jerry-can off the tailgate to wash the dust and sweat streaks off us both. She poured some extra and scrubbed. I bent down and pulled a bit of green off a bush, crushed the leaves between thumb and forefinger. I pushed the mess to my nose. Smelled so damn familiar, sweet with a little burn. She toweled her face of fade freckles. Her golden hair draped spectacular and caught the sun just right. God it was good to be home.
Two-thirty p.m. and it was pushing 90. I pounded her pack against the tailgate. Dust exploded. I kept the load upright while she sat down and wiggled into the straps. She stood with a grunt. We caught a faint trail heading down a drainage and walked the gravelly path down between sandstone humps. Around the bend them humps gave way to ledges about knee high. We headed down a draw, straight as a Salt Lake City boulevard, for three hundred
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yards, ledges rising and our path angling down. At the next sharp right, the ledges were 40 feet above my head and canyon bottom narrowed. Cooler here, she said. Gets cooler. Good. Not seventy paces later a ravine twice as wide as my truck cut in right. A tangle of boulders spilled across our path. Carefully we scrambled over the lowest rocks and jumped five feet to the smooth canyon floor beyond. Six bends on by my count, maybe three miles in, I looked up. Deep blue was framed by canyon walls 300 feet high. Using my voice seemed wrong. I pointed. She nodded and let out a small whoosh. She put her left hand on rock, then leaned over and rested her forehead. Actually cold, she said, craning her neck to measure the cliff. And desolate dry. Lets keep on. We walked together, her pace just about as fast as mine. Rock crunched unnaturally loud beneath our boots and echoed lightly off walls tight on each side. Rare fast water through here ensured nothing grew to damp down sound, kept the canyon floor swept. There were no footprints ahead and only our boot scoops behind. The most we could see was a couple hundred yards to the next bend. The light wasnt right for the time of day, dim instead of slanting bright. I feel like Im in a story, she said. This is the test-y part.
Where there werent shade, tall grass waved at us. Critters scampered at our approach. Birds sang evening calls. Reliable fault spring plashed from the wall and made the inch deep braided stream we followed. We passed a green pool left by the last high water. I looked for a good camp spot. Saw one, and moved through sand toward it. Didnt feel her following. She was back at the green pool, bent at the waist, looking. I retraced. Pool wasnt much, about the size of an area rug, and greener than moss. Itd do for an emergency but we had plenty running clear water here to drink. Without standing she turned her head to me. Her face was a-smile. Slow, ever slow, she pointed close into the algae. Water bug hunters, the size of a mans main two fingers, patiently stalked prey. Beetles with four white dots looked drowned but twisted ever so often. She reached down and picked up something with a fluted tail that moved like a shrimp. The flutes disappeared when she let water run out of her hand. Clear stunted things sprouted from its back. Had a head like a mantis. Damselfly larvae, she said. Huh. She put the baby damselfly back next to fat tadpoles drifting in formation. Squat water bugs with tiny flippers aimed to investigate while above gnats rose in plumes like green-wood smoke. Bees searched the flowers at pools edge. Thanks, she said, for bringing me to Eden. I shrugged. It is grand, she said. Nobodyd ever used grand at me before. Something light and fluttery swam from my navel toward my breastbone. Warm blood moved under my skin. Oxygen stung my lungs. Knew the feeling for sure but not its depth. Once saw a nearby cow hit by lightning and still remember that heifers face as she wobbled side to side before she fell. Guess I looked like that, just not stone dead. More alive-like. Yep. Swarming with life
3 Six miles in. Dusk hue. She gave me a glance that told me she only had small water sloshing in her canteen and would need a full drink to get out come morning. Up ahead the pink sandstone was giving way to a red band. Almost there. Red band got shoulder high before the canyon opened, walls just as tall but spread maybe five times wide as what wed just walked, red band all around the base. Air went warm and soft. Ahead great trees spread shade.
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4 Words is easy. Real words is hard. We silently rolled out sleeping gear out on the powdery pink sand, lay down next to each other, and listened to the water flow, the bugs hum. Green smells filled the warm air. She lay on her back, one leg resting on a bent knee, her foot twirling to invisible music. Way up high, hard to see in the dim light, stacked rocks sat on a lonely ledge. A thousand years of wind and rain yet we still saw the carved footholds climbing the cliff. Granary, I said. So we are not the first. Hard to be that any more. Specially at our age. I looked at her out the corner. She took a long breath and I watched her trim pointy breasts slowly rise then slowly fall. Wasnt sure if it were an invitation to climb aboard or preparation for a long night of no. Suppose them that built that are still buried round here. I said She twitched to look into the shadows for Anasazi ghosts. Just for a moment, though. What Im gettin at is this here is hard country, always has been, I said, but people made stands in this thisthis place as hid as you been to me all these years. She stared upward at nothing, trace smile on her lips. Ive overlooked you like most up top miss this crack. You dont have to lie to me, she said, Im easier to get than that. Im thinkin we got us more common ground than fenced and that Id like you next to me for as long as long as I can recollect that granary, recollect this place. Thats stupid. Still. She sat up, face serious, looking for serious on mine. We held eyes for a long time before she looked down.
Youre sweet, she said to the dirt. Someone else? Not really. No, no one. Then She paused and pushed her tongue to her upper lip. Wouldnt look at me, seemed embarrassed. There are things I dont know yet I got to feel, she said, Things I have heard about I got to judge true. Id help. Got to ride this alone, cowboy. Way it works Wellgoddamn. I flopped back and watched stars emerge from the dying light. Cygnus was up, but I couldnt see the Milky Way yet. Moved my head back, made out part of Cassiopeia over the canyon lip. She put her hand flat on my chest.
5 Truck was still there next morning, unlocked; no matter this deep in. Left the windows down. That was plain dumb. Critter pellets all over the cab. Shed done great. Carried her own gear and finished all that uphill strong. She threw her pack into the bed and stuck her head and elbows through the passenger window. I reached for my keys and looked at her through three-quarter ton of truck. Look, youre a good man, she said. Like to think. I wrote a poem once to help me through. It ends, You may not be for me, or me for you, but we will always have the once, when all things were possible. Dont rhyme. Not meant to. She got in the cab. I found the truck key on my ring and opened the door with my other hand. She talked to the dash.
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I dont know what the next minutell bring, nobody does. I reckon well back up, turn around. She ignored that. Rightly so. The futures blank but I want one certain thing in that entire empty. Im listening. No matter what happens to us tonight, next week, next year, when were 50 lets come back here and spend a long time telling what weve done with our lives. Now she looked at me. Promise? I thought about it. She was working at this and I didnt see no downside. Cross my heart. I started the truck, put it in reverse. I rested my arm on the seatback as I turned to look back. I wondered what things I would do that I could tell her that far off day. And whether wed still have as nice thoughts and easy hopes as when we was twenty-three.
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Moonlight 1
Vicky Stromee
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Solitude
Michael Ossipov
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Submitted by: Dannah Raz
Life is What You Leave Behind

If youre weary and in vain Ponder how you may explain The purpose of our short existence, Measured from long ages distance, Dread no thought, for you will find That life is what you leave behind. The great composer, his symphony, Enchants with sweetest melody Like angels purest, brightest strings Forevermore toward heavens springs. His name will live, be proudly signed In hearts of those he left behind.
No man carries from the womb Whats inscribed upon his tomb. Glories of his inspirations Mark his day of coronation; Yet the merit of his mind Will be what he leaves behind.
Bent, with sweat upon his brow The farmer trods behind his blow, Trailing slowly to the end Blessed grounds he will have to lend To posterity he has assigned For life is what you leave behind.
The golden sun that smiles upon A sculpture made of marble stone, Illumines on its skillful blend. Give immortality to his hand Who left its secrets to unwind To all those he has left behind.
How children on this earth will fare Will mirror parents love and care. Whether they tread the dusty roads Or use the highest human codes Values that imbue their mind Will be what theyll leave behind.
The poets passions, tender dreams, Remain on paper in a stream Of yearning words and lamentation An outpour of great consternation; Feelings every heart will bind For those he has left behind.
I guess now your eyes can see The depth of my philosophy; What you create on this good earth Will go beyond the solemn hearse. Give rise to great, humane and kind For life is what you leave behind.
Written by Anna Geslewitz, a Holocaust survivor, and my grandmother who I love and miss dearly.
Harmony
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Redemption
Haylee Shiavo
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Harmony
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Harmony, a literary journal of essays, short stories, poetry, visual art, and photography is a publication of Arizonas College of Medicine Program in Medical Humanities. Students, faculty, and staff of the Colleges of Medicine, Nursing, Pharmacy, and Mel and Enid Zuckerman Public Health are encouraged to submit original, unpublished work to our journal, however, anyone may submit work. Work on all themes and topics will be considered, especially those related to the world of medical humanities. Failure to adhere to the submission deadline and to the following guidelines may result in the piece not being considered: All written submissions should be no more that 5,000 words with spelling & grammar checked Work must be titled, double-spaced, 12 point font, and with the title and page number as headers on each page. Previously published work will not be considered. Submissions are accepted only via email. Submissions should include on a separate cover letter the authors name, mailing address, email address, and phone number. 7. The preferred file form for documents is Microsoft Word.
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Harmony
Spirit
Haylee Schiavo

Harmony Magazine (2011)

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Medical Humanities Program

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On the back cover:

Into the Blue

PR OGR AM IN MEDIC AL HUMANITIES

Please enjoy this years exceptional magazine.

PR OGR AM IN MEDIC AL HUMANITIES

Mathiasen Prose Award Winners

Into the Blue

Kenneth Ryan Visual Arts Award Winners

Upon Waking from a CABG page 17

PR OGR AM IN MEDIC AL HUMANITIES

Declaration of the Abstruse

PR OGR AM IN MEDIC AL HUMANITIES

Declaration of the Abstruse

PR OGR AM IN MEDIC AL HUMANITIES

I will walk with you awhile

I will walk with you awhile

lovers liars saw

maybe its better than all that

drivers in eighteen wheelers hustlers

the beauty of today I can finally see

I will walk with you awhile

PR OGR AM IN MEDIC AL HUMANITIES

Dallas Schoolbook Depository

PR OGR AM IN MEDIC AL HUMANITIES

Autumn on the Kenai

PR OGR AM IN MEDIC AL HUMANITIES

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PR OGR AM IN MEDIC AL HUMANITIES

PR OGR AM IN MEDIC AL HUMANITIES

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Morphed Which Way

PR OGR AM IN MEDIC AL HUMANITIES

Cataracts Out, 2010

PR OGR AM IN MEDIC AL HUMANITIES

Telling, muting, telecommuting

PR OGR AM IN MEDIC AL HUMANITIES

Quiet Afternoon on the G.C.

PR OGR AM IN MEDIC AL HUMANITIES

Upon Waking from a CABG

PR OGR AM IN MEDIC AL HUMANITIES

PR OGR AM IN MEDIC AL HUMANITIES

PR OGR AM IN MEDIC AL HUMANITIES

PR OGR AM IN MEDIC AL HUMANITIES

PR OGR AM IN MEDIC AL HUMANITIES

PR OGR AM IN MEDIC AL HUMANITIES

My mother is not afraid to take hold of them, Not any more.

She named it Aloha.

PR OGR AM IN MEDIC AL HUMANITIES

Ana Marie Lopez

We spoke of the disease. You told me how you felt.

We spoke of the prognosis. You told me of your plans.

We spoke of treatment options. You told me of your dreams.

PR OGR AM IN MEDIC AL HUMANITIES

PR OGR AM IN MEDIC AL HUMANITIES

I Call Him Grubby

PR OGR AM IN MEDIC AL HUMANITIES

PR OGR AM IN MEDIC AL HUMANITIES

PR OGR AM IN MEDIC AL HUMANITIES

PR OGR AM IN MEDIC AL HUMANITIES

PR OGR AM IN MEDIC AL HUMANITIES

PR OGR AM IN MEDIC AL HUMANITIES

Charge my gift to my ___Visa _MasterCard _American Express ___Discover