January 13, 2014
"Blood is red, cyanosis is blue, I get tachycardia when I think of you."

— (via emtvacation)

(via aspiringdoctors)

January 9, 2014

newshour:

"Someone is dying aline in the night.

The hospital hums like a consciousness.”

When poetry meets medicine.

September 15, 2013
ex astris, scientia.: love letter from a scientist

aspiringdoctors:

utterlybanjaxed:

I am not a poet.
I am a scientist.
I can measure the exact frequency
of your voice when you speak my name,
but I cannot explain how it resonates
with such perfect clarity down my spine.
I can describe the process by which you inherited
your mother’s hair
and your father’s smile,
but I cannot explain where the twinkling galaxies
in your eyes came from.
I am baffled by the apparent gravitational anomaly
that draws me to you
with a force far too great for your size.
I know of no way to quantify 
the volume of your presence
in a room.

I am not a poet.
I am a scientist.
Prose is not my specialty.
I will never be able to combine words
to craft sonorous verses
as easily as I combine chemicals in a flask,
but know this — to me, you are every bit as fascinating
as the view through a microscope.
To me, you are a mystery greater
than any cat in a box,
and are fraught with as much uncertainty.
Each day brings new understanding of you, 
and the knowledge
that there is still far more 
to discover.

I am not a poet.
I am a scientist,
and there is nothing a scientist loves more 
than the the pursuit
of discovery.

For the Cute Boy.

(Source: mccoyquialisms)

September 15, 2013
the clerkship project: we won't stop (i thought i told you that)

clerkshipproject:

wondering why i’ve got this urgency,
all that i yearn to be is right in front of me,
i’ve maintained courtesy to nth degree,
and now it’s my turn to go out and get it,
so i run full speed like towards the 45 kipling bus
when we were seventeen, and we saw it rolling up,
yeah i’ve got issues with trust,
yeah i’ve got issues with lust,
spontaneously combust, need no lighter
for this fire, we aim higher
than thought possible,
white coats, donned in hospitals,
expectations, we’ve got lots to fill,
we get lost at will, i’ve seen lots of real
turn fake, pile too much onto plates,
too much emphasis on fate,
this is our place, this our time,
this is our shine, and it’s not
dependent on jewelery or sunlight,
this is within, this is from soul,
this is from cell, this is nucleus,
this is realness, i can’t appeal to this
demographic, i used to think i couldn’t hack it,
but the fact is we’re all actin,
they’re all actors, where we act sure,
when we lack cures, where we act like
we all rap tight, when we lack right,
this aint black and white, this is real life,
this is the discarded blue boxes
of blockbuster videos, this is
thrown out mixtapes containing
high school flows, this is home phones,
this is loonies spent on speakers corner segment,
this is respite, these are my confessions
there are still lessons to learn,
used to burn all my mistakes,
but the only way to elevate
is to criticize, so now i analyze,
realize that our demise
is ongoing, foreclosing, impending,
but the ending is still under revision,
make each decision, with finality
don’t underestimate gravity,
levity and brevity are dead to me,
we grew up on mase and diddy,
so forgive me if i act hypocritically,
you’ve yet to see, the best of me,
this isn’t just a test to me,
this is everything, this is all of me,
all i want to be, is satisfied,
keep these struggles in perspective
with the end in mind.

March 9, 2013
"

"Coats" - Jane Kenyon

I saw him leaving the hospital
with a woman’s coat over his arm.
Clearly she would not need it.
The sunglasses he wore could not
conceal his wet face, his bafflement.

As if in mockery the day was fair,
and the air mild for December. All the same
he had zipped his own coat and tied
the hood under his chin, preparing
for irremediable cold.

"

— Kenyon, Constance, 40.

March 1, 2013
day 100: phenylethylamine

clerkshipproject:

there’s a lot to escape from,
within these pods
and without.

that which is ugly and sinister,
can hide beauty, can hold hope.
it’s perspective.

those that persevere,
learn to accept
each spectrum end,
hand-in-hand.

December 3, 2012
emmy.: for those of us on our last spoon.

cranquis:

theemmyjames:

it’s waking up from a restless night of sleep, bracing yourself to face the day.
it’s willing your body to make it two more steps, so you can brush your teeth.
it’s compromising looking decent for having a bit more energy.
it’s realizing how tired you are…and it’s only nine in the morning.

it’s trying desperately to focus on your professor’s words.
it’s constant shifting to try and get a bit more comfortable.
it’s holding back the tears as you remember that meeting.
it’s nap time, because without it you would collapse.

it’s telling people no, not because you don’t want to but because you can’t.
it’s always feeling like you’ve let someone down.
it’s nagging pressure to try and act normal.
it’s your body shutting down when you do that.

it’s a phone book’s worth of doctor’s office numbers.
it’s lab work every month.
it’s eight, ten, twelve pills a day (or more).
it’s hoping and praying that this new treatment is effective.

it’s looking normal but knowing you’re not.
it’s judgmental glares from strangers when you take the elevator, not the stairs.
it’s misunderstanding from friends who truly do care.
it’s not fair, but you deal.

it’s giving up the life you thought you’d have because you can’t physically do it.
it’s seeing other people happy and healthy and wanting it for yourself.
it’s emotional and physical pain, twenty-four seven.
it’s wishing it would all go away.

it’s hearing you’ll never be able to have children.
it’s feeling inadequate and invisible.
it’s wanting what you’ll never have.
it’s the worry that something else will pop up. 

it’s fibro and lupus and hashimoto’s and crohn’s.
it’s CFS and PCOS and CAH and RA. 
it’s endometriosis and celiac and cushing’s and MS.
it’s chronic illness, and it’s your life.

In honor of all the unseen and underestimated.

October 15, 2012
day 25: remembrance

clerkshipproject:

you won’t remember me.
fumbling to position my hands,
as i check in your ears and
shine lights in your eyes,
treating your body like fine china,
delicate to the point of fault. 

you won’t recall the silly
questions, asked to your parent
out of order, lacking pattern
or structure, vaguely medical.

you won’t know of the
smile which you gave me
when your little hand
grasped my finger,
the warmth from which
melted morning frost
on windshields.

you won’t realize that
i held your entire body
in my palm, my other hand
ran along the segments
of your spine, checking
alignment and symmetry. 

it was a week before your
eyes made contact with mine,
and i’ll never forget that second.

these lessons will be a foundation
from which i’ll build my skills,
future patients of your size,
will be familiar territory.

i might see you at age 2,
taking steps in a shopping mall,
and while you may smile at me again,
you won’t remember me.

8:56pm  |   URL: http://tmblr.co/ZW1pnwVNNgN2
  
Filed under: medicine clerkship poetry 
September 5, 2012
is that her femoral artery?

mylifeasamedstudent:

“Is that her femoral artery?”

 

I met my lover late one night,

Stethoscope on my chest, BP cuff on my right,

And as he held my hand, on his resident’s command,

He summoned up all his might -

 

“I’m a doctor-in-training”, he said,

Resting his body against my bed

“And is it too soon to make you swoon?

Because I know we’ve just met -

 

But you make my heart thump so hard

That cardiac arrest is on the cards,

Fast my blood flows for my soul knows

That true love has caught me off-guard.”

 

What was there to say but yes? 

To a lack of experience he had confessed,

Yet I was fine with the nerdy pick up lines

Because for me adoration he had professed -

  

But he’s rare with actual compliments

Instead choosing to thank my ‘rents

For their chromosomes, their centrosomes

…I think good will was meant?

 

And even when he finds the right words

It sounds completely absurd

To hear “My dear, your telomeres

They have never faltered!”

 

All my girlfriends think I’m single

Because I never bring him out to mingle -

He works long hours, rarely showers,

And in small talk, the only lingual

 

Skills he has pertain to nerves of the tongue,

And if there’s pathology he has the lungs

To speak and speak for a more than a week,

As if other meddies he were among!

 

Surgery sets his heart on fire

More than my wanton desire,

Causing a fuss with his bloodlust

Whenever I want my body admired,

 

So when he’s making love to me,

I know he’s thinking of anatomy

Not what goes where, or how he fares,

But is that her femoral artery?

 

 “Found it!” he cries instead of my name,

As if our activity is not a game

Of take-a-peek but hide-and-seek

Where physiology is the aim!

 

Still I know he’ll never cheat

Because he never has the time to meet

Another girl to take for a whirl,

And besides, I know I have them beat

 

With my ample mitochondria, cranial hypertrophy,

A million neurotransmitters and long phalanges -

Subcutaneous tissue, it’s never an issue;

So I’ll let him study our mutual biochemistry

 

Because he gives me atrial fibrillation,

Ventricular contractions and palpitations,

Every single date my muscles fasciculate,

Forever he’ll be my doctor, and I, his patient.

 

[An old poem I had lying around. It never fails to amuse me.]

July 30, 2012
"Surgeons must be very careful
When they take the knife!
Underneath their fine incisions
Stirs the Culprit - Life!"

— Emily Dickinson (1830-1886)

(Source: medicalstate)

June 23, 2012
Self-Reblog from the Archives: Behind the Medic: Wishing I could do more -- UPDATED

cranquis:

cranquis:

To the 11-week-pregnant woman who came to the Urgent Care with vaginal bleeding, stomach cramps, and “little clots of tissue coming out”…


I wish I could’ve given you better news,

but there is nothing I or any human can do now.

I could see the acceptance of that fact in your tear-filled eyes,

even as your mouth and heart recited the expected objections:

“But I didn’t do anything wrong! I’ve been eating right! I quit smoking as soon as I found out I was pregnant! Isn’t there anything you can give me to stop this?”

I stammered a lot as I explained things to you, didn’t I?

It wasn’t because I was unsure. I am sure. Sure that you are having a miscarriage, and that the fetus inside your abdomen (and whom you have already imagined wearing a cute baby outfit and blowing spit bubbles on a diaper-changing table) is going to be leaving your body much sooner than you or I or anyone else would wish.

No, it was because I kept imagining that it was my wife sitting on that exam table, instead of you.

And it’s hard to keep from stammering when you are fighting back tears.

God bless you, lady.

Good news. I saw this woman in the clinic building today, almost a year after the incident when she had this miscarriage. She’s 6 months pregnant and doing great! I had to hug her from the joy of it all, and I really wish that I could’ve “let her in” on my secret Cranquis identity to share this poem with her.

June 7, 2012
Sometimes I Cry in Buses

themedicalchronicles:

                                           By Natalie Nuzzo

sometimes

          I cry in buses

I have a Dr.

          that is the twin

          of Mr. Monopoly

 

white handlebar mustache

          round bald head white

temples mustaches

          curled at the edges

varied length and fashion

today new tortoise

          shell glasses

 

I have high blood pressure

          and a tumor

I don’t know    you tell me

how I  

          feel about that

 

Dr. has a pretty tall

          Jamaican nurse

she compliments my outfits

          nails

          and jewelry

I love her         always stilettos

the most elegant

          a glamorous nurse

 

diagnoses behind closed doors

          analyzed over paper work

          computer screens

Dr. yells at me            he’s strict

          old and grumpy

the best around

          upper echelon

 

Dr. gives me pills

          says things like:

“no good deed goes unpunished”

          and

“that’s the problem 

          I’m never here”

 

I don’t understand Dr.

          he scolds me

          I forget my dosage

“you should know this”

           and

“I don’t trust my own records”

 

I swallow pills blindly pretend

          the quantity the Rx

          is invisible

I imbibe every day orange

          not brown

          not white or yellow

          my eyes forget

my medicines

 

Dr. complains to me:

          “I joined the gym

then I was sick

          I went for two weeks

then I was traveling

                  to Europe

          My gym

is right in my building

          and the gym

          is

          right in my building”

 

I don’t know what to say

so I fake laugh instead

          always the expert

in deflection

           ( at thirty I learn

          how to hold  back )

 

steel file cabinet-ed quantities

          and expensive free samples

 the “ america “n

         modern medical machine

the best kept

          secrets dangle above

          in gold-plated premiums

          and cushioned carpets

those sweet n sexy nurses

         the flat screen arrogance

of the cardiovascular

          prescription

“ america ”s most prolific legalized

          gambling industry

 

white white haired men roam

           these halls

the women  

          work the counter

 these few men hold the keys

          white mustaches white walls

white halls white coats worn by all

 

these few men who invite you

          to walk down our cash

walled halls ours

          are the most expansive

          and well-lit here we save

          hearts

bodies but not minds

           ( university medicine

only comes with

          a side of infection )

 

sometimes

          I cry in buses

I have a doctor

          that is the twin

          of Mr. Monopoly

 

I don’t know    you tell me

how I  

          feel about that

April 30, 2012
tylerknott:

Typewriter Series #12 by Tyler Knott Gregson
I am more than the brittle bonesand creaking jointsthat move me with purposeand something that onceresembled grace.Rattle though they mayand ache where they willI am more than bones.I am made of magic thingsand the left-over fireof silently explodedstars.-Tyler Knott Gregson-

tylerknott:

Typewriter Series #12 by Tyler Knott Gregson

I am more than the brittle bones
and creaking joints
that move me with purpose
and something that once
resembled grace.
Rattle though they may
and ache where they will
I am more than bones.
I am made of magic things
and the left-over fire
of silently exploded
stars.

-Tyler Knott Gregson-

April 28, 2012
Fan Poetry: One Ill, Two Ills, Red Pills, Blue Pills.

cranquis:

confessions-of-a-redhead submitted:

All of your poems and nursery rhymes inspired me to write a Dr. Suess poem of sorts. This is done from memory. (My mom used to read all of the Dr. Suess books to me, and I can still recite most of them.) It’s a rather lengthy fan poem, so bring a snack. I hope you enjoy! Anyway, here goes.

Cranquis’ Note: What follows is a tour de force of poetry, parody, and astounding recall of previous posts from this blog. I am flabbergasted, amazed, and dumbfounded. In humble appreciation of your skill, c-o-a-redhead, I officially dub thee with your Cranquisnym of Honor: Official Cranquis Poet Hugh Laureate. I just may have to get you to write my whole FAQ in rhyme too! :)

Now sit back and enjoy this epic thing (links added in post-production by Cranquis).

One ill, two ills, red pills, blue pills.

Black pills, blue pills, old pills, new pills.

Say, what alot of pills there are!

Yes, some are red and some are blue,

Some are old and some are new.

Read More

April 27, 2012
"Do Your Ears Hang Low" for the Chronically Ill

lupinelady:

Do your knee joints swell?

Do they throb and burn like hell?

Are your muscles all in knots?

Are you ill, but friends can’t tell?

Can you barely move your shoulders

And though you’re sick, still on you soldier?

Do your

knee

joints

swell.

Any verses to add?

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