Did I do the Right Thing?
Andy Lee, 2T7 WB
I stared at Achilleus’s case file, the weight of medical decisions pressing against my temples. The aggressive treatment plan they’d pursued for his schizophrenia—high-dose antipsychotics,intensive therapy, and multiple interventions.
Two years ago, Achilleus had been in the depths of a severe psychotic break. The team had made bold choices. Powerful medications to stabilize his mind, comprehensive psychiatric support to rebuild his reality. They had pulled him back from the brink.
But now, his hands betrayed him. The tremors from medication, the cognitive fog, the reduced motor control—they were insurmountable barriers. The neurological side effects of his treatment had stolen something fundamental.
“Each piece of wood tells a story,” Achilleus would say. “Cedar has this warm, rich scent that speaks of ancient forests. Maple reveals its character through its subtle grain—smooth, with just a hint of complexity.”
When Achilleus spoke about woodworking, his entire demeanor transformed. His eyes would light up, hands moving with a muscle memory that transcended his current challenges. He described the intricate process of crafting furniture with a reverence that bordered on poetry.
But with his tremors, his dream of woodworking remained just that—a dream.
During the last session, Achilleus brought in an old portfolio—sketches of furniture designs he’d created before his diagnosis.
Intricate chairs with perfect curves, tables that seemed to defy gravity, cabinets that told stories through their joints and grains. His fingers traced the lines, but he could no longer create them.
All I did was sit and think to myself.
Did I do the right thing?
A Clinical Choreography
Chinmayi Yathiraju, 2T7 PB
Artist’s Statement: I wrote this poem as an ode to the complexity and richness of a physician-patient interview, and the dynamic challenges that can arise during the interaction. In one of our first clinical skills sessions, our tutor noted that a patient encounter is like a carefully orchestrated dance. This imagery stuck with me, as I realized that a recital or performance has many parallels to a physician-patient interview. There are many elements that can be practiced and perfected, and yet, just as many unpredictable challenges that may arise that the artist must adeptly work through.
They say a patient encounter is a dance –
A delicate push and pull within a sequence of coordinated steps.
To which I wonder, what music is it set to?
Is it a rhythmic waltz or a volatile symphony?
What happens when a dancer stumbles,
Landing a pace off-beat, drifting apart from the melody?
Does her partner notice?
And when it does come to their notice that the story has lost its way,
The pattern erratic and flow disrupted,
Can the performance be saved?
For the elegance of such a dance blooms from the art of improvisation:
In holding silence for longer than the music may instruct,
In responding in time to subtle expressions,
In sharing space,
And guiding a meandering pirouette back into the focus of the spotlight.
This is a dance in which the performer is at once the audience,
Watching, interpreting, understanding.
For while it is one talent to execute perfectly the movements of a well-practiced
choreography,
It is another entirely to perform.
My Back, The Windshield Wiper
June, 2T8 MAM
Artist’s Statement: Navigating the medical system personally while also training to become part of it has been a humbling and motivating journey. This work is my reflection on being a young woman in pain in today’s healthcare climate.
My back pain is like a squeaky windshield wiper.
It’s not a problem most of the time. And when it is a problem, it is the biggest problem. It takes away all of my attention and makes every mile miserable.
A rainy day rolls in with the clouds. I don’t do anything wrong—I push the lever and rotate the dial to increase the wiper’s speed. Completely innocent, I swear. For five minutes, I drive without issue, watching the raindrops accumulate and be whisked away. And then—I swear I didn’t do anything wrong—an ear-piercing, gut-curdling squeak erupts into the air around me like nails scratching on a chalkboard. I can’t help but physically recoil, scrunching my shoulders up into my neck. I brace myself with each cycle of the wipers’ movements. And then, eventually, without even realizing it really, my shoulders have dropped frommy ears and I’ve counted ten cycles without that nauseating squeak. ‘Thank goodness’ is my first thought. Then, ‘I should really get that checked out.’
I don’t.
You see, the difference between a squeaky windshield wiper and my back pain is that people tend to believe you when you say you have a squeaky windshield wiper (because … why would you lie about that?) Oh, and a squeaky windshield wiper has a pretty easy fix: you get a new wiper. I’ve never seen “New Backs on Sale!” ads, but maybe I just haven’t paid enough attention.
Ah, there’s another difference. You usually don’t blame yourself for your squeaky windshield wiper. You also don’t typically say you might just be imagining it, that maybe the squeaking will go away if you just stop thinking about it. But I did all of that with my back pain. I did that for eight whole years.
I took my wiper (my back) to the mechanic (the doctor) and told them, “hey, this thing randomly gets pretty squeaky—you got any recommendations?” Translation: “I am in pain can you please tell me why, can you please make it stop?” I am not exaggerating when I say they took a one-minute (and that’s being generous) look at this thing and said, “ah, it’s probably just that the rubber got stuck (it’s a muscle strain). It’ll go away on its own.” And here’s the kicker: “I’m not worried about it.”
Oh! Wonderful! You’re not worried! Yeah, that’s probably because you’re not in the car with the squeaky freaking windshield wiper! I control myself. I refuse to be seen as a hysterical woman at the mechanic (doctor’s office—actually, both would be pretty bad). That will get me nowhere. They said it will go away. It will. I need to believe them.
And it kind of does. It doesn’t rain for two whole weeks. But when it does, the squeak returns, vengeful and angry. I don’t bother going back to the mechanic (the doctor). I have a pretty good feeling that the rubber didn’t just happen to get stuck again (it’s not a muscle strain), but who am I to doubt an expert? I’m just being dramatic. It will go away for good this time.
It does. And then it doesn’t. It returns, back again. Maybe this is just my life? A continuous cycle of bracing myself for the rain and hoping tomorrow will be better? Do I even deserve to figure out what is going on? Does my pain even matter?
A version of this continues for years. Four physiotherapists, four chiropractors, two family doctors, and absolutely no change. One road trip where the windshield wiper became so squeaky (I was in so much pain), I begged to be drugged. One formal nearly ruined by the squeakiness (pain) stuck in my head all night, drowning out the music and swiping away the joy and fun I had looked forward to.
I finally hit a brick wall. I booked an appointment and went to my doctor with a plan: Do not leave without getting a valid reason why this shouldn’t be investigated.
The appointment went like the ones before it. A dismissal of my concerns followed by that phenomenal less than sixty-second exam. The cherry on top was: “yeah, it’s just a muscle strain.”
This is where the story I tell differs from the truth. When I tell the story, I say I was strategic in that moment. I weighed the risks of being seen as an emotional hormonal out-of-control woman dissolving into a puddle of tears with the risk of walking out utterly hopeless yet again. I chose to whip out my acting training, forcing the tears to fall dramatically. But what really happened was that when I heard those words, my mind went blank. There was no mental math, no strategizing. Merely an all-consuming sense of hopelessness.
I cried because I had nothing left.
I left with a requisition for an MRI.
The poetic reason I want to be a radiologist is because they were the first ones to see the pain I had silently experienced for nearly a decade. Finally, reduced to voxels and greyscale, I was believed.
It turns out that the squeaky windshield wiper is a herniated disc.
The ironic part of this story is that there still is no “50% off New Backs!” deal at Walmart. My pain cannot be fixed as easily as windshield wipers. But perhaps that’s another point where my analogy crumbles. Just watching someone read the imaging report that contained the pain and frustration and struggle that I could never describe was remarkably cathartic. Having someone look me in the eyes and say “I’m so sorry this took so long. But I promise you, your pain is real, and I’m here to help,” somehow made that stubborn squeak more bearable.
I guess, sometimes, you can’t get rid of discomfort all that easily. Sometimes, windshield wipers just squeak. But, with good company and a good team to support you, you can drown out the sound with some laughter, some music, and some hope that there are sunny days on the road ahead.
Reciprocity
Yasmin Meghdadi, 2T8 WB
I think
I fell in love
with you
that night.
Do you remember?
Please tell me
I didn’t make it
all up in my head.
We were lying
on my bed,
our bodies tangled
together,
my head cradled
in your arms,
your fingers tracing
constellations
on the curves
on my side.
I think I fell in
love with you then
as we talked
about dead Russian poets
and facial free flaps.
I fell in love with you,
but I know you didn’t.
Closure
Yasmin Meghadi, 2T8 WB
The first
step to recovery
is gaining
the necessary
clarity
to admit
that there was
no story to begin with.
Your heart
did not flutter
when he smiled.
Your knees did
not go weak
when he kissed you,
holding you close in his arms.
You did not love him.
You were merely
infatuated
with an idea
of love and loving
created in
the confines of your head.
He’s not the bad guy
in the story,
and you’re not
the pathetic fool.
So accept the
only piece
of closure
you’ll ever get:
you weren’t his,
and he was not yours.
A Shield Made of Lies
Yasmin Meghdadi, 2T8 WB
Politically correct
morals
preach that
lying,
regardless of context
or state is
undeniably,
irredeemably wrong,
inherently unjustifiable,
totally corrupt.
But is it?
Dare I
play devil’s
advocate
and confess
that maybe
I don’t want
to accept every
objective
truth
in this brutal reality
for the sake of my
strained sanity
Is it this
grave of a
sin
to crave
a quiet moment
unmarred
by the truth
that cuts
like steel?
Can I not
savour
the small pleasure
of hiding from
the cruelty,
licking my wounds
and applying
bandage and balm
to wounds
I know
will never
heal.
Hollow
Yasmin Meghdadi, 2T8 WB
Run, run,
run away
from the truths that
are too hard
to swallow.
Run away from
the reality that
you are broken inside,
mangled beyond
repair.
Run,
run away
from the fact that
you are a
pitiful creature,
raw and bloody
and bruised,
trying desperately
to hide the
cavernous
cracks
covering your
body and soul
with big smiles
and haughty laughs
that despite
years of imitation,
always ring hollow.
Run,
run away.
Don’t waste a
second
mulling over
the ruins
of what was once
yours.
Run
and don’t think about
the shattered,
bloody mess
sitting neatly
inside your chest.
Take a needle
and some thread,
and sow it back up.
Don’t mind
the jagged pieces
poking through your
ribcage,
snagging on sentiments
left and right.
The Fall
Yasmin Meghdadi, 2T8 WB
Pride
is a fickle
thing,
swaying easily
in the slight
Spring breeze,
tearing through
the nails
hooking
it into my heart,
ripping away
the exquisitely crafted
illusion
of strength and perseverance.
All of my life
I’ve brushed off
one worry
after another
simply because I was
under the impression
nothing could break me
or bring me down
onto my knees,
A true testament to
my personal strength.
I never expected
the crash to
hurt so much.
The uneven ground
bloodying
my shins
and leaving
me scarred
as I saw you
crumble,
wailing
Blood-curdling screams.
I didn’t know
people were
capable of
producing
such gut-wrenching
sounds,
sespicable melodies
that will
continue to haunt
me and my
faux strength
until the moment
I lay in
the cold, hard ground.
When you fell,
I fell with you,
proving just how
big of a fool
I was to think
that I was standing upright,
my back impeccably straight
utterly unbent,
on my own merit alone.
You fell,
and I don’t know how to
get you back up.
You fell,
and you took me
with you.
Dancing Flames
Yasmin Meghdadi, 2T8 WB
It’s cold outside, and the brisk gust of wind slices against my face. I can see the tendrils of my
breath materialize in the late March night. I gather my long skirts in one fist, walking quickly
towards the light coming off the bonfires.
The closer I get to the ebbing warmth of the hearth, the louder it gets. Everyone whom I have
ever known and then some, are gathered round. They are all wearing long skirts and flowing
trousers. The bell sleeves of our white shirts get filled with Winter’s last breaths, giving us the
false hope that if it accumulates enough we might just get to fly.
Tonight is special. It is the last Wednesday of the year. Every family, tall and tiny, brand new
and wrinkly, gathers together under the open night sky, their only witness the visible sliver of
moon and a roaring fire. Chaharshanbeh Soori. A night full of light, full of laughter, and life. It is
an eve brimming with the singing of my people, seeing them dance hand in hand, our skirts and
shirts billowing in the wind, our golden bangles and earrings creating a fast-paced melody that is
echoed by the intricate footwork of our revelry.
We stare into the fire, pushing out all the sickness, grimness and bleakness within our bodies and
souls into its flaming arms, and taking back with us the burning light and sense of life it has to
give. I scream and woop in glee, running fast toward the bonfire, my red slippers refusing to slip
on the frozen ground. I pleat my skirt up, trying to salvage the ends from sizzling in the flames
underneath me, journeying to the other side where my family is waiting.
We will dance till the moon shrinks back and lets the penetrating rays of dawn awaken the birds
nesting in the trees. We will dance and jump through fires until our feet are blistered and the
hearth is reduced to crinkling ashes, having given up all of its livelihood to the children of
Siyavesh through an old tradition that refuses to succumb to the test of time.
We dance to welcome in the new year. We dance to strengthen our spirits. We dance to nourish
the traditions that have been passed down to us, from mother to daughter, one generation after
the other. We dance to remember those who can’t, and we dance to promise no matter how cold
and dark the night becomes, sunrise will always prevail.
The Florist
Mariyam Niaz 2T8 MAM
A baby pink rose; a massive lily; some baby’s breath. The florist’s arthritic hands pulse painfully as he slowly arranges the flowers into a bouquet.
The whole shop is bursting with flowers and vines; it is a small store, buckets and boxes scattered around the room.
The small flower shaped chime above the door rings as a young man strolls into the shop.
The florist stops arranging and smiles at him. “Good morning! How can I help you?”
The customer looks around. “I want to buy some flowers for my wife.”
“How sweet. Are you looking for anything in particular?”
The customer shrugs. “No, not really. Anything you might suggest. They’re all beautiful.”
“Yes, they are. But some are more special than others.”
The florist walks over to a tall orange flower and grasps its stem carefully. “Now, see, this one–this one will make it so that a tear will never fall from her pretty eyes.”
The customer tries to speak, but the florist moves too fast, now standing next to orb-shaped purple flowers.
“Oh, these ones you will most definitely want. Take these and her dreams will be filled with honeysuckles and sunshine.”
“I…”
The florist moves with ease through the crowded flower shop, with the young man struggling to follow him without knocking over any flowers or tripping over vines.
The florist’s eyes suddenly appear bright, presenting a bundle of tulips to the young man.
“Certainly these - these will quiet all those pesky thoughts in her head.”
The young man pushes the tulips away. “She wouldn’t want any of those.”
The florist lowers his voice. “Perhaps something a little different, then?”
He picks up a single black pansy. “While I cannot prevent death, this one will ensure wrinkles never taint her face.”
“Or this one.” He turns to show the young man blood red roses. “Something to ensure your wife never looks at another man again?”
The florist suddenly picks up a bouquet of baby’s breath. “And now these–these will make it so that she adopts all your opinions as her own.”
The young man stands firmly in the middle of the store. “I don’t need the flowers to do anything. I just want some flowers for my wife to look at.”
The florist sighs and goes behind the checkout counter. “Very well.” He pulls out a few white daisies. “These ones–they do nothing. And within a week or two, they will wither and die.”
The young man smiles for the first time since entering the shop. “They’re perfect.”