Category: Medicine

als waning poem phoebe chi

The Waning (ALS)

You already knew.
Gaze unflinching, 

you told us to say the words.

Amyotrophic lateral sclerosis

A. L. S.

Despite sparse questions,
your eyes revealed
an understanding far deeper
than our answers-

that with one moment,
robbed were you

of the years ahead,
of memories awaiting,
of stories belonging to you.
Now lost.

Strength dissolving,
your conviction remains
unscathed.

You savor
each passing sunrise.

Each caress, each step.
For you know.
As your legs cease to support,
arms stop to comply,
you still feel
your child’s touch.

Absorbing her love.
Pretending
you don’t care the roles
have been reversed

as you yearn
to return her embrace.

As its hunger ascends,
You treasure
the remaining days.

Every word, every smile.
For you know.
Soon it
consumes your voice,

drains your visage,
until all that is left is
the silence
of a vacant mask.

Unable to reflect
your thought’s grin,

your heart’s laugh,
your soul tears
as you blink away the moisture.

As your breaths
increasingly betray you,

you are not defeated,
for the flames
of your bruised spirit
are not quenched,

and you give thanks
for the time you had,

even as your body dims
and you fade away.

β€’

Continue reading “The Waning (ALS)”

A Search Within.

How do I know
the pill won’t seem
bitter to your tongue
through your teeth?

How do IΒ wear
a once white coat
stained with tears
of memories?

How do I compel
my pen to write
scripts to fight
a dimming light?

How do I know
Β which waters will flow
to unearth theΒ strength
within me?

How do I persuade
a heart to let go
when it’s my hand
that sets you free?

How do I ensure
my smile won’t be
one of the last
that you’ll see?

How do I force
my ears to hear
a song I fear
of dusk so near?

How do I know
which waters will come
to enshroud the doubts
within me?

β€’

A Memory of Ground Beef.

Once when I was on a specialized heart failure service, I took care of a teenage boy. He had a form of idiopathic dilated cardiomyopathy (a weak, enlarged heart), and he had a huge heart…in more ways than one.

He loved baseball, pumpkin pie, and horses. His family owned a farm, so before he got sick, he would often go horseback riding. He also loved to draw.

We—a team of five physicians—took care of him for a month while he was waiting for a heart transplant. He liked us. We liked him. So he drew us as well.

I thought he was clever. But he thought I was even more so. All because he liked my joke:

“What do you call a cow with no legs?”

“Ground beef.”

That was it. He was just a great kid, trying his best to live the life given to him.

It used to be, that at the end of our visits, we would both say to each other, “Ground beef!” with a wink and a huge smile. It perplexed the other physicians, but we knew exactly what we were talking about.

It was just a silly joke. But for the two of us, it somehow meant something more.Β 

I found out recently that he passed away. And today I found the drawing he gave me. And I wept.

So here’s to you, dear buddy…

Ground beefΒ πŸ˜‰

β™₯

A Blessed Christmas Tragedy.

A bustling hospital.Β An unexpected arrival.Β A frigid Christmas Eve.

I was saying goodbye to another patientΒ when fate collided us.

β€œI’m sorry Father,” I heard your son say,Β “you can no longer live with us,Β but here is a nice doctorΒ who will find you a home.Β Merry Christmas, Dad.”

Pretending not to notice your son’s exasperation as you pleaded for him to stay, IΒ choked down the anguish of my own awareness andΒ proceeded to examine you.Β 

Bound to the prison of your seat—scared, bewildered, frail—you looked so lost.Β You asked why, what you did wrong, where your son had gone,Β not fully comprehending the chaos surrounding.Β A deep sigh escaped pursed lips as I searched within for anΒ answer that would never come.Β Taking your hands, contorted by disease,Β I gazed into eyes dulled by years gone by—their hope fading beneath a glimmer ofΒ fear of an iniquitous present and an unpromised future–and I made you a promise I wondered if I myself could keep.Β 

β€œIt’s going to be okay…you’ll see.” 

But hours pass, and it was not okay—you couldn’tΒ sleep, you wouldn’t eat,Β and the only sound I heard as I passed the door of your half-vacant roomΒ wasΒ the resonance ofΒ muffled tears.

Behind a mask, I also let myself weep.

* Β  Β * Β  Β *

Soon the day ended. I entered your room, prepared to make my final rounds. But instead of a bid goodbye, what escaped was an exclamation of the first words that came to my mind.

β€œSir, I think we should have a party!”

And that was what we did.

A 90-year-old veteran.Β A 30-year-old internist.Β A 20-year-old nurse.

Gathered around your bed, over reconstituted cocoa, you shared with us your history, your joys, your life’s adventures.Β Over paper cups of chicken broth,Β I told you my story.Β As the muted treble of holiday cheerΒ drippedΒ through the bedside radio,Β together we heralded in, with bittersweetness,Β the arrival of Christmas Day.

You then took my hand.

As I started to apologize for the late hour,Β you stopped me.Β Eyes still glimmering,Β I hear you laugh, and I believe I finally catch a glimpse of what was the real you.

β€œThank you for a blessed Christmas,”Β you said.

Yes.

A blessed one, indeed.

β€’