By Victoria “Tori” Kowalczyk
“See you tomorrow.” I head out of the hospital, inhaling outside air after twelve hours. Engine on E—I’ll make it stretch. The drive is dark both ways. Toss my keys next to the mail: overdue, overdue, student loan notice. No gym tonight. Tomorrow, maybe. My frozen meal spins in the microwave.
Sacrifice for beneficence.
by Tayyeba Peer
Seated, her legs raised on a chair, folding samosas for my family. Struggling to shape her words for me, breaking her language, trying to fit into mine.
“Kidney problems, I go hospital every month.”
“X-ray cost R875.” Not that much—
“I can’t pay so much.”
Her emotions cloud my vision.
Clarity—
My privilege, floating unchecked.
Tayyeba Peer is a fourth-year medical student at the University of Cape Town who wrote this piece to highlight unequal access to healthcare and the deep economic disparities that persist in South Africa.
By Emily Spatz, Pharm D
Plummeting between swells, despair teetering on the abyss. Even uncertain horizons glimpsed at the apex offer euphoric reprieve. Who is at the helm? Patient, physician, God? The time to question has passed. Stone-eared passengers fix their eyes ahead and gamble on the existence of land. In 59 days, they will see the shore and know.
Emily Spatz is a Medication Safety pharmacist at UAMS. She wrote this piece to capture the tempestuous emotions of starting a healing journey.
By Suman Maity
Its roots didn’t run deep— the little Redbud tree in the yard.
The soil turned to dirt, crumbling in my hand,
the months of summer left no moisture in it.
The tiny sapling has withered— a few black twigs and a grey leaf.
One night storm winds pushed it over; that came before the rain.
Suman Maity is a faculty member at the Fay W. Boozman College of Public Health who reads mid-century American Beat literature between commitments and deadlines. This piece is about how grief does not disappear; it just learns to wear different clothes.
