In ancient times the knights rode out to cheers and loud applause,
To fight our foes, those armed heroes, took up our common cause,
And now a gentler sort suits up to face our fears and ills,
They wear clear shields and masks and gloves to fight this one who kills.
God bless and keep you, fearless ones, who face this threat for all,
And keep us mindful of our debt to you who took this call.
Lee Archer, M.D., is the chair of the Department of Neurology.
Do you notice me?
Do you see my soul?
Or does attire blind you?
And is all I am a role?
We all have a part to play
And I play mine well
So I keep on performing
In this living Hell
Do you know what it costs me?
Do you see the price I pay?
You may see a coat of white
But I see a world of gray
I make a great impression
But you don’t know the real me
I am hidden in plain sight
White coat anonymity
Tyler Estes is a M.D./M.P.H. student at UAMS.
I dreamt I had a garden
in the backyard of a home
that doesn’t actually exist.
It wasn’t a large garden,
and it wasn’t a large home,
but I was content and I was proud.
The yard was mostly well kept,
but not the garden—
It was overgrown,
and I couldn’t walk the plotted path.
The weeds had taken it over.
I could see that the produce was plenty,
though I couldn’t recall
what was planted.
I could see something
that looked like cabbage.
I wanted badly to tend the garden,
to do something healthy
that I would enjoy,
though I knew that first
the weeds must be cleared.
But the day had grown too dark,
and I needed equipment
that I didn’t yet have,
so I would need to be patient.
And I was not only at peace—
I was free.
Rachel Armes is a program coordinator in the Institute for Digital Health and Innovation at UAMS.
It is a long story. This is a short version:
I was about to die.
I was about to make room for new people.
My job was going to be the dream job
of someone who has been waiting for a break.
But I was stubborn; I was not sure I wanted to expire
and the doctors knew too much about death’s tricks,
so, I lived for a while longer, because, also, someone died
her heart was still beating.
So, in a barbarous display of art and cunning
the surgeons carved the dead woman’s chest
and cut her heart out for me.
The empty cavity of my chest waited like a yearning womb
like a bride at midnight, while the doctors held
in their obtuse machinery of death, the flicker of my life,
and the other person’s heart entered me, it filled my chest
and eagerly resumed its mandates of drums and cymbals
blowing, pumping, hissing, blindly loyal to the blood.
And in an instant the other person and I fused, bride and groom,
my life and her life, half in half, betrothed
surrendered to the mystery of electricity and flesh.
Carlos C. Gomez
It’s times like these,
with the certainty of our assumptions, no longer certain,
that bring a richer appreciation for the touchstones and the lifelines,
for the heartfelt friends and the fond rituals that carry us through each day,
for the ones who remind us our roots hold braided branches
strong enough to bear roses,
and of all the reasons, like the simple scent of a rose,
that make a precious life worth living.
Carol Thrush, Ed.D., is a professor in the Department of Surgery.
I walk past the morgue in the hospital
Underbelly on my way to the key shop,
Resigned to replacing the keys I lost
Two weeks ago. I try to think solemn
Thoughts as I pass and glance inside,
My mood something like prayerful.
Intentions are intentions, even when
They don’t quite materialize into words.
When does a person become a body?
When does a body stop being a body,
Or stop being someone’s body?
When does it become substance of some other sort?
Can we be so sure it does if we never
Witness the body’s final dissolution?
There, in the deathbed or in the morgue?
Perhaps, somewhere en route, where soul
And body go their separate ways; One to
_______, the other to the morgue with certainty,
The new arrivals of the lately departed.
Speaking of letting the dead pass on, Kent said,
“Vex not his ghost: O, let him pass! He hates him much
That would upon the rack of this tough world
Stretch him out longer.”
What’s the opposite of haunted?
A place where bodies exceed souls, if only
For moments in passing.
Christopher Fettes is a program coordinator in the Fay W. Boozman College of Public Health at UAMS.
“Can you please let me go?”
She pleaded with tears in her eyes
Her daughter was turning 16
And she needed to be there
Her body was completely swollen
Barely able to stand let alone walk
Her cheeks were sunken
Her eyes jaundiced
She was dying and knew as much
But she wanted to savor the last moments
With her daughter and family
Not in a hospital room surrounded by strangers
She did leave
And never came back
I hope she made it for her daughter’s birthday
And I hope that she’s finally at peace
Latha Achanta M.D., M.P.H., FACP, is a Professor of Medicine in the Department of Internal Medicine.
I felt the ache in my head,
The cranial vessels’ pulsing beat,
My restless, trembling legs in bed,
The tingling in the soles of my feet.
I felt the weight in my chest,
A dull pain, a persistent throbbing.
I felt the fatigue that comes without rest,
My eyelids heavy, my head nodding.
I felt the fire in my heart,
The caustic acids that stain and burn.
I felt the words that scar and smart;
My eyes water, and my stomach turns.
My doctor, in his compassion and skills,
Pondered my symptoms, noted the signs,
And after diagnosing, he prescribed my pills.
Blessed assurance! I knew I’d be fine.
I still feel the dull pain in my head,
The cold voices saying I’m not good enough,
The loss of vigor on a path long tread
When the going’s rough, and rough’s too much.
I still feel the weight in my chest,
A silent anguish, a dire longing.
I still feel weary always giving my best
And yet never really fully belonging.
I still feel the flames in my heart,
Kindled by wounds, emotional yet real,
Searing every broken part,
Telling me who to love, how to feel.
Though often physically expressed,
Emotional hurts, silently endured,
Are least likely vocally confessed
And more often spiritually cured.
Those whom faith makes reticent
Peer into the body just fine.
Science is their medicine.
Blessed assurance! My God is mine.
For power’s not only in the doctor’s hands
But also in the Master Healer’s touch,
As I’m the one whom He fully understands.
Blessed assurance! His grace is enough.
Ed Meyer, Ph.D., is an assistant professor in the Department of Neurobiology and Developmental Sciences.
high tech and high touch
treatment scans and MRI’s
where is the high touch
covid-19 lands,
people suffer, gasp and die.
Life goes on somehow.
when a patient dies
people mourn; still the daisies
bloom again in spring.
Paulette Mehta, M.D., is a professor in the Department of Internal Medicine.
Princess bedside and stand-up telephones.
Landlines. Ma Bell.
Telephone booths.
Victrolas. 78 and 45 rpm records.
Ash trays. Analog photography.
Alarm clocks. Walkman. Transistor radios.
Beta and VHS. Tape cassettes.
Vacuum tubes. IBM desktop typewriters.
Blockbuster stores. Telegrams.
News reels at the movies.
Air mail and Special Delivery.
Three cent stamps. Fountain pens.
Oldsmobile. Pontiac.
Nash Rambler. Plymouth.
Spark plugs. Packard. Edsel.
Rumble seats. Leaded gasoline.
Rhodesia. Belgian Congo.
Washington Star. New York Herald Tribune
Hotel lobby toilets, some with dime stalls.
Motel vibrating beds for a quarter.
.
Elevator operators. Hotel page boys.
Top hats. Hamburg hats.
Girdles. Stockings with seams up the back
Women wearing hats in Catholic church.
Chocolate malted milk shakes.
Banana splits. Royal Crown Cola.
Crudities on the table at restaurants.
White Castle’s dime hamburgers.
Children born to married parents.
People saying “You’re welcome.”
Walking straight to the airport gate.
Mincemeat pie at Thanksgiving.
Black rhinoceros. White rhinoceros.
Grevy’s zebras. Addax.
Pangolins. Mountain gorillas.
Smallpox. Chernobyl.
Are we next?
Frederick Guggenheim, M.D., is Professor Emeritus in the Department of Psychiatry, College of Medicine.
