By Claire Gist Bradberry
Ending my second year of pupillary medicine
I stood face to face with the first licensing exam
And its power over my fate
My school’s poor attempt to combat burnout
A required wellness lecture
Demanding a precious two hours I could not spare
“Students, take time to stop and smell the roses.”
Translated: try to forget your misery
Surrounded by unfinished tasks and rising pressure to succeed
Metaphors would not suffice
So I took a literal approach
And planted a whole damn garden
An escape from misery
I did some research
Because, you know, evidence based practice is best
Then I walked into the hospital of horticulture
Searching for the department I needed to revive my tired bed
My south facing oasis with light brazen to end breaths
Could not care for all
But those she could would come alive with soft hues and scents delicate and sultry
Enough to forget endless tunnels of white hospital walls
Ms. Winchester of Cathedral
Cotton ball blooms with tiny thorns
Seemingly safe until I tried to connect: then
Twenty tiny needles of screaming nociception
With aroma of an established monarch
Mr. Graham Thomas
A bold, jaundiced, climbing gentleman
Of course he would need a crutch to stand
Smelling of sweet tea and long forgotten lazy Saturday mornings
Not blooming until Magic May breathed her southern elixir
Equal parts heat and humidity with a hint of freedom
Princess Alex of Kent
Vibrant and gaudy
Beaming pink excellence at anyone who looked her way
Breathing caudal, cranial, proximal, distal
She begged for room to stand in her glory
To accept the light that ended most
These roses barely need a thing from me
Just a deep water in mid-July drought
Infrequent food scattered at their bases
Bottom dollar dead end chops
So maybe I should stop and smell the damn roses
If only to rest for a while
Claire Gist Bradberry is a medical student at the UAMS Northwest Campus.