editor’s note table of contents
TRANSCRIPT
1
Editor’s Note
Zora Neale Hurston once said “There are years that ask questions, and years
that answer.”
2020 was a year that came with its own set of questions. A year that took loved
ones, celebrations, and opportunities from us. A year that taught us racism is
still evident and the importance of unity in fighting this injustice. A year that test-
ed our patience, resilience, and adaptability. A year that we may never forget.
Though the year brought many questions, we brought our answers whether
through artwork, prose, or poetry.
Welcome to Scope, the literary journal for SIU School of Medicine! Often, sci-
ence and art are seen as two different entities. Science is thought of as a left
brain dominant task and art as a right brain dominant task. We at Scope believe
no one is limited to just one skill. We find that medicine is where both science
and art converge.
Thanks to the unconditional support of Mr. Roger Robinson, we were able to
establish Scope in 1993, giving our medical community a concrete space where
science and art could be explored and celebrated. 28 years later, Scope contin-
ues to serve as an important outlet for our community, arguably more so this
past year than any other year before. I believe Mr. Robinson would be proud to
see what Scope has become to our community. We at Scope are grateful for all
his hard work and dedication to the establishment of this magazine.
I would like to thank everyone that contributed to our 2021 edition. Thank you to
our many talented artists for sharing some of their most vulnerable works with
us. Thank you to my colleagues who worked hard to help amplify the visions of
our artists. Finally, thank you to our readers for being present. We hope you
enjoy!
To 2021, a year of more answers.
Bukky Tabiti, MSIII
Editor-in-Chief Bukky Tabiti
Faculty Advisors Christine Todd, MD and Kathleen Jones, PhD
Review Staff Ashay Vaidya, Catherine Greene, Gregory Harpring,
Logan Grubb, Stephanie Short, Janet Martin
Staff Advisors Steve Sandstrom, Kristie Parkins, Jordan Hammer
2
TABLE OF CONTENTS SHIPWRECK AT FT. WILLIAM, SCOTLAND ·································· 6
SEASON CHANGE ······································································ 7
A COVID YEAR: A WORLD IN FEAR ··········································· 8
CRINKLED LOVE ········································································ 10
CALM LAKE WITH LILY PADS ···················································· 11
DREAMSCAPES ········································································· 12
STRANGER THINGS ···································································· 13
GUITAR ······················································································· 14
BARRIERS···················································································· 15
CHANGING SEASONS ······························································ 16
FULL BLOOM ·············································································· 17
IDENTITY MAP ············································································ 18
TWO TRAINS PASSING ······························································ 20
FIELD AT SUNSET ········································································ 22
TURNING TIDES ·········································································· 23
MICROAGGRESSIONS ······························································ 24
STATE OF REPAIR ······································································· 26
ONCE IN A THOUSAND LIFETIMES ··········································· 27
A 2020 WISH ·············································································· 28
THE CHING CHONG SONG ····················································· 29
UNTITLED ···················································································· 30
JAMAICA’S PEACOCK····························································· 31
3
VIRTUAL INTERVIEW/COSTUME CHANGE ······························· 33
ASTONISHED ············································································· 34
BARN AT SUNSET ······································································· 37
THE TOUCH OF A LETTER ·························································· 38
GLIMPSES OF GRANDMA ························································ 44
VISION ······················································································· 45
BLEEDING HEART ······································································ 46
NICU ADIEU ··············································································· 47
LIFE FLUORESCENT ···································································· 48
TRAILER TRASH ·········································································· 49
PIKKU HALSSI RETREAT ······························································ 50
WHEN THIS IS OVER, WHEN ······················································ 51
LINCOLN PARK ········································································· 52
FRENCH TOAST ········································································· 53
BAD THINGS HAPPEN ······························································· 54
MENACING GAZE/A VERY BERRY BREAKFAST ······················· 60
PRIORITIES·················································································· 61
23, 24, 25 ··················································································· 62
SOULREST ·················································································· 63
ICY LEAF ···················································································· 64
SLOW REFLECTIONS ON RAPID CHANGE ······························ 65
HIDING IN PLAIN SIGHT ···························································· 66
4
Roger Robinson 1934-2020
SCOPE dedicates this issue to Roger Robinson, the Assistant Dean of
Students in Carbondale for SIUSOM until his retirement in 1994. Roger
supported, encouraged and mentored scores of medical students
during his career, and SCOPE would not have existed without his
guidance and backing. SCOPE is proud to continue the community
discussion that Roger began over 25 years ago.
5
Roger Robinson
A Remembrance by J. Kevin Dorsey, MD, PhD
In the summer of 1973 members of the charter class and I, a newly
hired biochemistry faculty, arrived in Carbondale to begin an innovative
experiment in medical education. Dick Moy, MD, the founding dean,
was determined to create something better than the education he had
been “subjected to.” There would be integrated organ system
instruction in the basic sciences, early clinical skills training, no grades
and the concept of mastery learning: do it/test it until you get it right.
With the three-year, round-the-calendar curriculum starting in
Carbondale, one of Dr. Moy’s wisest moves was to recruit a few
education specialists to help launch his untested model. Roger
Robinson was the quiet leader of those pioneers in medical education.
Joining them was a small cadre of basic scientists willing to try
something unique. Both faculty and students were thrust into this new
curriculum that was literally being created on the fly, just a few steps
ahead of the students. From my perspective, Roger always seemed to
be the man in the middle. He could make the pedagogy rational to both
the science content module authors as well as to the learners on the
receiving end. He was calm and reassuring at a time when metaphors
such as “drinking from a firehose” were used to describe student life.
A few years later when I changed careers and became a medical
student, Roger again emerged as a steady hand, almost like an older
brother who had been in your shoes and knew you could handle the
problem. Forty-five years later I can still remember his feedback to me
after observing a simulated patient interview that took a turn and was
no longer simulated. He helped beginners acquire confidence.
SIU School of Medicine has educational innovation in its DNA, and this
has been sustained thanks to the foundation created in those early
days in Carbondale when faculty and students who were willing to take
risks listened to each other and were gently guided by Roger Robinson.
6
Shipwreck at Fort William, Scotland Digital Photography
By Ian Pollock, Staff—Library
7
Season Change
By Cynda Strong, Community Member
Naked branches moan
Wind whipped hair and runny nose
Winter’s entrance looms
8
Times never seen
By living men
What does it mean?
When will it end?
Less getting sleep
More anxious mind
Close contacts keep
New havens find
More washing hands
More biting nails
Hair in long strands
Home haircut fails
Watch savings sink
Safe margins thin
Some people drink
When stim-check’s in
More people quit
Lose psychic fight
Drug ODs hit
New record height
More data seen
Who’s keeping track?
Keep research clean
Take errors back
Grim nurse’s face
Sees doctors cry
New vaccine race
As patients die
Half faces smile
Safe under mask
More lawsuits filed
Take rules to task
Keep healthy kid
In schooling pod
Zoom classes did
Feel rather odd
More baking bread
Less eating out
More stories read
Still people pout
Less busy gym
More eating sweets
Clothes options slim
Hard looking neat
But WebEx wear
Fits loosely—see?
Let cam’ra stare
At cat, not me
More doggy time
Glad wagging tails
Less worry grime
Clean floor assails
Less dusting too
Why neaten up?
No houseguests through
To raise a cup
A Covid Year: A World in Fear
By Kathryn Waldyke, MD Faculty—PA Program, FCM
Carbondale
9
Get furlough days
Could travel, yet--
Most transit stays
Too risky bet
Need t.p. more
Still finding less
How long’s it for?
I daren’t guess…
Times never seen
By living men
What does it mean?
When will it end?
10
Crinkled Love First Place Poetry
By Catherine Greene, Student—Class of 2023
It was love, this she knew.
There could be no other explanation for such passion.
Each time they met, there was a newness.
A fresh touch, a perfect match.
He always left her wanting more,
“One bite is never enough,” her friends would joke.
Oh, they had no idea.
When everyone else had given up on her,
she never let go of the possibility
Of the wonder, of the lose-it-all,
dive-in-head-first mystery of love.
And oh, what a mystery it was.
He was gone.
Her perfect match had left her matchless and
her taste buds as puzzled as her stomach,
which was now ready to commit treason against her body
if there ever were such a thing.
As she stood in the center of aisle 16
staring at the empty shelves that once
held her one true love, she wondered.
“Of all the things that have disappeared
in this darn quarantine,
black pepper crinkled lays are gone?!”
And so was the ending of a love that once was,
and also the beginning of a new mouth-watering romance.
“Hello there,” flirted the Doritos bag.
11
Calm Lake with Lily Pads Pastel
By Mary Corrigan Stjern, Community Member
12
To run from reality and chase a dream is of utmost comfort.
Rest easy.
The thoughts are more ravaging than the world itself.
Tomorrow will come but rest for now.
Eyes closed, mind open and free.
Head lay to pillow as mind lays to rest the worries of the day.
Sleep. Dream. Wonder of peace.
Of a world without disease.
Or chaos, or lies.
Of rest.
May your dreams carry you farther than your reality.
And may you remember that dream when you wake so you can re-
turn again and again.
When the day is young and the pain is new, rest.
When the week is long and misery ensues, rest.
As these weeks turn to months,
And the children grow up,
And the loss is great,
And the tears are many while the smiles are few,
When the reality of the end is too much,
And the thoughts are more ravaging than the world itself,
When joy hides from morning, and bitterness stirs the night,
May you escape into that dream and rest
Dreamscapes
By Catherine Greene, Student—Class of 2023
13
Stranger Things 2nd Place Art Digital Photography
By Amit Sapra, MD, Faculty—FCM Springfield
14
Guitar Dean’s Choice Cardboard
By Thomas Hingle, Community Member
15
Barriers Acrylic on Canvas
By Glen Aylward, PhD, Faculty—Pediatrics
16
Changing Seasons Pastel
By Mary Corrigan Stjern—Community Member
17
Full Bloom
By Tyra Jones, Staff—External Relations
When in love I’m like a flower in bloom.
Once you open me up, I’m open all the way.
There have been plenty of men who have stepped on my petals.
And even some who have left me for dead.
There have been some who claimed that they wanted to nurture me
But did not water me so I dried up and eventually died
Then one day as I was out in the heat the Lord restored me
My petals came back,
My color came back,
My strength came back
My life came back
As I started to grow I could see the ones that left me for dead started to
return
They looked different but the agenda was the same
But this time instead of thirsting for the water they had
My roots were anchored in something better
Living water
So now what they offer doesn’t quench
The thirst I now have
It’s good to know that one day there will be someone who will notice
this flower
He will want to know what’s in my soul
Where my roots lie
He will be careful to nurture this flower
He will water me
And I will grow taller
He will love me and I will remain his forever
He will take care of me and I will flourish
18
Identity Map
By Megan Freeman, Community Member
Born on July 5 – a Cancer
Like PT Barnum and Huey Lewis
In 1983. white. Female.
Birthed in Springfield the day after the Beach Boys played a show in
Atlantic City -
Sandwiched between sea and boardwalk.
Seven years later, those boys brought sun and surf to the Illinois State
Fair –
First concert.
Parents-
Middle class. Union.
High school sweethearts raised by tiny, Illinois towns
Had a code – like Omar
Stop. Help. Lift.
They cared and provided and drove to places and practices.
Stand-up comedy and music.
There was always music – Whitney Houston, Bob Dylan, The Eagles,
John Prine, Eric Bibb,
BB King
The words were few, though,
And waste baskets filled with beer cans.
Something happens to a child exposed to so much aluminum.
Sensitive and anxious - an exposed nerve -
Feeling his slur, her cancer, his disappearance
Wouldn’t it be nice if we were older?
First pretending –
Old enough to smoke, sip
From pen and paper to Clarisworks and AOL
I totaled my first car on 9/11 and I went.
6 Chicago, 2 Seattle
South Loop
Lincoln Square
Boystown
19
Central District
Wallingford
Little Village
Andersonville
Rogers Park
And we’ll have fun, fun, fun
Where President Obama’s kids went to school and Aaron’s older
brother was shot.
Where I painted bodies at Pride and Ms. Angie’s son stabbed his
brother on the front step.
Where I told jokes at the Hideout and was threatened on the picket
line.
The sky opened with story and poem.
An American
Whose sexuality resides in the gray and
Whose childhood church wanted to pave that paradise to put up a
parking lot
An American
Who walks white
While my friends are trapped
Moving the blinds to the side
to peek the corner.
I get around.
I see the 11th street line and the blue lives matter signs
And dig around in my bag for compassion – control – intelligence
Finding only chapstick and tampons
I now sit here
With you.
In hope.
And God only knows.
20
Two Trains Passing Third Place Poetry
By Tyler Natof Student—Class of 2024
Our first date:
you were late and confessed
to wanting to skip it
Fate?
Let theologians decide;
I was just happy you had joined me
to share an unknown ride
Our lives intersected, so carefree:
“Whatever happens happens,”
we’d just let it be
I never would have known
how much that statement
was laden with irony:
In what felt like an instant
(but was really a year)
we became inseparable—
so I foolishly thought
But tragedy has a whimsical way
of ripping lives apart:
15 in 100,000 who die by suicide,
You became a statistic to the CDC:
but to me you’ll always be
one in a million,
the only one I’d ever want by my side
Ashes to ashes, dust to dust,
the kindly priest pronounced
But this prayer misses everything in the middle,
and was no solace to me
as I saw your closed casket,
holding a corpse only twenty-three
21
In that intervening time between ashes and ashes,
fleeting yet vital,
you were a catalyst
constantly converting monotony to magic
Though the casket was closed,
My mind saw you clearly—
through our love and friendship
we had x-ray vision into each other’s soul
Effortlessly, our lives intersected,
so too would they speed away
like two trains passing,
just long enough for us to wave
22
Field at Sunset Digital Photography
By Karen Shear, Staff—FCM Quincy
23
Turning Tides Acrylic on Canvas
By Sophia Matos, Student, Class of 2021
24
Microagressions Third Place Prose (Tie)
By Susan Hingle, MD Faculty—cHOP & Internal Medicine
Others
“Yes, what are you Sue? Aren’t you the princess of the ACP?”
“We’re sorry but you don’t have enough gravitas to serve in such a high
profile position.”
“You should wear more feminine clothes.”
“You shouldn’t report the sexual assault; no one will believe you. He
has an outstanding reputation. They may even blame you because you
wore a skirt showing your sexy legs.”
“You only got the position because you are an attractive white women
with blonde hair and beautiful eyes.”
“You are not well educated enough to deserve the position.”
“When you talk, I cringe.”
“You wouldn’t understand, you’ve never been pregnant.”
“I bet you feel guilty working so much. Children need their
mothers.”
“You are too nice to be an effective leader.”
“You only got the position because they needed a woman.”
“You voice is too high pitched. It is really annoying. You should get vo-
cal coaching.”
“You used to be beautiful Dr. Hingle.”
“We gave you the award because you are so nice.”
“They don’t ignore you because you are woman, they ignore you be-
cause you aren’t smart enough.”
“Be careful, nice people don’t get ahead.”
“We don’t really want a woman because you are so fragile.”
“You’re white, you wouldn’t understand.”
“That was a great presentation honey.”
“You tired of your husband yet? Or more likely is he tired of you yet?
25
(Wink, wink)”
“What is your role? Oh, you are responsible for the soft stuff. The
touchy feely stuff. Do you miss having a challenge?”
“It’s so strange, your reputation outside of SIU is so much better than
within SIU.”
Me
“You’re not good enough.”
“You’re not good enough.”
“You’re not good enough.”
“You’re not good enough.”
“You’re not good enough.”
“You’re not good enough.”
“You’re not good enough.”
“You’re not good enough.”
“You’re not good enough.”
“You’re not good enough.”
“You’re not good enough.”
“You’re not good enough.”
“You’re not good enough.”
“You’re not good enough.”
“You’re not good enough.”
“You’re not good enough.”
“You’re not good enough.”
“You’re not good enough.”
“You’re not good enough.”
“You’re not good enough.”
“You’re not good enough.”
“You’re not good enough.”
“You’re not good enough.”
26
State of Repair
By Logan Grubb, Student—Class of 2022
I hear you in the streets screaming that your lives matter,
Imagining what has happened to make you feel that that’s something
you even need to state.
Police running, sirens loud, protesters scatter,
Buildings torn up, burning, innocent lives meet their untimely fate.
Now I want to reach out to you and show you that I care,
I want to let you know that I hear you, that WE hear you,
What’s happened to you here isn’t even close to fair,
Let’s put this issue to rest, for the last time, unlike our forefathers, let’s
see it through.
Now how do you fix a country so poignantly divided?
How do you remedy scars that are so many centuries old?
When the fires are put out and everything has subsided,
How do we rebuild what has turned cold?
But do not despair my dear friends,
For as hopeless as our situation seems, it is wise to remember love
makes all amends.
27
Once in a Thousand Lifetimes—Neowise
Comet Digital Photograph
By Sara Way, Staff—Marketing & Communications
28
A 2020 Wish
By Jimmy Coyle Staff—Neuroscience Institute
To reach out and touch you
That is all I ask
To hug you or to hold you
Or to even shake your hand
Speaking on the phone just isn’t enough
Nor is talking through a window
Your touch is what I miss most
It is what my soul yearns for
Your strong embrace
Which brings calm and peace
Will that ever be felt again?
I am not quite sure
But I hope and long
For just one more time
Before it is too late
Just once to squeeze you tight
One last Bear Hug
Dad that is my only wish…
29
The Ching Chong Song
By Ayame Takahashi, MD, Faculty—Psychiatry
Ching Chong, Ching Chong, let’s all sing along with the Ching Chong
Song.
Ah soo, Ah soo, I stubbed my toe…
Let’s all sing along with the Ching Chong Song
Suzie Wong and Long Duk Dong
You look just like Ken Jeong!
Come on play along with the Ching Chong Song!
We’re fond of blonde, (I’m not brunette, or blonde)
Black (Hair) is whack,
Why don’t you go back?
Back where you belong.
Your face is flat, your eyes are slits…
Nose so small, can you breathe at all?
Chinese, Japanese, dirty knees, look at these…
Go back to where you’re from.
Chink, Nip or Jap which is your cap?
Or gook by fluke, we dropped a nuke
You bombed our land, you understand?
Go on back to China Town
Oriental, sallow, yellow
If black is black and white is white,
Then where do I belong?
(I pretend not to hear the Ching Chong Song)
30
Untitled Acrylic on Canvas
By Laurie Rollet, Staff—Capital Planning & Service
31
Jamaica’s Peacock
By Yasmin El-Amin, Community Member
We had just flown like seagulls into the paradise of Ochos Rios,
Jamaica.
I felt the warm gentle breeze against my brown skin, the sun kiss my
face goodbye as it was setting.
I smelled the salty water at the beach and heard the tall waves crashing
into the shore.
I was thinking this was the best way to start our vacation.
Nothing could change how I felt about this day.
These thoughts were spoken too soon.
We decided to go to our hotel room first.
We were going to get a fresh Jamaican dinner after we settled into our
new home for the week.
As we were walking, we heard an interesting sound.
We heard the shrill of a peacock, at least we thought it was an animal.
My mother sped past us like lightning. When we caught up my mother
had jumped in the pool.
So many things were happening, the air was filled with yelling, crying,
and sadness.
I wasn’t completely sure about what was going on at the moment.
My mind was racing.
I could see my mother in pain in the water. I didn’t know why
I saw my aunt jump in terrified and pulled back my mother.
I heard someone scream, ”get out the water it's electricity”.
I had put together the pieces of this puzzle and realized what had
happened.
I saw a man in the water. He looked unconscious, he was purple and
blue.
(Continued on page 32)
32
A frightened mother holding a baby crying in tears.
The mother was screaming “mi amor.” I now know that means, my love.
They got the breathless man out the water. He was not going to be a
father anymore.
Everyone was kneeling on the ground, my mom giving the man CPR.
My sisters and I were praying and crying while my mom yelled, “get the
kids out.”
It was a crazy night, I had never seen such a tragic event.
Minutes later we went to my aunt's hotel room in tears.
We walked in crying, tears streaming down our faces.
At that moment my mom made me realize how blessed I am.
It was a life lost and life saved.
There might not have been a peacock, but there was an angel watching
over my mom
The week before our vacation my mother was in another water getting
baptized
We think this is what spared her life.
My mom is not just a mom.
She is a doctormom, mi amor.
(Continued from page 31)
33
By Alexandria Wellman, Student—Class of 2021
Costume Change (top)
Virtual Interview (bottom)
Ink on Paper
34
Astonished Second Place Prose
By Juliet Bradley, MD, Alumni—Class of 1997
“Am I no longer young, and still half-perfect? Let me
keep my mind on what matters,
which is my work,
which is mostly standing still and learning to be
astonished.”
--Mary Oliver, “Messenger”
Olga’s Huntington’s disease was getting worse, and I was running
behind in clinic. It was almost two o’clock; I had not yet finished my
morning session and had not had time for a bite to eat.
I read somewhere that it can be helpful to take a deep, centering breath
before knocking on the door of an exam room. It’s supposed to help you
be more present. I looked at my schedule and took a deep breath. It
was never a quick visit with Francisco and Olga.
Two years ago, I’d been the one to diagnose her. At her first visit with
me, I’d asked the usual questions about what brought her to the clinic.
Typing into the EMR, I did not notice the sudden, involuntary jerking
movements. Her husband, Jose, answered the questions I asked Olga.
I’d looked sharply at Francisco, wondering if he was one of those
domineering partners who doesn’t let his wife have a voice. “She has
these twitching movements that she can’t control. She has problems
with balance. Speech is becoming more difficult. Her mother had
something very similar when she died in her fifties.”
In that moment, my mind seared into laser focus, and I discarded my
suspicions about Jose. Huntington’s chorea? I had met patients with
Huntington’s disease when I did my neurology rotation as a medical
student, but as a family doc, I'd never been the one to diagnose it.
Francisco and Olga, raised in a village in Mexico, had no name for this
tragic, degenerative illness, this aberrant gene that had taken her
mother and afflicted her older sister. I labeled it, this incurable curse
that would take her speech and her independence, but I would not be
35
able to do much more.
And now it’s two years later. A neurologist has confirmed the
diagnosis. There has been an aspiration pneumonia and a feeding
tube, and a progressive loss of function. A charitable organization has
provided a wheelchair. Our social worker has gone to great lengths to
get coupons for diabetic feeding tube supplements, bus passes for
clinic visits, and warm blankets for the days that the heating goes out in
their basement apartment. Olga’s speech has become unintelligible, but
her personality sparkles through. She smiles when I compliment her
new hair color, and rolls her eyes when Francisco reports on her
depression. Francisco asks me about my son, and Olga exclaims with
approving nods of her head at the most recent picture on my phone.
Francisco has problems of his own; he’d become my patient as well. A
genteel man with an easy smile and only a few remaining teeth, he’d
undergone quadruple bypass surgery a few years back and survived
two bouts of pancreatitis. The warmth of his brown eyes belied the
severity of his retinopathy.
Our visit followed its usual format: labs, medicines, transportation
difficulties, rescheduling missed appointments. Some of the specialists
at my hospital used to rotate with me as med students; sometimes I call
them up and ask them if they can squeeze someone in, a special case,
someone who really needs help. At the end of the visit, Jose took me
aside.
“Me puede recetar un poco de Viagra?”
The lift of my eyebrow must have been more perceptible than I’d hoped.
Francisco hurried to explain. “You might be surprised that we are
having sex, or maybe you think it’s wrong, in her condition.” I looked at
him quizzically, waiting for more. “But Olga is the love of my life, my
childhood sweetheart, the mother of my daughters. When we are
together in that way, and hold each other closely, in those moments our
age and our medical problems melt away, and she is still beautiful
young woman who captured my heart.”
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36
My eyes welled up. I looked at Francisco and Olga, and ran the mental
time-lapse imagery in reverse. I saw them, young and laughing and in
love. I thought about how it required two buses for Francisco to bring
Olga to our clinic, in her wheelchair. Two different buses and a train to
get to the specialist, who could only prescribe Prozac and muscle
relaxants. I thought about how Francisco brought Olga’s younger
sister, and their daughters, to my clinic, but that none of them wanted to
get tested for Huntington’s. None of them wanted to see the future.
I wrote the prescription for Viagra. I gave Francisco and Olga each a
new dose of insulin and made them new appointments for
ophthalmology. As he trundled her off in the wheelchair, I wondered
whether someday, if I have a feeding tube and need a wheelchair, my
partner might ask his doctor for Viagra to be with me.
(Continued from page 35)
37
Barn at Sunset Digital Photograph
By Karen Shear, Staff—FCM Quincy
38
The Touch of a Letter First Place Prose
By Ashay Vaidya, Student—Class of 2021
As I awoke with a splitting headache, I could hear the car’s metal roof
strain against the weight of the underside. I was strapped into my seat,
upside down, with the seatbelt taut against my chest and hips. The
deployed airbags surrounded me, covered in glass and blood. “D…
dad?” I croaked, looking to my right. He hung beside me in his seat,
with his body limp and motionless. As I pressed the red release button
on my seatbelt buckle, its familiar click was accompanied by a loud
thump as I crumpled down onto the roof. Freeing my father from his
seat, I dragged us out of the destroyed sedan and onto the muddy
grass of the ditch. Blood seeped out of a gash on my forehead, and as I
laid there in the muck, I took one final look at my father as my vision
slowly faded into the darkness of the night.
Looking back, maybe I should have been more careful. Maybe I should
have had my high beams on. Maybe I should have driven slower. But
the small winding country road was a deeply familiar one, with a small
forest preserve on one side and a corn field on the other. Dad and I had
driven on this road countless times in my childhood to get to the lake for
our weekly fishing trips. He was a quiet man who had lost his wife,
Margaret, during childbirth. Soon after, he had lost his baby daughter,
Aurora, to devastating cystic fibrosis. Against all odds, he had found
enough love to overcome the pain in his heart and generously bring me
into his home and his life. “Adopting you was the best decision I ever
made, Liam. I don’t know if you know it, but you honestly saved me
from myself,” he had once quietly said with melancholy eyes. However,
when we would be on the lake together, his voice would lift up as he
taught me about different knots, casting, or assembling a rod. In these
brief moments, his eyes would light up and he would crack a rare smile.
As I had grown older and transitioned into high school, our weekly trips
had gradually turned into monthly trips. 4 years of college had further
distanced us, making the trips yearly. One day, as I was slogging away
in medical school, I realized that I couldn’t even recall the last time that
we had been out on the water. An ocean of guilt washed over me. My
39
father had taken me into his home, loved me boundlessly, cared for me,
and shaped me into the man I was today. What kind of son was I to let
our relationship slip away like this? How could I have let this happen in
the first place? This realization had immediately led me to call dad and
ask if he could spare time for a fishing trip this weekend. Through the
phone, I could feel him quietly smile on the other end.
On that chill October night in 2019, a white-tailed deer had leapt in front
of us, making me jerk my steering wheel to avoid it and causing the car
to spin and flip over in a chaotic ballet of metal and glass. The
Emergency Department nurses told me that my father and I were soon
found by another driver. She had called 911, setting in motion a chain
of events that had ultimately saved my life – a trip to the Emergency
Department, a neurosurgery to stop an epidural hematoma, and a 1-
week recovery on the inpatient floor. When I had finally regained full
consciousness, I had turned to a nurse and said, “Where’s my dad?
He…is he okay?” Her hesitant and devastating silence was enough of
an answer. The next day, I arranged for his cremation and memorial
service.
At the service, our friends and family gathered to pay tribute to my
father. Beautiful eulogies detailed the life of a man who had overcome
ravaging pain in order to brighten the lives of everybody around him. As
everyone wept in remembrance, there was one person who remained
emotionless – me. I looked around, puzzled at my own ambivalence, as
if I had just missed the emotional train that everyone else was riding on.
As the weeks went on and things slowly settled down, I felt increasingly
cold and hollowed out. One day, I caught myself looking in the
bathroom mirror. An empty husk disguised in flesh and blood stared
back at me.
I finally decided to talk to the neurosurgeon, Dr. Rose, about this during
my follow-up appointment. As we sat together in Dr. Rose’s office, she
heard about my unrelenting indifference. “What you’re going through
could just be part of the natural process of grieving,” she stated with a
worried look across her face. “It’s not uncommon after the loss of a
parent. However, we have got a really great in-house counselor that
might be able to help you and guide you through what you’re
experiencing,” she said. She opened a drawer in her desk and took out
(Continued on page 40)
40
the counselor’s business card. As I reached to grab the card, my
fingers touched the edges. I gasped as flashes of emotions jolted my
mind:
Worry that my patient was feeling this way.
Regret that my daughter had felt some of the same
symptoms, and that I hadn’t recognized her depression soon enough
as a parent.
Fear as I dreaded the thought of this patient spiraling downward like my
daughter had.
I dropped the business card in shock and staggered backwards,
looking up at my neurosurgeon in shock. I didn’t have any patients. I
didn’t have a daughter. Worry, regret, and fear – these weren’t my
emotions. These were her emotions.
I explained what I had just experienced to Dr. Rose. She was initially
skeptical, but as I described her own thoughts and emotions in detail,
her eyes widened. She asked me to be part of a collaborative study
with other fellow neurosurgeons and neurologists, and I obliged. They
conducted a variety of tests over the next few months, and their fMRI
scans found low levels of activity in the limbic system – areas of the
brain responsible for emotion. These same areas fired up only when I
touched an object previously held by someone else – a piece of paper,
a pencil, anything. I could immediately feel the giver’s most recent
emotions. While they vaguely mentioned that my condition could be
resulting from “neuropsychological impairment” from the accident, the
researchers could never pinpoint a solid explanation for this
phenomenon.
As the pandemic took off in March of 2020, social distancing protocols
stopped the research study and kept me at home. I missed meeting Dr.
Rose and the researchers – they were my only opportunity to feel
anything. As I began to feel like an empty shell again, an idea struck – I
called my friend, who worked at the local newspaper. We worked
together to set up and advertise a “venting” mailbox where people
could mail their experiences during this unique year. This way, people
(Continued from page 39)
41
could have an outlet for their emotions during the pandemic, while also
making me feel human again by experiencing their emotions through
their messages. Several days later, the first letter came in.
“I don’t even know why I’m writing this letter. I don’t even know if I’ll
send it. I guess that I just need to get it off my shoulders. I lost my job
today. I’ve been working for the company for over 30 years, and they
just called me over the phone and fired me. Over the damn phone. I’ve
got 2 kids at home and a baby on the way. My wife keeps saying that
it’s going to be okay, but I just heard her quietly crying in the bathroom.
I don’t know what to do. I just don’t know.” - Jake
I choked back tears and my hands shook as I placed the letter back in
the envelope. The emotions of fear, frustration, anger, and confusion
were overwhelming, seemingly threatening to burst out of my chest. But
they were something, and I was deeply grateful for them. As the months
went on, letters began pouring in and I eventually had to replace my
small mailbox with a larger drop box to accommodate them. The letters
described the loneliness of social distancing and the newfound anxiety
of being around unmasked people. Some expressed rage about mask
mandates, while others expressed anger about people who didn’t wear
masks. Many felt like John – helpless and uncertain after suddenly
losing their jobs. Unease, apprehension, fear, and disquiet became a
daily familiarity as I read letter after letter. One day, a new letter came
in the mail – a pink envelope, with a bright yellow letter inside. Scrawled
in red crayon, it said:
“Mommy got me a new mask. It has Spiderman all over it! She said that if I wear it, Spiderman will fight the virus for me!!!”
Pure and unadulterated joy rushed through me, coursing through my
fingertips to my brain, washing out the muck of despair that I had
become so familiar with. For the first time in months, I smiled brightly.
More and more letters gradually streamed in, detailing the happiness
that people were finding despite the challenges of 2020. People talked
about the joys of small weddings and birthday celebrations over Zoom.
Grocery store owners spoke of increased business as more families
began eating at home. A college student described how she had taken
up breadmaking as her new “COVID hobby.” A husband described how
(Continued on page 42)
42
working from home now allowed him to spend more time with his
children and rekindle his marriage. People were not simply surviving –
they were adapting and learning to thrive. Their letters slashed through
the pain of 2020, replacing it with a rejuvenating hope.
A few months after starting the mailbox, I received a phone call from an
unknown number. “Good afternoon! My name is Mr. Bancroft. I am
contacting you to talk about your father’s inheritance.”
“His…inheritance?” I asked.
“Yes, and I do sincerely apologize for the delay,” he stated. “Due to the
sudden nature of your father’s death and our office being quite
understaffed this year, it took me some extra time to get your father’s
affairs in order as he had wanted. However, everything is appropriately
in place now. Would you be available to meet in person?”
I timidly walked into Mr. Bancroft’s office the next day. He briefly
expressed his condolences before opening my father’s will and getting
right to business. My childhood home, a few antiques, stocks, bonds,
and my father’s beloved 1967 Corvette would go to me. The rest of his
financial assets would be donated to the Cystic Fibrosis Foundation in
memory of his late daughter – even in death, he had a heart of gold.
“Oh, and your father also wanted you to have everything in his safe de-
posit box. He listed you as a co-owner,” said Mr. Bancroft, sliding the
key to me across the desk. “What’s in his safe deposit box?” I inquired.
“Honestly, I really have no idea,” he stated with a shrug.
I walked into the bank the next morning. The friendly teller walked back,
we turned both of our keys together, pulled out the flat steel box, and I
was led to a secure private room.
I gently slid open the box to find a loose pile of documents in front of
me. There were the mortgage documents for my father’s home,
property deeds, the title for the 67 Corvette, old paper bonds, some
family heirlooms, and….a brown unmarked envelope. I broke the
(Continued from page 41)
43
envelope’s seal, curiously pulling out a small handwritten letter.
My dear Liam,
If you are reading this letter, then I know that something
unfortunate has occurred to me. I can’t imagine how hard all of
this has been for you. I can only hope that this letter provides
some respite from the challenging times that you have had since
my passing, like how you provided me respite from some of my
darkest moments. When Margaret had died so suddenly, the
only thing that carried me forward was the prospect of raising and
loving Aurora. When God took her too, I was at a complete loss.
There were moments when swallowing the barrel of the .38 Spe-
cial Colt revolver in my nightstand was more tempting than living
another day alone. All of that misery finally began to go away
when I met you.
You taught me how to love again, how to see light in the world
again, and how to finally release myself from the crushing guilt
that I carried for what happened to Margaret and Aurora. Our fish-
ing trips are some of my favorite memories of us. On the lake with
you, with nothing but the creaking boat and the water beneath us,
all of my worries drifted away. I love you, Liam. I always will. I
loved you when I was alive, and I love you now as I lie in God’s
arms.
Remember me in my brightest moments. Remember me as I was
on the lake.
Love,
Your father John
His thoughts and emotions flooded my mind and filled my heart with
happiness. I felt as he had when he was writing this letter. Tears
streamed down my cheeks and spattered the paper. I shut my eyes,
feeling his warm embrace around me. Then, a serene happiness began
coursing through me. It didn’t come from the letter though – the
happiness came from me. For the first time since the accident, I smiled
from within my own heart, content with some semblance of closure. I
would always remember him as he desired – my father on the boat,
floating on the calm water of the lake, a peaceful light in behind his
eyes, and a serene smile on his face.
44
Glimpses of Grandma
By Kari Williams, Staff—FCM Decatur
Aging neural synapses
Act like clouds hiding the
Radiant energy of an old soul.
Every now and then,
The clouds part and
Brilliant rays of light
Shine through.
45
Vision Colored Pencil on Paper
By Ciaran Wall, Community Member
46
Bleeding Heart Acrylic on Canvas
By Beth Nielsen, MD, Fellow—Pulmonary/Critical Care
47
NICU Adieu
By Kari Williams, Staff—FCM Decatur
I
Look through the windows of my eyes
Into your world,
Which, for a moment in time,
Has come to rest in the palm of my hand.
And, as I stand here mesmerized
By the wonders I see,
I am aware all too soon
Your existence
Will disappear from the face of my reality.
For you are like the sands of time
That all too quickly slip between my fingers,
Leaving me with an empty hand
And a memory that through the cracks of my heart
Forever faintly lingers.
48
Life Fluorescent
By Catherine Greene, Student—Class of 2023
In light of life,
In the midst of strife
Don’t forget to dream.
Don’t forget to sing.
Life is fluorescent with both good and bad things,
So be your own hero,
Listen to your heart’s plea.
Be bold, unapologetic and yet timelessly serene.
Forge your own journey,
Be at peace with the war,
Keep pressing forward,
You never know what is in store.
But when you forget the good memories,
And are overwhelmed with fear,
Remind yourself this simple truth:
You are still here.
49
Trailer Trash Third Place Art Giclée
By Peter Somers, PhD, MD, Alumni—Class of 2000
50
Pikku Halssi Retreat Giclée
By Peter Somers, PhD, MD, Alumni—Class of 2000
51
When This is Over, When
By Christine Todd, MD, Alumni and Faculty—Medical
Humanities
I want it to be a beautiful crisp fall day. I want to fix my hair, and put a
little make up on, and wear real clothes. I want to meet you for lunch at
one of those ladies-who-lunch places with the white linen tablecloths.
I'm having a gin and tonic and poached salmon with béarnaise and
tarte au citron. Vivaldi plays. We discuss astrophysics. We finish with
espressos.
I want it to be a downpour. I want to wear the t shirt that makes men
back up a few paces and my Doc Martens. I want to meet you in a
feminist bookstore's cafe where we pile the table between us with
stacks of books with rebellious titles. We drink black coffee and plot
until the sun comes back out.
I want it to be your mother’s house. We sit on the plaid couch and eat
Fritos with a soap opera on. We skip school because we don’t need
school. We have plans to take over the world and do it better. We are
just waiting to borrow the car keys and for the right song to come on the
radio.
I want it to be the ocean. I want to be chest deep in the water, riding the
waves. The sun shines on the water and glitters with ancient light as it
moves. When I dive down, all I can see is endless blue. When I come
back up I can see you on the beach with your sunglasses that reflect
the horizon behind us. We are safe in the midst of infinity.
52
Lincoln Park Digital Photography
By Ian Pollock, Staff—Library
53
French Toast Second Place Poetry
By Vamsi Naidu, Student—Class of 2022
Sunlight spills through the kitchen window,
Decorating the room with an orange glow.
Hungry, bright red flames
Dance on the stove, heating the pan.
My grandma moves, like a gentle breeze,
Towards golden loaves of bread.
I jump with excitement
She sees me and laughs.
I watch her gentle, arthritic hands
Slice, season, move through the air
Like a wizard crafting a spell.
I’m glued to the scent of sugar and cinnamon,
Its hypnotic, like a siren’s song.
And finally, the bread meets the pan.
I grow more and more impatient.
It’s done!
French toast as soft as a pillow,
Sweet and warm like a hug.
It doesn’t stand a chance against my appetite,
Within seconds, it’s gone.
But now you are too.
54
Bad Things Happen Third Place Prose (Tie)
By Kathryn Waldyke, MD, Faculty—PA Program, FCM
Carbondale
Bad things happen to people all the time, sometimes one thing,
sometimes a bunch series, Beth began the article. Being a freelance
writer meant she often had to learn about completely new things, which
was actually one of the aspects she really enjoyed, but this time she
already knew some about the subject. She had experiences with
suicide before researching it. These days it seemed like everyone she
knew had had experience with a suicide attempt or completion (she
reminded herself: not “committing suicide”--like a crime--or “successful
suicide,” now there’s an oxymoron) by someone they knew and often
had loved or admired.
She went on, So why do some people seem to take strength from
surviving the hard times while others run out of energy trying to stay
afloat? And some people go beyond giving up to in fact ending their
struggles by ending their lives—but others don’t. They can fight on.
The number and severity of stressors is a factor in that fatal decision
but hardly the deciding factor. Other elements factor in to varying
degrees: current and prior social supports, self-care, coping skills
learned from parents, peers, and others, probably genetic influences,
use of drugs that may alter serotonin balance and/or reduce inhibitions,
perceived future prospects—now there’s a tough one, since
perceptions are usually quite distorted by pain, physical or psychic or
both. Beth knew this too. She had survived the hopelessness once, like
being in the bottom of a well, she felt. Way up above she could see
some sunshine, a cruelty not a hope when none of it was filtering all the
way down to her. She could see it but not feel it. And the more she tried
to claw her way out, the more dirt fell on her. No way out, no sign of
rescue—that’s how it had felt to her. People who have never
experienced suicidal ideas or feelings can be completely flummoxed.
[Beth really liked the word ‘flummoxed,’ but too many people would be
flummoxed if she used it. Fine…] perplexed. How can a person ever
think that there is no way out but dying/no solution to their problems?
Anything but death can possibly be ameliorated fixed, right? Maybe,
55
maybe not--but it surely does not feel that way sometimes. Beth knew.
And knowing can be powerful: having lived through suicidal ideas to
rewarding times again sometimes helped give people strength for riding
out the next low time. This writer was glad she had started journaling in
junior high, she reminded herself, when it was a hated assignment
initially but came to be a safe confidant at a tough time and a learning
tool later.
So older people should have an advantage, but that didn’t always play
out, either. Suicide rates among young people ages 15-24 have risen in
recent years, but the highest rates in the US are seen among elderly
men, especially those suffering terminal and/or painful conditions, and
those with access to firearms. Firearms. Now there’s a minefield Beth
had no interest in writing about. Emotions ran way too high. “More heat
than light there!” her mother would have warned about discussing that
topic. But access to firearms had an undeniable role in completed
suicides, she had found. God help the veterans. Wartime, PTSD,
alcohol, access to firearms…the perfect storm…
More than half of people see a health care provider in the month before
they attempt suicide. So the answer many propose is regular screening
for suicidality. But the providers scream back protest that there is not
time to do all the things that must be done already, so adding more
tasks is simply not possible. And they want solid evidence that the
screening will work, will actually save lives. Some propose that as much
as not having time, these providers do not have the training to respond
to a ‘positive screen’ (suicidal patient). While most now realize that
broaching the subject of suicide with a person will not ‘give them the
idea’, many are still uncertain how to word the questions and where to
turn when a patient admits to ideas of suicide. Ain’t that the truth, Beth
thought wryly, remembering being relieved when one medical person
asked her and she was able to express her own fears about hurting
herself, only to be scolded. “Don’t you see that all this is temporary but
death is permanent?”—pretty obvious, yes, I see…”And what about
your family? How could you do that to your family?” Well, friend, let me
tell you why these questions won’t help me. Either my dysfunctional
family is a part of the problem, how I got to this state in the first place,
or trust me, I’ve already guilted about this A LOT, and now you are
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56
giving me more guilt instead of alternatives. NOT HELPING.
We seem to know who is completing suicide, so can’t we translate that
into deciding who is highest risk, and just screen them, not everyone?
Can’t doctors and nurses trust their instincts on who seems vulnerable?
Nope, no magical powers there… Beth had been frustrated at every
turn with her research into this aspect.
Maybe the thing to do was leave the article for a bit and walk off some
of the frustration. She took the stairs down to the apartment lobby and
headed out. Beth walked quickly to the park by the river while there
was still some sunlight; the pretty park became a rather creepy place in
the dark, sadly. Over the bridge, though, was a lighted path for bikers
and walkers, along the river, with a view of trees in the daytime and
sparkling city lights on the water at night—one of her favorite places in
the city.
Her thoughts on the path ahead and the article behind, Beth was
startled to see someone move just a foot or two away from her on the
bridge in the half-light of the gloaming twilight. The waist-high railing
separated them.
She gasped and blurted out, “What are you doing?”
“What do you think?” he snarled back. “Keep walking, lady.” He tried to
sound fierce and commanding, but Beth could hear resignation,
sadness, fatigue, despair in those few words. Even if she had wanted
to keep walking, she was now stalled in disbelief.
Not knowing why she would ask it, she blurted out, “Can you swim?”
“Doesn’t matter. We’re up high enough the water will knock me out. I’ve
figured this out. KEEP WALKING.”
Beth wanted to reach out and touch his hand, to reassure him with
human touch, or to grab his hand, to pull him away from the edge. With
no real time to think through the implications, she just had to trust the
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57
feeling he did not want touch now, from her, and would pull away,
closer to the edge and to the fall into the dark and the water.
She walked a few steps further then came back and asked, “May I help
you?”
“I don’t want anyone’s help, thank you,” he growled.
She hit his hand on the railing just hard enough to seem like a serious
attempt, then she pushed at his chest.
“What the hell--???” he stuttered.
“I assume you want to jump off, or you wouldn’t be on that side of the
railing. But there you are, not jumping. I can help you get over the last
hurdle.”
“Are you nuts, lady?” he yelled, grabbing the rail more tightly.
She walked a few steps then threw her leg over the railing. “Stop, you
stupid broad!” he yelled. She hoped someone else on the bridge would
hear his shout and come to help or at least call 911 on a cell phone and
not just stop to film them with it. She would really like some back-up
about now. This was not in her job training—or was it? The irony of fac-
ing the situation so soon after writing calmly about it earlier was not lost
on Beth.
“Why? Why am I stupid to do it too? Are you being stupid?”
“No, I’m not,” he huffed defensively. “I’ve thought this through. You
haven’t.”
“Oh, so that is what makes me stupid?” she asked, hoping to buy some
time for an actual plan by drawing him into conversation. “How can you
know I have not been thinking about this too?”
“You haven’t. You’re just being stupid. Go back over and keep walking,
like I told you.”
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58
Beth held out her hand: “Hold my hand. We can do it together.”
“You’re nuts. And you holding my hand is not going to give me hope,”
he said sarcastically, and continued, ”or be strong enough to hold me
up, in case you were wondering.”
“’Your holding,’” she could not stop in time correcting the grammar but
immediately regretted it.
“What?”
“Never mind that. It’s not important,” she lied. Well, not important right
now, she thought.
“So what is important?” he asked sardonically.
“You are.”
“I am?”
“Well, you are important to me right now. Surely I’m not the only one--?”
“Yeah, maybe you are.”
“I’m not enough, then? I think I’ll jump too.”
“Don’t make fun of me, lady.” The words sounded so sad she wondered
if he would cry.
“I won’t. May I know why you came here, so I can decide whether to try
to talk you out of it or not?”
“Why should I live? Every day I want to do this, to finish this, but today I
finally decided to do it.” His voice strengthened. “I can’t keep putting this
off.”
“Actually, you can.” She hesitated. “Can you trust yourself just enough
to give yourself another chance to answer this question again
tomorrow?”
59
“And every day after that? No. It’s getting too old. I’m too tired.”
By now their conversation had drawn the attention of two fellow
walkers, who hesitated several feet from them. They seemed frozen,
unclear what one should do in these odd, scary circumstances, only
able to watch, too stunned to participate.
Beth gestured toward the onlookers. “I guess they’ll see our names in
the news tomorrow, feel sorry for us.”
“Not us, lady. Look, I’m going to walk you off the stupid bridge so I can
do this in peace.”
“OK.” Beth waited what seemed like an eternity for him to put his leg
over the railing before she also pulled her leg back onto the sidewalk.
True to his word, he slumped silently toward the lighted walkway. She
walked silently beside him. At the end of the bridge, he asked, “Which
way are you going?” She hesitated then gestured to the left. “I’m going
that way.” He pointed right. “Don’t follow me. And,” he hesitated,
“thanks for caring, anyway. I guess I’ll be back later tonight, or
tomorrow. I hope you won’t. You’d screw it up for me again. But…
thanks. I guess.” He stood facing up the river, not back onto the bridge,
while she hesitated. Beth was yet again not sure what was right but
decided to do as he asked. She glanced at his stationary, shadowy
figure then turned the other direction and walked by the river, looking
at the blurred reflections of lights and crying as she dared not look
behind her.
60
The Menacing Gaze (Top)
A Very Berry Breakfast (Bottom)
Digital Photography
By Amit Sapra, MD, Faculty—FCM Springfield
61
Priorities
By Kathryn Waldyke, MD, Faculty—PA Program, FCM
Carbondale
A blank pad of paper
just begs to be filled.
A pen in my right hand:
prepare to be thrilled
or saddened or angry—
changed somehow, I hope.
If my words don’t move you
I feel like a dope
for wasting the paper,
the ink and the day;
both your life and my life
have less time to play
or sleep or grow flowers,
earn money or say,
“I love you forever;
please don’t go away.”
So put this page down and
go do those things now,
as “Actions speak louder
than words,” anyhow.
62
23, 24, 25
By Catherine Greene Student—Class of 2023
I lay silently next to my sleeping husband, eyes glued to the ceiling
simply breathing. I took my time with each breath, internally counting
every inhale and exhale. Each breath given was smothered in
whispered thankfulness as it passed from my lips, a ritual I had started
since the onset of this thing.
I slowly turned to face the clock that read 4:55 a.m. Turning my 5 a.m.
alarm off, I gently rose from the warmth and familiarity of our bed and
stepped into the day at hand. I stood there, bare feet to floor with my
eyes closed, allowing my aching muscles to get adjusted to their new
upright position. Taking in another deep breath, I opened my eyes and
looked over at my sleeping husband.
Yesterday, this would have been an ordinary day for me, for us. But
today was different. I was no longer just a wife, a mother of two small
children, or a nurse.
No, life was different now. I was a front-liner.
And being a front-liner makes you look at your life differently. You
appreciate your spouse more, love your children harder, and make
every breath count. Yesterday, I was just a nurse counting minutes
until the end of my shift at a NYC hospital.
Today, I was a front-liner counting my God-given breaths as I prepared
to leave the warmth of family and home, and head into the cold
unknown and rising uncertainty.
63
Soul Rest Digital Photography
By Yvette Schroeder, Staff—Surgery Clinic
64
Icy Oak Leaf Digital Photography
By Tom Ala, MD, Faculty—Neurology
65
Slow Reflections on Rapid Changes
By Catherine Greene, Student—Class of 2023
Still I smile at the thought of late, fast-paced Friday nights.
There is a certain amount of normalcy there that just breathes fun.
I still lazily lounge in bed on Saturday mornings,
Some things will never change.
And yes, I will still worship God on Sunday mornings and every morn-
ing.
No quarantine will ever lessen my faith.
What I do not do anymore, however, is the true essence.
Stress, rush, or worry.
As the world has slowed, so have I.
The pace of life is different now.
May we all take at least one good thing from this period of uncertainty
when our world returns to that
rapid Friday night "normalcy".
66
Hiding in Plain Sight Digital Photography
By Anastasia Dufner, MD, Resident—Internal Medicine
67 68
SCOPE is the property of Southern Illinois University School of
Medicine. Copyright reverts to the authors upon publication.
The views expressed herein don’t necessarily reflect those of SIU School of
Medicine.
Funding for SCOPE was generously provided through the SIU
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Browse past editions of SCOPE and review guidelines for submission at
siumed.edu/scope or contact SIU’s Office of Medical Humanities:
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PO Box 19603
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Submissions for the 2022 edition of SCOPE will be accepted from
October 2021 to January 2022.