I’d never tell you this, but
Sometimes, I search for your eyes from across the room;
I’m sorry.
I just want to reassure myself that they’re still open.
Sometimes, I find myself counting your respiratory rate
Finding your pulse like a doctoring session
and multiplying it by 15, I’m sorry.
It’s just that, you’ve been a little apneic lately.
Sometimes, I wish that I could sneak into your right atrium and whisper to your pounding ventricles,
just to encourage them a little.
To shock the nerves beneath your skin, willing electricity through the jumper cables, synchronizing SA nodes, defibrillating and resuscitating the waning hope inside.
I’m beginning to realize just how tired you’ve become.
I’m responding to this Code Blue with CPR and empathy; a prayer for your reawakening.
Kind of like caffeine or dobutamine.
Sometimes, I wish I could crawl between your pulmonary veins and stand as support within your lungs when they feel as though they’re about to collapse,
Call me Atlas,
supplying extra oxygen when you’ve found your own supply inadequate.
Sometimes, I wish that I could slide through the canal of your brainstem,
playing hopscotch on your hippocampus,
producing all of the endorphins your body is too fatigued to create on its own.
Sometimes, I wish I could skate between your muscle fibers, hotwire your mitochondrias, making mountains and molehills easier to move.
But you can’t create energy when you refuse to eat.
Maybe that’s why you’re always falling asleep next to me.
Did you know that, in 1964, Randy Gardner, a high school student, set the record for sleep deprivation?
He stayed awake for 11 days and 25 minutes.
Sometimes, I wonder how many nights you’ve skipped REM cycles, counting the veins on the insides of your eyelids,
I mean, your entire immune system gets to fight for you,
It’s so unfair that I can’t do the same.
When one is trapped inside their mind, a cage built by time,
Physiology battles against psychology, and we are both powerless against
A serotonin deficiency and sleep deficit
So instead, I use vocabulary to create a soft place next to me,
where the to-do list is erased and we hit “Do Not Disturb.”
Sometimes, I want to construct a framework from the skeletons in your closet.
I’d use screws and craft glue to straighten your vertebrae;
fix your scoliosis with cushions of confidence.
I’d smooth down the bones with sandpaper, making sure that you never get caught fighting the grinding of your teeth or the chattering of your knees.
Maybe then, you could hear me over the cracking of your joints and the screaming in your mind.
Sometimes, I want to cut the cord to the power plant between your ears and start the back-up generator.
Maybe then, your thoughts would move less like rapid-fire Anki deck and more like a…
A Merry-Go-Round.
Inviting and familiar, and maybe a little bit child-like.
I wish you could be a little more child-like.
You were forced to grow up so fast.
Sometimes, I wish I could filter through your life experiences,
a spleen sorting through blood,
Removing toxins before they can impact the organism,
Taking the pain and poison upon itself.
You’ve been through so much, I’m sorry.
If I could trade places with you for 24 hours and let you be at peace for a minute, I would.
I wish you could see how important you are.
How, your tiny ecosystem on Planet Earth, surrounded by 8 billion others, is so very important to me.
You are so very important to me.
This poem was initially written by me in 2018, in response to some friends going through tough times but it was never published. The original format was actually Slam Poetry, so if you want to get the full effect, I recommend finding a quiet room and reading it out loud with pauses for emphasis (if you dare ;)).
I think about this poem often, especially now that I’m in the midst of clinicals, seeing patients and healthcare workers on their really difficult days. Maybe some of you can relate to the wishes of the speaker, and the sensation of helplessness that comes with wishing. Maybe some of you need to know that the people in your life also feel that YOU are so very important to them.
Either way, I wanted to share it now. You’re doing amazing. Medical school is hard. Please reach out to your people and get help when you need it. Much love!