Collected Works Visible Horizons

Collected Works Visible Horizons

Volume V

2009

Collected Works: Visible Horizons Volume V 2009 Copyright remains with the authors. Please forward all inquiries to: Collected Works, c/o Student Affairs, Faculty of Medicine, Memorial University of Newfoundland, St. John’s, NL A1B 3V6 Editor Co‐ordinator:

Nicholas Smith

Editors: Chris Smith Megan Armstrong Shaina Goudie Jay Mercer Alexandra Vihvelin

Design/Layout/Printing: Chris Smith

Cover Photo:

Noah Hansen

“I have no idea what I'm doing, but incompetence has never prevented me from plunging in with enthusiasm”

‐ Woody Allan

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Table of Contents

Heart of Rock – 1 Melanie Stenback

Untitled Poem 1 – 2

Andrew Smith

My Neurology Lesson – 4 David Metcalfe

The Simple Things – 5 Ashvinder Bhogal

Just a Little Place I Like to Call Home – 7

Melanie Stenback

Sarajevo. WHY? – 8 Marshall Godwin

Sarajevo. WHY? – 9 Marshall Godwin

Losing the Grace, Keeping the Faith – 11

Shaina Goudie

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A Semester with S.C. – 13 Matthew Ryan

Outport Memories – 14 Montgomery Keough

K. – 16

Nikhil Joshi

Sweating the Soul Clean – 18 Anna Davies

Why? – 21

Melanie Stenback

Untitled Poem 2 – 22 Andrew Smith

What is Love? – 23 Ashvinder Bhogal

The Memory Thief – 25 Alexandra Vihvelin

Autumn & Hallowe’en – 27

June Harris

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Already I’ve forgotten – 28 Sarah Battcock

The Good Life – 29 Shaina Goudie

Clarity: A Testicular Tale – 30

Nick Sowers

The women of Soroti town – 32 Alexandra Vihvelin

Defining – 34

Heather Williams

Capelin Spawning and Bellevue – 36 Amanda Parsons

Untitled Poem 3 – 37

Andrew Smith

A Treatise on Vegetables – 38 Nicholas Smith

The Way I See It – 39 Amin A. Muhammad

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Death Knell – 41 Steve Quigley

Sophie – 42

Shaina Goudie

Gambling Gods – 43 Nikhil Joshi

Ode to Walking – 44

Sean Doherty

Dignity – 45 Leanne Martin

Graduation Day – 46

June Harris

Wisdom and Study – 48 Shaina Goudie

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Letter from the Editor

Ladies and gentlemen, professors and students, doctors and patients, welcome to the 5th annual publication of The Collected Works! We know it has been long in the making, and we know that anticipation is at an all time high, but we also know that you will be thrilled with this anniversary edition. Many artistic hours have gone into the writing and publication of this special Collected Works and I want to start by giving a hearty thanks to all those involved with this year’s project. The Collected Works was created with the intention of giving medical students at Memorial a literary voice in a world surrounded by the hard facts of scientific pursuits. The editors this year faced the difficult task of living up to the expectations of producing the high quality work that was the standard in the first four editions. I think we will not disappoint. Poetry, prose and art filled with laughter, joy, grief and contemplation plaster this year’s Collected Works from cover to cover.

As a unique endeavor for the anniversary edition we opened the publication to the staff and faculty at Memorial. Do you think the people who teach us and design our programs have some influence over our thoughts? If so, is such a notion perceptible in our writing? I challenge you the reader to find common themes and ideas within these works. Do they differ from student to professor? Are we fated to become more jaded as we pass through our years of medicine, or will a career in the health field bring new found treasures to our lives? I am very proud to have been involved with the 5th edition of the Collected Works, and I hope you can all find some precious moments of pleasure within these pages. My thanks go out to Dr. Connor and Carol Hedd from the history department who made this possibly financially and were there for any help I needed. It would not have been possible without all the editors who put so many hours into creating the best work we could. Chris, Megan, Jay, Shaina and Alex, I thank you a thousand times for putting up with my thousand emails. Your patience knows no bounds. And of course, the real credit goes to the young upstarts who risked fame and failure by privileging us to their personal creations. The arts are not dead and the literary spark burns bright in the minds of this medical school. Cheers and enjoy! Nicholas Smith MED II, Chief Editor of the Collected Works

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‐Ashley Crane

“Heart of Rock” Ashley Crane is a first year medical student with a keen interest in anatomical surrealism. She day‐dreamed up this painting in the back row of a HELM class, once upon one cloudy Thursday morning.

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[Untitled Poem 1] Andrew Smith

he sits awaiting the next word taking each one down with the confidence of someone of experience

the way it has been for years the long road of undergrad over somehow things feel no different

writing the same words still memorizing too quickly and forgetting in synchronicity

not feeling closer to anything

each day, another congratulations they hurt now... wincing thank‐you

he never says how boring it is how much it feels

like paper cuts between his toes how he feels bulimic,

bingeing on facts and purging them back day after day

it's always been a game of hope get in and everything will be fine

this last exam and happiness will be upon me in waves three more days, one more week, this last time....

once clerkship arrives it will be ‘real’ life with every step forward comes disappointment

a new goal to reach, another sacrifice for the promise of a future happiness that never comes

today his books weigh him down

they lay atop him in his bed

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preventing him from attending class absorbing his capacity for empathy like a sponge

until they are solid brick sitting red‐orange on his chest

mocking him with their steadfastness while he shivers thinking of the future

more paper cuts, more books,

more goals that promise and never deliver, more faces of glass breaking on contact,

more hiding within, more doctoring the world such that he can bear it

Andrew Smith is a 1st year medical student at MUN. Despite initial appearances he actually quite enjoys medical school. In his spare time he enjoys the sun, reading recreationally, and inadvertent alliteration.

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My Neurology Lesson David Metcalfe Berry Aneurysm: a congenital defect in a cerebral blood vessel at a point of vascular bifurcation. A definition; academic, it sits there on the page without emotion. There will be a multiple choice question on it when I write my final exam. I make sure I know the minutiae of it ‐ failure of medial development, an aneurysm composed of adventitia eventually develops ‐ oh, and exactly twenty percent are multiple. I'll make sure that I won't forget. I learn it, I write the exam and I move on. It was one sentence; a simple line on a slide in my notes. Four days later it becomes much more. Four days later it becomes a rude and unwelcome early awakening; a knock on my door at 6 AM and terrible news. Four days later it is my closest friend and he is gone. How can I sum him up? Though we had little in common we were as close as brothers. I could tell a lifetime's worth of stories, but none do him justice as well as this simple fact: he was my friend, and he was a good one. I miss him terribly. I'll make sure that I won't forget.

David Metcalfe is a second year medical student from St. John's. He dedicates this poem to his friend, Andrew Winsor, who passed away November 12, 2008.

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The Simple Things Ashvinder Bhogal I had always been fascinated by the stars. Even more so when someone told me I was named after them. True or not, I still believe them. The northern lights and the ring around the moon have also been held in a constant state of awe. “Isn’t the ring around the moon enchanting?” a redhead once said. I couldn’t agree more.

One night when a comet was streaking away from us towards the center of the universe, the four of us drove 15 minutes north of town to an area where summer fishing houses stood next to a sandy beach. Though at the time none of these objects were visible, for the road leading to this area was lit only by the moonlight and lights of the van.

Only in pitch blackness can one truly view the stars. I climbed out of the van cautiously, feeling the ground for solid footing, praying that I would not slide into a muddy ditch. I came around the side of the van, following the crunching of gravel that I could hear ahead of me. We could hear the sea, the ominous breaking of tide on the beach not more than a few meters away. Then we stopped, and looked up.

The sky was full of stars. Uncountable. The longer we stayed, the more stars appeared. I could not remember seeing the sky so lit up before. I slowly circled where I stood, trying to take in every angle, which was impossible. I started from the point directly above me, and slowly turning, allowed my head to level surely and steadily. I could almost convince myself that the sky was actually a gigantic bowl overturned on top of us. There was also a spectacular light emanating upwards from the horizon and disappearing into the darkness, where the ocean met infinity.

That night left an impression on me that I am sure will last forever. We finally did find the comet and its tail. I don’t know if I was more fascinated with the comet or the stars. I knew there were hundreds of thousands of stars that have shone their light on earth for eons, and that the sky is full of their light at all times. However I felt incredibly lucky to be one of those who could lie back and take in all they have to offer without a single worry clouding my thoughts. It was a rare moment in which I experienced absolute peace and happiness.

At other times I had also witnessed the awesome magnificence of the aurora borealis. We would often jump into the family van and drive those fifteen minutes out of town. We could see the flicker of green in the sky from our house and were determined to take the opportunity to

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see the entire spectacle without the interference of town lights. We would park on the side of the road and I would recklessly jump out in excitement – though I loved the stars I loved the lights more. I believe I carelessly fell on several occasions but hardly noticed the scrapes and bruises I sustained.

The green lights caressed the sky in a wavelike motion, covering what encompassed our peripheral vision. The green waves of light seemingly moved among one another, disappearing in some regions and appearing in others. The phenomenon was ghostly during one moment, fantastically beautiful during the other. We just stared in awe. The lights were mesmerizing, and I was close to convincing myself I would soon be induced into a trance‐like state. Even though the lights can be eerie and unearthly at the same time, they certainly are, at their foremost, breathtaking.

I can’t wait to see the stars and lights again.

Ashvinder is a third year medical student.

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‐ Melanie Stenback

“Just a Little Place I Like to Call Home” Melanie Stenback

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Sarajevo. WHY? Marshall Godwin Sit with me and tell me why they did this to this town! Why they staked out on the hilltops to bring the city down? Why they shot at men and women who dared to run for bread? And left so many parents crying, for their sons and daughters… dead! They used to call them neighbours. Childhood friends. For life! But they went up on the hilltops, turned around, and showed the knife. Ethnic cleansing. They’re not Christian. “Shell them ‘til they crack” But they ran into a problem, the Sarajevans fought back! Why is hatred so pervasive? Why do friends do such to friends? Why so much destruction just to meet some tyrant’s ends? Why do people think they’re better than their fellow countrymen? If you destroy your neighbour, you die in the end. Sarajevo! Sarejevo! The world watched and cried… and died A little with each shell that pierced your fragile side. We cried for the people… in the market, in their homes? They lived in fear. Four long years. Shattered minds and bones. Why did we take so long to act? No oil? Not Christian? Why? Why did we let the rape go on? Why let so many die? The massacres, the market shells, we could no longer sleep. And in the end, the world woke up, and looked, and saw, and wept. The end was swift, the hills lit up. A taste of sweet revenge? The city cheered, relief at last. But will it really end? Can peace be forged with bullets? Can trust be built by force? Or is this place forever bound by fallen Adam’s curse? June 1997

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Sarajevo. WHY? Sarajevo. Snipers in the hilltop! Like shooting fish in a barrel. You run for food. Dodge the bullets. The children are hungry… so many dead. You cry. They were your neighbours. Childhood friends. Friends for life! Death they bring now. From the hilltops, guns blazing. Shells smash your homes. You have to resist. Fight or be cleansed. Hatred. It’s everywhere! Friends no more. Rape! Destruction! Smoke and fire. Death! Souls die too… the killer’s soul. Sarajevo! Sarejevo! Why? The shells ripped your flesh; destroyed your homes. But it was humanity that died. The world watched… your people cried, Minds and bodies shattered. Four long years. Why did it take so long to end? So many had to die? The massacres! The market shells! Late the world was moved. Late, it awakened. Late, it acted. Jets roar! Hilltops ablaze! Snipers run! The end is swift. The city cheered. Relief at last! It’s over! But can peace be forged with bullets? Will trust grow in blood stained soil? Will neighbours laugh again?

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Will you Sarajevo? Can you? Break fallen Adam’s curse? March 2005

The first version of this poem was written during my first visit to Bosnia in 1997, just a year after the war ended. I was there as part of a CIDA funded medical education project. The ‘peace’ was very fragile. The stories and emotions of the long four‐year siege of Sarajevo were still very tangibly present. With time one grows numb to the stories, they lose their impact. We lose our ability to ask ‘Why?’ But in 1997 that question ripped like a knife through every visitor to Sarajevo; through every person who first heard the stories of the siege and the snipers, the tunnel and the hunger, the rapes and the ethnic cleansing. In 2005 I re‐wrote the poem; it is less concrete and more abstract or reflective. It perhaps shows a perspective that time brings and is less about Sarajevo directly and more about how the events there have happened in so many places. Or maybe the second version just reflects a different approach to writing poetry that I developed over time. I don’t know. But to the people of Sarejevo, dead and alive, I dedicate both versions of this poem, feeble attempt as it is, to keep the question alive… Why?

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Losing the Grace, Keeping the Faith Shaina Goudie

I actually like hospitals. I like hospitals the way I like libraries and churches. A good thing, I suppose, since I am on the verge of spending a good deal of my life in and out of them. I was not brought up in a church‐going household, but we certainly went to hospitals. For me hospitals and churches both house everything important about life: birth, death, fundamental change, hope, grief, people coming together, and passing through. Silent vigils take place at bedsides, and in hallways uncertainty is confronted and resolved for better or for worse. People talk to strangers in hospitals, in waiting rooms, blood work queues, cafeteria checkouts. They tell a little bit of their story, maybe relate to one another and then move on.

I experienced this a while ago in the Health Sciences Centre's cafeteria. It was almost nine; I was almost late for class and stuck in a tortoise‐paced line up. The man in front of me turned around and started talking to me. It turned out he was from out of town, in the hospital for his second round of chemo for his second cancer. It was almost Christmas, but he seemed very happy. “I've been through this once before, I'll get through it again” he said with a smile. He asked what I was doing there, so I told him I was a first year medical student. He congratulated me, said we needed more doctors, and proceeded to tell me about a family in the community he was from that had several of the children go into medicine. He was so proud of that, and his positive attitude rubbed off on me. I started that day happy to be where I was.

I realized that hospitals were particularly important to me this summer, during the precious few weeks of freedom before September. I was going to the post office to pick up a parcel (which turned out to be my anatomy textbook) and walked passed the Grace Hospital. It had been closed and half torn down for years and years, but I didn't realize that demolition had begun again. As I approached it I felt a wave of sadness watching the giant cranes tear into the crumbling building. I paused a moment and tried to figure out why I was having this reaction. I was born there; I guess my brother was as well. Maybe my mother worked there, but I had not been in there for a very long time. When I tried to picture what it was like inside I kept coming up with hazy memories mixed up with the inside of St. Clare's. I thought about how St. John's had at one time had the Grace, the old Janeway and the very old general hospital on Forest Road; now all shells of what they had once been. I felt an overwhelming loss, for the architecture, history and functioning healthcare. I am still trying to figure this all out, but I think the combination of losing the hospitals, the seemingly unending problems with the healthcare system, and the uncertainty of starting medical school all came together for me in that moment.

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I find hospitals to be reassuring places, with similarities across the board. They all kind of smell the same. They take on a life of their own, like they are self‐contained worlds that have an existence separate from the individuals within them. The Health Sciences Centre in particular makes me feel at home, something that started long before my time as a medical student. As a child I spent a lot of time around the medical school. When I walked in on my first day as a student and smelled the anatomy lab from down the hall, despite my hesitations, I felt that I knew where I was. I did not know what to expect from school, and with only one semester under my belt that feeling has not changed a great deal. Evidently, I do not yet know what being a doctor will be like. I am just starting to get my head around the whole medical student thing. But I have faith that it will all work out because at the very least I know hospitals, and I can take comfort in that.

Shaina Goudie is a first year medical student whose preferred method of communication is quill and carrier pigeon.

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A Semester with S.C. Matthew Ryan – 1st Year Medical Student Twas the night before anatomy and all through the house, Not a creature was sleeping, not even the mouse Kathie had all her kids tucked in for the night While Smitty was flirting with every girl in sight. “Logistically” speaking Jon was no fool As he munched down a snack to bulk up his stool Lacey had stopped for a midnight climb On a gym that I just could not get to rhyme. And then there was Trisha with a brand new stone And Pierre wondering off with his tel‐e‐phone (yisb’y) The byes were in the lab snorting candy crane coke With the dark guy in back cracking another racist joke When up on the roof there was a loud noise And PNH hurried to hide all their toys. “Oh No!! Not again” …came the loud cry “Relax its SC” ….and they let out a sigh. “I’d thought I’d stop by with a little surprise” And they huddled around and opened their eyes. “It’s not a banana, a bar or a book” Just cut it in half and have a look!! While we’re talking about stars I’d like to shout out To the boys that sang and laughed while they danced about. Thanks to Laura cause she’s the queen bee And thanks to David for his help with AV With pencils all sharpened and books all read! Is it possible to cram all those notes in your head? Merry Christmas to all and I can’t believe we’re done Now together…BYAAAAAAAAH… to BSM‐ONE

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Outport Memories

‐Montgomery Keough

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Once again at this table I sit As I’ve often done before And see the curtain blowing in the wind As the moonlight casts upon the shore. I remember well my days of youth When this house was full of life Many were the stories told And card games played throughout the night. I can still see my father Mending nets out in the shed There he’d toil for hours ‘til it was time for bed. My mother would be in this kitchen Working hard o’er that old wood stove Where many meals were made With the fish caught in the cove.

And each and every Sunday We’d put on our very best To say our prayers to the Lord For we knew that we were blessed. With the wiping of a tear I realize these times are gone For things in life do often change Be it right or be it wrong. I know the day will soon come When those stairs I’ll no longer climb Just like those before me For we all have a time. And when that time does come And I reach those Heavenly gates I will thank the Lord for the time I’ve had And these memories that I take.

I can’t exactly say what started the poem, just sort of had a couple of ideas filter through my head, and before I knew I had the poem pretty much written. I’ve been taking painting lessons with Ed Roche since 2003 and included the poem as part of a painting I did that last year as well.

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K. Nikhil Joshi

It started slowly like most things. An unreturned phone call here or there. A date forgotten, a promise unremembered. You’ve been busy‐ you just got into medical school. It was nothing wasn’t it? What we shared was eternal. It was forever. It was borne in shared tears and laughter, the simple joyous laughter of childhood, when we laughed over nothing, because it was everything.

But piece‐by‐piece the wall came up.

One by one the dull grey bricks were laid. I was tired of making phone calls that I knew wouldn’t be returned. My apathy was my brick. But for my brick you laid two. Because you could have skipped class that one day and we could have caught up. But you never made that one call, never gave me that one day. “I’m sorry, I can’t” you replied painfully. You’ve got time for Starbucks every lunch with the guys you go to school with. Your facebook constantly has other women writing to you. You only call me drunk on Fridays.

I’ve cast my net into your sea, time and time again and have come home empty. My hunger tells me to abandon my search. For because you once caught raiment in a single piece of land does not mean it will always give to you. Wells run dry, and mines of precious diamonds eventually empty, leaving behind only discarded waste and the pitter‐patter of rain. This life took you from me. We could have been happy‐ we would have written plays together. Poor but happy. I love you‐ why can’t that be enough?

My grief at losing something so precious isn’t enough to stop the wall. For it has gotten larger, and every tear I’ve shed makes me grow cold and grey, and so I put up an extra brick for every salt spring that has flowed from my eyes. Every rivulet that could have quenched the thirst of a dying man in the desert but did not find its way, that rolled off my face and into your double fucking chai latte with your “friends” from school, onto your goddamn anatomy books and biochemistry notes, leaves me dehydrated. What’s the treatment Dr. Prick?

Why couldn’t you have cared? Why couldn’t you have nursed my pain like I nursed yours? Why couldn’t we have continued sharing thoughts and love together? Where does love go when it’s not in us anymore? Does it find its way into the hearts of others or does it simply die, like flowers after they bloom? Does it wither and die because our wall choked off the sunlight that would

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have let it grow? Talk to me like this! Say something to me like you used to. That was real and intelligent; intellectual and challenging! You’re so tired now; your mind is lost in books of facts, ready like a bulimic to regurgitate it onto an exam page. I wanted more from you; yes I wanted us to have a life, not to simply be another subject of yours, another exercise in time management. We used to talk for hours, now you’re on a schedule, we used to drink till the sun came up, now you’re drunk on Fridays like clockwork, hungover on Saturday, and graciously give me that day for us to spend together.

I thought that in time all the rain would wash away the pain, leaving me only joyful memories. I began my walk away from the monstrosity that we created, loving it for its protection and hating it because it reminded me of our failure. How we had a love which was not extinguished in passion or hate, but was choked to death by indifference, by human tiredness, by your precious medical school, your ‘cool’ friends, your exams, but most of all, by your fucking ambition. I never wanted this for you‐ I loved you as you were, and I never wanted anything else but a life with you. I can’t stay here‐ watching you go numb is the worst thing I’ve ever seen. Falling out of love is the worst thing I’ve ever felt.

Nikhil Joshi is a first year medical student.

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Sweating the Soul Clean Anna Davies This past summer, I was lucky enough to be able to spend six weeks doing a shadowing project in Labrador. I was based in Goose Bay, but spent about half the time in the coastal Innu community of Natuashish. It was an incredible learning experience, mainly with respect to how well a dedicated team of health care professionals can manage the delivery of health services to some of the most remote areas in the country.

In Natuashish, I saw first‐hand some of the social issues that are regularly reported by the national news. Drug and alcohol abuse, suicide, unemployment – these rates were certainly higher on the coast than anywhere else I’d ever lived. However, I was most surprised by how much I saw that never made headlines: the strong bond between parents and children; the instant access to fresh air and breathtaking scenery; the very real, local efforts that attempted to address the problems in the community. This was all in stark contrast to my initial expectations of a veritable wasteland, where I would have to race home every day from the clinic and lock myself into the apartment for the night.

Upon returning to Goose Bay for a final week, I was invited to participate in a sweat ceremony in Sheshatshui, also an Innu community. The sweat lodge is an important tradition still practiced by many First Nations aboriginals, and is recognized for its powers of healing and purification.

When we arrived, the stones had already been heating in the fire pit for an hour, and were glowing red from the inside out. There were half a dozen men stripped to the waist and wearing towels, and one other woman dressed in a long skirt. They were all waiting for the leader, a Cree Indian invited from Manitoba, to prepare the ceremony. It wasn’t long before we were all summoned to enter the lodge, men entering to the left, and women to the right. The lodge itself was constructed in a dome‐like shape from spruce boughs, and reinforced with tarps and blankets to block out even the smallest ray of light. Once inside, the scent of the branches permeated the atmosphere, and it was easy to see how the original sweat lodges were designed to replicate the feeling of returning to the womb of Mother Earth.

The first round of rocks (or “grandfathers”) was deposited in the central pit, and the entrance‐way sealed off. In the complete blackness, I couldn’t see anyone else, only the intense glow of the rocks like little balls of magma. The heat started slowly, and gradually became more intense – I could feel the individual beads of sweat prickle over my face and arms. The ceremony began

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with pouring jugs of water over the rocks, creating an instant steam bath, and someone sprinkled aromatic herbs over the pit, which set off a cascade of glowing powdery crackles. The group leader welcomed everyone, and introduced some of the history of the First Nations people, much of which is shared by the Innu. He told stories from his own experiences, and invited others to share theirs. Some of the men began to sing and drum, while someone else fanned the stones.

Over the course of the next two hours, we went through 4 rounds of rocks – by the third round, it felt like the heat itself was a tangible, inhalable substance, burning toes and cooking lungs from the inside. It was like nothing I’d ever felt – being cloaked in black anonymity, just listening, feeling and smelling while the sweat streamed into my ears and mouth, stinging my eyes and completely drenching my clothes.

At one point, an Innu man from Sheshatshui underwent an initiation practice that would permit him to lead his own sweat ceremonies. He recounted his childhood, growing up with alcohol and drugs, and expressed his desire to lead his people away from these distractions. His words were touching, and inspired echoes of approval from around the circle. The ritual concluded by piercing both of his nipples with wooden stakes, which sealed his status as a new lodge leader.

Others shared personal stories from their own pasts, at times involving violence and sexual abuse. It was heartbreaking to listen, yet amazing to sense the therapeutic effect that the lodge and other group members provided. The mood inside changed often from serious reflection to light banter, almost to relieve the intensity of what could have otherwise been a draining emotional experience.

Near the end of the ceremony, after a period of meditation, the leader’s voice broke the silence with a single sentence: “Young woman, speak”. It took me a few seconds to realize he was addressing me – sitting in a protective blanket of darkness I’d happily assumed that I had been forgotten about! I could feel the panic rising ‐ what could I possibly have to say that would contribute? It was still a few more seconds before I heard my own voice disturb the quiet. “Hello”. More silence. I was about to make an idiot of myself. A mute idiot. Then, for reasons still unknown, all of the apprehension and nervousness melted away. Before I could even form thoughts about what to say, I could hear the words spilling out. I heard myself thanking the elders for inviting a stranger to join their ceremony. I heard myself sharing experiences from the past three weeks in Natuashish, about how it was so different to what I had expected. I talked about my hopes for the future of the Innu, and wished for strength of local leadership in all of

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the aboriginal communities in Labrador. Essentially, everything I needed to get off my chest over the past month came flooding out in an explosion of verbal diarrhea. Everything I wanted to tell to the parents and teenagers and beautiful children on the coast, but couldn’t... it all spilled out.

When it was over, a massive wave of relief and peace washed over me, and I felt slightly stunned. I’m not sure what the other people inside thought about the random ramblings of the med student from St. John’s, but they were nice enough to let me rant and not forcibly shut me up.

The sweat ceremony ended shortly after, with fresh blueberries being passed around the circle to share. We emerged out of the lodge, drenched and exhausted, to find that night had fallen and the stars were starting to punctuate the sky.

Almost a year later, the memories of my first “sweat” as a sensual and emotionally‐stimulating experience are still fresh. I can certainly understand the reality of the lodge’s healing powers, due to both the sensory overload and the group therapy aspect. As aboriginal groups in Labrador are reviving their old traditions to help cope with the problems of violence and addiction, I think it’s important to keep the words of Dr. Tony Paddon in mind: Today one hears some harsh criticism of Native people. It is said that they don’t work, drink excessively, and are always complaining. In short, they are rather a nuisance. In truth it must be admitted that we ourselves are rather a nuisance – to the Native.

‐ “Labrador Doctor”, 1989

Anna Davies is a 2nd year medical student. This piece was inspired after spending time in coastal Labrador communities over the summer.

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“Why?” Melanie Stenback is a first year medical student.

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staring blindly down upon the page waiting for the truth to appear

crossing and uncrossing tired eyes my mind wanders to the time of healers

forgotten arts and letters whereas we have now forgotten you the object of our endeavors objectified

and I become but an extension of these instruments a calculator with dextrous fingers

carrying out the bidding of a blood test

today we recite the rectum one section at a time as piece by piece

I build myself with its remnants

...and with these notes I do thee wed, o beloved numbness cherished apathy

grown in the garden of health and science

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What is Love? Ashvinder Bhogal

During the holiday season themes of family, friends, and togetherness bombard our senses from all forms of visual and acoustic media. At times like these, I reflect on how I feel towards those around me, and imagine the types of love I hope to experience in the future.

In my younger years I stayed close to home, not entirely due to personal choice but due to cultural norms, which I readily accepted at the time. Thus, the type of love I was accustomed to was the love of family, which to this day I hold close to my heart with both hands. Personally, I don’t think I could properly know how to love anyone outside my family without being fully, completely, and unconditionally loved as a child – which I believe I was. I’m not saying that my family is perfect because we certainly are not. We have our differences and thus loudly disagree at times, which occasionally makes us better people and occasionally does not. Some may say blind faith in one another allows us to remain close. If so, I can’t imagine a better reason to practice such a faith. At the end of the day, we could never imagine living without each other, though inevitably one day we will be forced to.

As a newly married adult I have discovered a new love – one which I hope I will keep discovering in new forms over and over again for many years to come. I have come to learn of new intimacies and joys that I have never experienced before, as well as disappointments and sorrows, all of which I do not have the capability of putting into words.

One thing that puzzles me about our society is the perception that certain physical displays of love between people who are not partners are deemed as inappropriate. It seems in most situations my husband and I are not admonished if we hold hands, cuddle, or even kiss in public. Even groping each other’s backsides or worse (in certain environments) does not seem to faze anyone. However, if I chose to hold hands with my parents or sibling, the reactions from others are filled with negativity. Our view of love and sexuality seem to be convergent to the point where we cannot differentiate one from the other. Physical contact does not equal sexual contact. To this day I attempt to hug and kiss my parents and brother, and love to cuddle with a loved one while watching late night television. I do this because I like to express love physically. I am disgusted and offended by anyone who would suggest my actions are sexual in nature.

An illustration of my view: In certain provinces in Canada, breast feeding rates are lower than others, particularly in the eastern provinces. Though certain provinces are more “breast

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feeding” friendly than others, most people and health professionals have known for years that breast feeding has many benefits in comparison to using formula. Women know this. Their partners know this. However, still to this day, many women who are capable of breast feeding choose not to. When asked why, some have good reasons such as not being able to produce enough breast milk, or it is painful for them. However, for others without such a reason, I’m fairly certain when asked if they would let their partners close to their breasts, most would say they do. Now I find this rather bizarre, as these people may find my holding hands with my mother in public. I have a difficult time understanding how a woman can expose her breasts to her partner and yet is unwilling to expose them to feed their newborn. Again, our views of sexuality and love (ie. care for our children) seem to be convergent and are hurting our own relationships and negatively affecting our understanding of each other.

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The Memory Thief Alexandra Vihvelin

black window, why are you open? the air that climbs into this room is thick, dark, cold... God, help me, amen your big black bag fills as the days pass and you come much more frequently now you are currently robbing me of this morning’s gorgeous mass your footprints are gaping holes you are so very quiet, but like quicksand, the world sinks under your light soles black window, why are you open? the air that climbs into this room is thick, dark, cold... God, help me, amen you are the turtle the rabbit cannot catch from you, I cannot run, nor hide and you, the world’s first class scientists cannot match in your relentless game of memory hide & seek there is no seeking to be had only hiding… hiding from the aged, worn and weak black window, why are you open? the air that climbs into this room is thick, dark, cold... God, help me, amen

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you take the priceless, the uninsured what with age, attains an irreplaceable value and toward your deceitful smile… all are lured I must drop this ink pen for I will be late for mass, And in a quick moment I realize You have come and gone in one fleeting moment that does not last black window, why are you open? the air that climbs into this room is thick, dark, cold... God, help me, amen

Alexandra is a second year medical student at MUN. She dedicates this poem to her grandmother, Leona Eldridge, who lived the last years of her life with Alzheimer's disease.

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Autumn & Hallowe’en June Harris Autumn is the time of year When many colours start to appear Everything looks exceedingly bold As trees turn orange, red, yellow and gold The air is crisp and cool to breathe The ground is laden with piles of leaves The sky is blue with clouds so white The moon is full and the stars are bright In the middle of autumn, spooky things appear As ghosts and witches fly through the air It’s time to go house‐to‐house on the streets So kids dress in costumes for tricks or for treats

Dr. June Harris is a Professor of Anatomy at MUN Faculty of Medicine. She has an interest in writing poetry and wrote this poem for Rebecca, a Grade 4 student, to help her with one of her school projects. Rebecca scored 100% for public speaking, presentation and content.

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Already I've forgotten... Sarah Battcock

Already I've forgotten That the patient must always come first. In my eagerness to learn, To see, and to experience, I forgot... He had to drop his pants that day, Tell us his symptoms, show us his signs, Show us his pain and his shame. And all the while, I forgot. To me, it was a great learning experience, Observing a condition I'd never before seen. To him, it was surely mortifying, On display in front of two female students. I wish I hadn't forgotten. How could I forget?

Sarah Battcock is a second year medical student.

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‐Shaina Goudie

“The Good Life”

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Clarity: A Testicular Tale Nick Sowers

Frank wasn’t doing so well. His health in fact had been deteriorating, sometimes slowly, sometimes quickly for several years. His own fault mostly; a conclusion that he’d come to after regretfully inquiring to his physician ‘what caused all this?’

‘Well it’s always hard to say’, began his physician in that quasi neutral non judgmental way that doctors have of explaining things.

‘But lifestyle choices can play a big role; alluding to Frank’s pack‐a‐day smoking habit that has been with him since he was young.

His understanding of exactly what was happening within his body was murky at best. High blood pressure, high something else, and his breathing was getting so much worse that even he, in his absolute stubbornness, couldn’t ignore it. There was a collection of white topped pill bottles on the kitchen window ledge, what they did, if anything, he didn’t know, didn’t care really. Occasionally he would sit after breakfast and stare at them, wondering what they were for, blue steel smoke drifting from between his yellowed fingers.

Muffled voices cut in and out on an intercom somewhere overhead. Frank sat staring at his shoes, hoping to avoid eye contact with anyone for fear that he would be recognized. He had always hated hospitals, full of the sick and weak and various others that he’d never particularly identified with. He picked at his fingernails, frustrated by the wait and with himself for not asking his doctor how long these ‘tests’ were going to take. He was in a rush, though he’d no particular place to be. The hard plastic chair was causing his back to ache.

Frank thought back a week, sitting in his physician’s office, hearing about tests that needed to be taken. He didn’t really care about the details –that was the doctor’s business. He just wanted an addition to the white capped armament so he might get through the night without having to stumble out of bed half a dozen times just to take a piss. He knew he had ‘cancer’ and recalled discussion about his ‘prostate’ but not much past that. He had been present but yet at the same time not. A nurse appeared, called a name, and with the slow departure of an elderly man, he was alone on the row of blue plastic chairs... ‘Dr. Smith to ICU’ the intercom crackled.

'Dad what are you doing?’ called out a familiar voice.

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Frank turned to see his son, a grown man with a family of his own now, come into focus. They had never been close. Now he couldn’t say why anymore then his son could say what had brought him to be sitting here. They spoke infrequently, visited less so. Frank didn’t know his phone number, though was sure it was on a list his wife had left near the phone sometime before she died. He wasn’t sure why his son had come, and wished quietly that he hadn’t.

‘Doctor wants to take some tests’ replied Frank, partly to his son, partly to the emptiness of the room.

‘No dad, I spoke to the doctor, he is not taking ‘tests’, he is taking ‘testes’. Do you understand what that means?’

‘...more than one I suppose’

‘Dad, he wants to remove your testicles, your nuts. Apparently it will help the cancer’.

Nick is a second year medical student.

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The women of Soroti town, Uganda, Africa Alexandra Vihvelin

women bent to the ground with straight knees, hoeing in endless cultivation sweat pours from their shaven heads small bodies are balanced on their backs material is folded into a careful triangle and then spread wide behind them like the wings of a butterfly and carefully tied below their breasts

again another piece of material same triangle and butterfly wings and tied below the breasts tiny feet jut out from either side of their abdomen bananas, charcoal, passion fruit, jerry cans, oranges balanced impossibly on their heads they walk, they walk and they walk with the grace of a ballerina from the garden to the bar hole to the market

and finally home, where co‐wives live in strange harmony sharing information on pregnancy and birth; the best practices of 9 months in front and then on the post‐birth back bicycles, bicycles, bicycles rise up over the humps in the roads and down into the potholes that cut like rivers a cushion behind the cyclist’s seat carries women through town

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fruit and vegetables piled in small pyramids oranges, tomatoes, passion fruit, potatoes, green peppers women rush to vehicles that have paused briefly on the side of the road thrusting beans, bananas; anything remotely edible is sellable they hold up 1 finger and mouth “ one thousand” through the window 1000 Ugandan shillings will buy you 1 kilogram of oranges women with 5 or 6 live chickens by the feet glance up; “chicken, ma’am?” i realize that I am witness to the absolute epitome of (re) productive labour bent perfectly with straight knees in an endless cultivation called life

Alexandra is a second year medical student at MUN. She wrote this poem about the women she was fortunate to meet in Soroti Town, during her internship in rural Uganda.

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Defining Heather Williams

Who are we? Who am I? Environment, or genotype?

Emotional lows, exciting highs.

Adjusting to a brand new space, Moving at a frantic pace.

Win the race! Win the race!

Competition has green eyes, It's here, it's hiding, in disguise. Everyone tries to reach the sky.

Try your best, gotta be tough, Are you made of the right stuff? Am I enough? Am I enough?

Pressure building, life's on hold,

Experience worth its weight in gold, Patients' stories to behold.

Who do I think I want to be? Important people asking me:

What specialty? What specialty?

How am I supposed to decide? First year comrades at my side, With our conscience as a guide.

Collective conscience, standing strong,

Each of us struggles to belong. All day long, all day long

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Time flies by, it does not wait, Work to do, patience irate

Active? Smoker? Body weight?

How to dress? What to say? All my thoughts in disarray.

Shades of grey, shades of grey.

Jaded by society, Hampered by anxiety.

Who is the real authority?

Lives will be left in my two hands, Should patients comply with my demands?

Understand. Understand.

Heather Williams is a first year medical student. This poem was written to reflect on the culture of the medical profession and how this framework interacts with a patient's culture.

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‐Amanda Parsons

“Capelin Spawning and Bellevue” Amanda is a first year medical student.

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your blood is my blood as your heart attacks us both

(providing you with my best defenses)

we die together one bed as my soul

escorts yours (they take us with them piece by piece)

there is no truth or justice

merely us two fighting or accepting death

as one (who decides when we are done?)

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A Treatise on Vegetables Nicholas Smith yuck

Nicholas Smith is a second year medical student who abhors vegetables but continues to eat them because of their healthy reputation. He patiently awaits the day when they are found to cause some terrible disease.

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The Way I See it: Lesson to Learn – Clinical Picture Quiz Also Helps Dr. Amin A. Muhammad Clinical picture quiz series has been popular among medical students. With lots of changes in medical education of late, it is still a valuable guidance. In my medical school days, I was very fond of this series and found it very useful in clinical settings and learning. One such picture quiz photo was of a man who had a port wine stain with a description of seizure disorder and mental retardation. The answer on the back pages of the book for this quiz was ‘Sturge Weber Syndrome’. We had built up a thorough discussion on this problem among our group. Sturge Weber Syndrome ‐ a neurological condition with seizures accompanying a large port, wine‐stain birth mark on the forehead and upper eye lid of one side of the face. The pathology involves loss of nerve cells and calcification of tissue in the cerebral cortex of the brain on the same side. There is accompanying muscle weakness on the same side and convulsions on the opposite side of the body. There are developmental delays, mental retardation and glaucoma leading to buphthalmos. While working in a psychiatric hospital in the Republic of Ireland, I came across a patient with these characteristics whom I spot diagnosed as suffering from Sturge Weber Syndrome. Many a times, when on emergency duty, I was called upon to review and manage the patient. He had marked similarity to the picture I saw as a medical student. Later on that year, I along with four other colleagues was sitting the MRCPsych examination. We all had to go to different hospitals in the United Kingdom for clinical examination. When we returned to our base, we sat and discussed each others’ exam experience. One of our colleagues was very upset with his experience. According to him, the case was very difficult; he had a stain on forehead and appeared mentally retarded as was evident by the history. Because of the fact that the candidate was not aware of this clinical condition, it was difficult to sail smoothly during the process of that clinical examination. I took my colleague to the department/unit where my favourite patient was admitted. At first glance my colleague screamed “My patient looked similar!” He then realized the mistake and that he had been careless by ignoring his patient in terms of diagnosis and management. Such presentations are not often see, especially in psychiatric units. Moreover, in those days, cases like Major Depression, Bipolar Disorder and Schizophrenia became part of regular clinical

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examination. Unique cases like the one encountered in this tale are rarely selected for exam purposes unless they have significant psychiatric morbidity. Having said this, it seems appropriate for the candidate to remain prepared for such situations. It is important to have a sound knowledge in psychiatry and psychiatric aspects of neurology in order to perform the best in examinations. Learning through picture quiz is a good method as its visual impact can enhance learning from a psychological point of view.

Dr. Muhammad is a Professor of Psychiatry at Memorial. He wrote the piece originally for BMJ Career Focus, but the editor left for New Zealand and hence the piece did not go through the publication process. It was written for the education of future generations of medicos.

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Death Knell Steve Quigley

The hospital sleeps.

Outside a winter storm rages. Quietly a family sits along a bedside.

We await his arrival.

You are so sick, Death shall set you free. I admire your strength,

The machine prompts your every breath.

Consciously unconscious.

A wife faints at your feet A son cries in the corner A daughter shakes in fear

A lifelong friend kisses your forehead.

I stand above you, needle in hand A trusted gatekeeper to your freedom. Emotions encased by a stethoscope

For it is my job to be strong in the final hour.

I am privileged to be here at your side. A final breath.

Tears and a simple handshake.

Will we meet again?

Maybe.

Steve is a first year medical student.

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Sophie Shaina Goudie

I wanted to write “the last time I saw Sophie,” but all I kept hearing was Joni Mitchell's “The Last Time I saw Richard” ‐ all romantics meet the same fate. Forget romantics, the price of all life is a shared fate, though maybe only humans go into the “cynical and drunk” phase. The last time I saw Sophie was a Thursday, en route to happy hour nachos. I walked into their kitchen, said “What's up Soph?” Over her head I said “She looks happy.” “She is,” I heard, “she's had some pain meds.” I put my hand to her face. She was smiling but her eyes were not gleaming. I remember younger years, she was stronger and faster than all of us. She'd run after us through fields, position herself between us and the road to keep us safe. Lately I'd find her in Churchill Square outside Dominion, perhaps unsure of who she was waiting for. I'd take her back home. The phone rang, it was my mother. “I'm not in New York.” “I figured. Shitty weather.” “Yeah.” “So, you heard about Sophie?” “Yeah, your brother told me.” “I left Angela some messages but she hasn't answered me. I don't think she wants to talk to me.” “Well all you can do is try. She'll have to get over it in her own time.” Family and comfort. That's all we can hope for, each of us in our own time. Whenever I walk the path alone between our houses I will see her coming towards me.

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Gambling Gods Nikhil Joshi

Hi! We're your interviewers. We're here to judge Apples to Oranges. Don't worry we were experts. Now we're tired and have heard it all before. But over there is a surgeon‐ we know he can pick 'em And here's a social worker‐ to make sure you've got a heart. We smile reassuringly, even though you all look the same. "Tell me about yourself", "Why medicine?" We ask you as if it's all new to us. We know you for 30 minutes, then we decide. Your fate, to love or hate, in our hands alone Forget Krishna or Christ Pray to roulette and dice The Gods of Gambling never lie Every year another try You're reading this so you beat the house But don't forget the game's not done.

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Ode to Walking Sean Doherty

I’m gonna lose my legs Nothing’s happened yet But I know something And they know it too Something different Something is about to change I walk to school, over snow and ice Across puddles and crosswalks But soon I won’t What’s that you say? No, it’s not a disease But it's scary nonetheless Okay, maybe I’m being over‐dramatic But I’m buying a car I’ve held out a year and a half Relying on the kindness of friends And on my feet Those days Arriving at school glowing Satisfied with my self‐reliance Are ending soon Sure, I’ll have good intentions Walking the odd day at first But then one day I’ll wake up And complain about parking Too far from the door at Walmart

Sean is a second year medical student.

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Dignity Leanne Martin I was diagnosed with cancer And my life’s been put on hold I’m trying full dose chemo But I don’t know how it will unfold I can’t imagine dying But I can’t just give up hope I need you, my doctors, To be there to help me cope But I just don’t feel a connection There is wall between you and me I just need you to listen When I’ve lost so much dignity My hair is gone, my mouth is dry And you’ve seen me at my worse But try to envision what it would be like If our roles were suddenly reversed

You always look right past me I’m a disease without a face Please see that I am human I’m a person, not a case I know that this is difficult I believe you are afraid Afraid that this may happen to you That one day too, you may fade Dying is very frightening But be there to soothe my fears Take the time to comfort me And show me that you care In the end that’s all I need I want someone to lean on To hold my hand, dry my tears And remember me when I’m gone

Leanne is a second year medical student and wrote the poem after watching the movie Wit in class.

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Graduation Day Dr. June Harris (To the tune of Grey Foggy Day by Eddie Coffey) It’s been four years ago Since I left from my home rule To go to the Med School Like my old folks would say As I walked cross the parkway And in through the glass doors And I gazed from ceiling tiles to floors On my very first day Chorus Med School days they were so cool when We would laugh with our family and friends And we cursed if we did poorly in An exam along the way It’s been more than a long time for me Since I started this MD degree But I finished it with certainty On Graduation Day To wake in the early morn To the sound of my own beeper goin’ And wait for the residents to scorn If we answered with a “nay” All these things I will see some more When I start post‐grad days on the floor But I won’t be a clerk anymore After Graduation Day Chorus

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And as long as my heart Doesn’t yearn for those old memories Old lovers and some faculty I’ll come home for to stay I can still hear my classmates roar Like we did so many times before I won’t be hearing that anymore After Graduation Day Chorus Yes, you have your MD degree This Graduation Day

Dr. June Harris is the Assistant Dean of Student Affairs and Director of MedCAREERS. She wrote this song especially for the Graduation Class of 2008 and sang it with Dr. Bill Eaton at their Shingles Night.

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‐Shaina Goudie

“Wisdom and Study”

“The real voyage of discovery consists not in seeking new landscapes but in having new eyes”

– Marcel Proust

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