Reflections

What’s lost in the translation from writer to physician? My life as an undergraduate was very different — as a Creative Writing major at the University of Chicago, I read anywhere from Toni Morrison to Rachel Cuskin, pieces on miscarriage masked in metaphor and viscerally vengeful angels. 

I wrote about ginkgo trees in ancient China, friends going through heartbreak, a baggie of cashews dropped on the job. Part of the writing process was letting everything give me pause and catch my breath. 

There’s a story by James Baldwin: in conversation, when a painter told him to look down at a span of water, all he saw at first was water. The painter told him to look again, and suddenly he saw “oil on the water and the city reflected in the puddle.” 

According to Baldwin, this painter “taught [him] how to see, and how to trust what [he] saw. Painters have often taught writers how to see.” Per Baldwin, the crux of writing is not translation but rather apprehension. To skillfully capture the marvel of things, whether by word or color, one must first know to appreciate what they see. 

So I took strongly to the minutiae of the day-to-day; describing small details felt like one of those delightful secret languages from girlhood. Perseverating on the tiny wonderful elements, propping up their likeness in text — it all held a wondrous quality. Yet I went on to doubt this practice when I first stepped into the anatomy lab. 

Incoming first-year medical students were given a tour of the lab with donors, and from a cursory glance, it looked like others were managing the walkthrough competently. Meanwhile, I found myself frozen by the sight of a dissected hand peeking through an unzippered slip. Like a rotor, questions came to mind: what did that hand hold the morning its owner passed? Did it like to be warmed around a cup of coffee, or in the clasp of a loved one? What dreams had it helped accomplish, and what still lay out of grasp? 

In that moment, there was no sublimation of apprehension. Witnessing death in the flesh for the first time, I struggled to come to terms with what I was seeing, much less translate. Soon after, my perspective regarding donors matured into one of immense gratitude at the choice they made to support our medical education. Not only did this approach better center the aims of the people involved, but also it allowed me to focus on learning in service to my future patients. 

Now a fourth year medical student, I’ve witnessed death unfolding, centrally and peripherally, far more times. The mother of a son with brain cancer tearfully asked me how she was to lift him onto the hospice bed. A quiet man at the Emergency Department had liver enzymes higher than any I’d ever seen, and months later passed away before gaining admission to a rehabilitation facility. 

Upon a patient’s request to know her survival prognosis, my team and I shared that the estimation was less than a year. Each time I learned how to direct my energy absolutely toward what I could do in service of the patient. 

In retrospect, I sometimes wondered what to do with the details noted in the moment: the strength in her resignation, the pep in his walk, the particular way she lay down to try to find a moment of comfort. In tabling those elements, what happens to that reflex of looking intentionally? Can one justify seeking the city’s reflection when their gaze must first navigate the treacherous, unfamiliar street? 

We all know that the real estate of our schedule and mentation is limited. However, while learning as a medical student, I’ve also realized that the time and care we spend attending to patients, not only for their health conditions but also for their wholeness and personhood, is invaluable. Doing so can lift spirits, foster resilience, and open the door to conversations that help us provide better care. 

I’ve noticed that when I have a chance to provide heartfelt, intentional care, it often ends with my patients sharing more about their priorities and challenges, in turn allowing the team to tailor our medical plans more thoughtfully. 

There’s a quote by the artist Yoko Ono in her book “Grapefruit,” where she says “when you leave things, you leave your spirit behind too. But if you don’t leave them, you age.” 

What is to be done when leaving things ages you? I’m learning that some things, the human details that beckon recognition, don’t always need to be left behind. As this journey continues, I hope to continue seeking the rainbow sheen in the water, the bridge mirrored on the bay.