stealing joy

Wow, it's been a while since I've posted anything here. The longest yet. I've been thinking a lot about writing lately - writing or reading poetry and short stories, writing as a means of understanding medicine and human interactions. I want to delve into the newly-discovered world of narrative medicine. I should have some time to do so in the coming months, so we will see how far that goes.

In the meantime summer ended. The farmer's market made it's transition from strawberries and asparagus, to every green thing imaginable and berries, to squash and apples, and now it's gone. A chilly August was followed by a warm September and October (relatively speaking), but November  was ushered in with a freeze and I harvested all our potted herbs. The rosebush remains, two buds debating whether or not to bloom. My cooking followed the market trend. Transitioning from salads and things like these noodles to roasted squash, bean stews and all kinds of things with miso. The leaves turned and have almost all fallen, sweaters have migrated to the front of the closet, and I've initiated a daily ten minutes of sitting beside my SAD lamp. Autumn is verging on winter and I am determined to enjoy it by relishing in coziness as much as possible. I'm talking double socks, fun hats and scarves, casseroles and cookies, bubble baths, steam room at the gym, hot tea, poems like "November Night" by Adelaide Crapsey:

Listen. . 
With faint dry sound,
Like steps of passing ghosts,
The leaves, frost-crisp'd, break from the trees
And fall.

We already had our first snowfall, just a few days ago, it collected and stayed on the ground the whole next day, despite the brightly shining sun, deceptively not warming things up.

Actually, the first snowfall I saw was in October, but most people were asleep and it barely touched the ground before melting. I saw this beautiful snow - barely a fall at all, really a light drifting down, like a feather or crepe paper confetti - because I was up in the middle of the night on the labor and delivery floor of a community hospital, helping/learning how to deliver babies. Delivering a baby is one of the most magical experience I've ever had, and I struggle to describe it adequately. One doctor said it was like "stealing joy". There is something accurate about this, as it indicates that the doctor is still somewhat removed from this new family being formed. An integral part of the experience but ready to transform into bystander as soon as the whole visceral process is over. If you think of joy as something that is not diminished by being shared, but rather increases, then it sounds even more fitting.

But it's more than just the joy of new life (what a presumptive thing to say, just). It's the entirety of this most ancient ritual, born of complete necessity, drenched in blood and vernix (lit. 'fragrant resin'). The hours of the mother contracting, dilating, effacing, breathing. Teaching your gloved fingers to feel blindly for cervix and station, like digging through a bag  of cotton balls trying to find the one that is slightly softer. The absolute miracle of a newborn maneuvering through the cardinal movements of birth, filling his water-clogged lungs with air, remodeling his entire vascular system. A fish becoming a bird. When things go perfectly smoothly, it's seems the baby would have slithered out whether your hands were there guiding him or not (which does occasionally happen even in a hospital!).

That night, minutes after the baby was born, the nurse looked out the window and remarked, we had a little snow angel on our hands. I've delivered four babies so far. And yes, I am most definitely keeping count.

a poem

It's not something that comes up in everyday conversation, but I really love poetry. I love how reading so few words can have such power, thanks to careful choices and strategic arrangement. I also write poems from time to time, but rarely share them with anybody other than Ian. However, I submitted a few to the William Carlos Williams (an amazing physician poet) poetry competition, and received honorable mention for one. I'm thrilled! And it gave me the extra bit of confidence I needed to share it online. I hope you like it.

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Fluid Crystals

“Why do we have membranes?”

asks my professor

who is a bit too cool for us

with his unnamable accent –

“Because life is compartmentalized.”

But I don’t want my life to be compartmentalized.

I want it to be fluid,

like the bilayer lipid membrane itself,

so that every component can translocate

and interact with the others.

So that holding the hand of my cadaver

triggers poetry,

rather than disgust

or detachment.

Because art and anatomy collide on the street,

each four-chambered heart pumping,

each brain full of memories

and twelve cranial nerves.

The winter trees are skeletons,

but they will reflesh themselves.

happy earth day

spring is like a perhaps hand
by e.e. cummings

        III

Spring is like a perhaps hand 
(which comes carefully 
out of Nowhere)arranging 
a window,into which people look(while 
people stare
arranging and changing placing 
carefully there a strange 
thing and a known thing here)and

changing everything carefully

spring is like a perhaps 
Hand in a window 
(carefully to 
and fro moving New and 
Old things,while 
people stare carefully 
moving a perhaps 
fraction of flower here placing 
an inch of air there)and

without breaking anything.

transfigured autumn

The year has reached its mighty ending

With golden wine and fruit of gardens.

Forests around keep wondrous peace

And are companions to the lonely.

Then says the farmer: it is good.

You evening bells prolonged and quiet

Still at the last give us good heart.

A flock of birds hails on its journey.

It is the season of mild love. 

Down the blue river in a boat

How image follows lovely image -

Then all goes down in rest and silence.

-Georg Trakl