The Art of Medicine: Our daughters, ourselves

There she sits, fully clothed, on the examination table. She’s tall and lithe with long straight hair, high cheekbones, and slender fingers. I introduce myself, smile, and offer her my hand. It’s all she can do to flash a fleeting smile back. more»

Interested readers can now access my latest Art of Medicine column — Our daughters, ourselves — recently published in the Journal of the American Academy of Physician Assistants.

Please note that all of my previously published Art of Medicine pieces can now be accessed here.

“Daisy, no!”

New puppy pounces on tossed toy,
trots it back,
paws pounding on wooden floor;
mouths, chews, searches for squeak;
dashes behind sofa—
head protrudes below skirting,
upside down!
disappears, darts out,
gnaws the wooden foot;
launches herself
onto the white pillow at my wife’s feet;
tracks the single strand of yarn
dancing to the crochet baton above;
barks;
attacks ball in basket and sprints,
paws thumping on rug;
suddenly somersaults
bumoverteakettle,
intertwined
in a woolen mesh.

2/18/2017

daisy

Valentine’s Day

The eve of Valentine’s Day he died,
Hours before the mad rush for roses began.
We learned of his death this morning—
Valentine’s Day—
When the belated e-mail arrived.

Red roses for beloveds,
Yellow for friends,
Lavender for mothers,
White for the departed.

I bought a red rose for my wife,
A burnt rose for my daughter,
A white rose for the little boy.

Years before I had inscribed him
A copy of Maggie Brown’s “Runaway Bunny”
And left it with his grandmother.
(The author, to demonstrate
Her robust surgical recovery,
Leapt out of bed,
Gave a Can-Can kick in the air,
Threw a pulmonary embolus
And promptly died in Nice.
No one expected her untimely death at forty-two;
We knew the boy was dying at nine.)

Our new puppy fetches
The old toy again and again;
Silently, we eat a hot meal
To ward off the wintry chill.
In fading sunlight
The white rose
Sheds its petals,
One by one.

2/14/2017

Wings of eagles

“I saw the eagles again today.”

I looked up from the plate of food resting before me on the dinner table. “Where?” I asked.

“They were gliding in the air overhead just this side of the mountain,” my wife said. “I was out for my morning walk when I looked up, and there they were.”

Individually, we had sighted eagles in the village over the course of the past year, but they had always been solitary birds, sometimes perched or soaring above the river. Earlier this month was the first time that my wife and I had seen two mature birds together in flight.

“Where did they go?” I asked.

“They kept circling, then eventually they disappeared over the ridge.”

Quietly, I closed my eyes and watched them: circling, soaring, clockwise and counter-clockwise, currents of air pulsing through the tips of their long wings, white heads and tails glistening against the morning clouds.

Ever since I was a boy, I had always dreamed of seeing an eagle. I had studied plenty of pictures, emblems on the national shield, photographs on postage stamps, drawings in books on birds of prey.  I had watched native American dancers whirl about to the beat of drums, their headdresses adorned with eagles’ feathers twisting and turning in the air. Later, as a sojourner of sorts, I had kept a watchful eye over the course of my travels, always on the lookout, hoping one day to catch a glimpse of a mature eagle in flight.

Decades passed before I finally got the chance to see a one; and now here they were in pairs, soaring  above the small village that we have come to call home for nearly forty years.

Hope can bring us a long way.  Sometimes we wait years to witness our childhood dreams fulfilled. Perhaps hope requires a healthy measure of time to bring us to the point where we become capable of appreciating such gifts, long-awaited but yet unseen.

The Art of Medicine: A poetic tongue in cheek

Twenty minutes before closing time, a purple car rattles into the empty parking lot outside the after-hours care center. From my perch near a side window, I observe the young couple as they gather their toddler from the back seat. more»

Interested readers can now access my latest Art of Medicine column — A poetic tongue in cheek — recently published in the Journal of the American Academy of Physician Assistants.

Please note that all of my previously published Art of Medicine pieces can now be accessed here.

In the dead of winter

In between low granite walls
Two workmen stand in snow,
Watching as the steel rod falls
To pound the earth below.

Some distance from their younger years,
I pause in my descent;
The pounding sound pricks up my ears
And echoes some lament.

Further by the frozen stream
Woodpeckers tap their tone;
In winter stillness, cold extreme,
Ice floes crack and groan.

In the distance whistling sounds
Break through this winter day;
The noontime ironhorse resounds
And bleats a hollow neigh.

Down among the bittersweet
Descending in a rush,
Bluebirds peck the russet meat
And flit among the brush.

Small warm-breasted fires burn,
Reminding me in winter’s chill —
Though every creature waits his turn —
I move among the living still.

1/10/2017

While Reading Milton in the Parlor on an Afternoon in Winter

When Winter, in her flirtatious ways,
In part to tease, part to amaze,
Showers down her powd’ry air
Upon the Lantskip, cold and bare,
I sit amidst my books and things
And ponder idly what Winter brings:
Ice and cold and snow and chill,
Titmice on the windowsill;
Steel blue skies with ravens black,
Icy dams that groan and crack;
And in the night, while half asleep,
The snowplow rumbling down our street.
The air grows cold, the house now still;
The furnace coughs —
Then burns to break the chill.

“These pleasures Melancholy give,
And I with thee will choose to live.”

1/9/2017