Songs of the Stethoscope

Songs of the Stethoscope is my poetry and prose—a reflection of the experiences, people, and moments that moved me so deeply. It’s an intimate portrayal of diagnoses, treatments, vulnerable moments, stories, and unspoken truths - both mine and those lives I’ve had the privilege of impacting. It’s about what I’ve learned in medicine and in life - the stories hidden between heartbeats, and the lessons whispered in the quiet spaces of care. If you listen closely, people and life are always telling you something—something deeper than what a stethoscope alone can hear.

With my yellow gown and blue shoe cover, around his body I began to hover. Everyone was diligently working as a team. But outside, I could hear his mom scream. His brain was leaking from his nose, I noticed as I stood by his toes. They felt cold as ice. I wondered what was this young man's vice? The nurses and doctors were all running around. While he lay on the table not making a sound. The police were trying to piece together his story, it was chaotic like an episode of maurry. His eyes the size of oranges, bulging out of his face. I was distracted but determined not to lose pace. All I heard was he's 24, but I wanted to know more. Because in my bare hands I held his heart. Desperately praying I could squeeze it to start. But they confirmed he was DOA, called it and told me to step away. The air in the room was now so grim. I heard his mom begging to see him. 

There is this nagging little wood pecker by my widow. For months he's been singing the same sly song while he perseveringly pecks along. He pecked and he pecked until one fine day I woke up in this dark paradise. This is no fantasy of mine. Yet, here I am in this forest, entangled. The wood pecker is telling me to stay. It's anything but pleasant I must say. I can't see the sunshine from where I stand. Deep within this thicket I'm losing my sight, but I can hear the wood pecker sing with might. I've found a strange sense of comfort in the nagging wood pecker's song. He's telling me to stay, in his slick scheming way. But I will not. I'm determined to find my way out. There is this nagging little wood pecker by my window. He's pecked and he's pecked and he's sung his song. Tomorrow he will be gone.

My favourite patient was in room 370. He was a handsome young man with HIV.

only 26 years young, with so much left to see. I was drawn to his soul, so wild and

free. His smile was sweet and his personality fun. But i wondered if he ever felt like he wanted to run. We bonded as scorpios, both our birthdays in November. But I wondered if he’d make it to the end of December. And, even though we’re the same age, I stood over him preaching like a sage. All the while wondering, how much is he suffering?

My heart felt heavy sitting in that chair. As if it was my story, the one of despair. A single tear rolled down her cheek as she brushed away her burgundy hair. My throat felt scratchy sitting in that chair. Quietly listening to her explain “It’s not fair.” So young and innocent, only eleven. So why was she rushing to get to heaven?

Reading through my old diary, reminiscing at the plethora of emotions that spilled out onto these pages in fury. I shake my head, criticizing the emotional turmoil that is my mind. The constant back and forth. What I crave is an intangible feeling and if you have to ask what it is, you can't give it to me. There are no words to describe it, yet thousands have written of its glory. It's ineffable but feels so good. It's real, it's raw, it's rare. Non judgemental and unconditional. The passion is overwhelming and all consuming. I'm suffocating but it's a breath of fresh air. I love it so much it hurts. I crave it so desperately, I'm always searching. Like a fiend. Thirsty for just a sip. A drop of the sweetness to satisfy my addiction. Blindly chasing after it never realizing what it's taken from me. Mesmerized by an idea for so long I can't even remember what I'm looking for. I think I found it once. But in that excitement and desperation to preserve it, I lost it and myself. I stand here gazing at my bloody hand from the glass I held onto ever so tightly. It shattered. And I'm left to pick up the pieces. The broken glass in one hand, my diary in the other. I shake my head, criticizing the emotional turmoil that is my mind. The constant back and forth. But what about the growth? I keep reading, frantically flipping through the pages with my bloody hands. It's different this time. I read between the lines and smile. It's right here. In my hand. The thing I crave so desperately. The scars from the shattered glass remind me. That ineffable, all consuming passionate intangible feeling. Don't ask me what it is. Because you can't give me something that I already have.