ARBOR VITAETulane School of Medicine2013-2015Arbor Vitae Tulane School of Medicine 2013-2015S.A.R.B.A. (Students Against Right Brain Atrophy) seeks to provide creative outlets in the arts for the medical student, allowing each student to develop existing talents or to discover new ones. We seek to inspire passion not only for healing, but for learning and living as well. Arbor Vitae is an attempt to capture some of the many talents we see among the students at Tulane School of Medicine. 2013-2015 EditorsWilliam Lee Vail-BeoteguiMegan TerleAlegra GriebDavid FinkSam HateldElizabeth WaringTai PhamA Few Words from SARBA A Few Words from SARBA A Doctors LifeWhen Charles Prosser entered Tulane University School of Medicine in 1940, the normal pressure associated with medical studies intensifed with the pos-sibility that the country would soon enter the confict that would become World War II. Working under an accelerated schedule, Prosser and his fellow students studied from dawn until late in the night, their medical training taking precedence above everything else in their lives.We didnt have any time to do anything but work and go to sleep, he says. Thats for the birds; its not a good way to spend your life, especially if it de-prives you of all the cultural aspects of life. Now retired after 40 years as an inter-nist in Baton Rouge, La., Prosser and his wife, Louise Peterman Prosser (N 44), decided to save future Tulane medical students from cultural deprivation. To-gether, they donated $60,000 to endow a program that would expose students to life-enriching and personality-rounding humanities. Prosser, who claims his major creative achievement was the conception of eight children, says the gift was a way to help medical students as well as their families, their patients and the community.Ive always had a strong feeling that in premed and medical school, they trained you but they didnt educate you, he says. We decided to try something that would beneft the students, who we think would be better citizens and bet-ter human beings if they had a little of the humanities in their lives during their school years. Besides his eight children and 20 grand-children, Prossers other creative interests include a passion for writing. After 32 years as a physician, he began a weekly column called A Doctors Journal for the Baton Rouge Sunday Advocate. Based primarily on the events in his prac-tice and his thoughts on medicine and health, the columns have been collected and published in two books, Second Opinions and Second Thoughts.Although rigorous, Tulanes medical school attracts and admits students with a wide variety of backgrounds and abilities. In gross anatomy lab, Juilliard-trained musicians and professional danc-ers rub elbows with students straight out of college premed programs. The fellow-ship that develops feeds into SARBAs goal of producing more well-rounded individuals.Table of ContentsJennifer YaunJonathan TuiChris MeinzenWallace WilsonSamuel HatfeldJames StoeckleDarian WilliamsCorbin PomeranzMargaret KnoedlerMarty CarneyIrene HurstAndrew JoslowCali Dale1-234-56-89-111213-1516-181920-24, 4025-272829Jennifer YaunJonathan TuiChris MeinzenWallace WilsonSamuel HatfeldJames StoeckleDarian WilliamsCorbin PomeranzMargaret KnoedlerMarty CarneyIrene HurstAndrew JoslowCali Dale1-234-56-89-111213-1516-181920-24, 4025-272829Michel GiletteDominique MonlezunWilliam Lee Vail-BeoteguiGregg KennedyCourntney Garry David FinkSora ElyHenry ZengMatt HallowellMarie-Christine WrightCronky GudehartGraham Hadley3031-323334-3536-3738-394142-444546-474848-50Chrisopher CarrMichelle HondaTrivellas AndromahiJeremy NudellCali LubrantColleen McLellenPatrick ChangChih Chen LiMadeline JansenLydia ChowAlegra Grieb51-525354-5657-5960-6162-64656667-6869-70Front and back coversJennifer Yaun.12Jonathan Tui. 3Medical Student Survival List This guide is a compilation of critical student-to-student knowledge.This guide will not tell you what the Deans offce does, where the student rec center is, or how to study for the step.For that information, consult Google.This guide is for maintaining internal resilience while not losing essential body functions.If this is a medical student emergency, please see Figure A: Decision Sheet for Freaking Out.If this is a medical emergency, consult the ACLS cards in your pocket. If this is the chronic diffculty of life, read below. Enjoy your classmates.Enjoy your friends that arent classmates.Stop freaking out.Stop trying to impress everyone.Enjoy your meals.Enjoy a meal after youve missed a meal while working.Enjoy reading by drinking anything Pumpkin Spice or having your lovers head resting on your thigh.Enjoy throwing away old assignments.Enjoy seeing Dr. Jarret in denim scrubs.Stop gunning.Enjoy what you are learning.Enjoy one day of relaxation a week.Enjoy eight hours of relaxation on hard weeks.Enjoy sleep if youre on surgery.Enjoy seeing your patients leave and live outside the hospital.Stop looking at your patients outside the hospital; it's creepy.Enjoy drinking post-call.Enjoy virgin drinks if that's your thing.Stop worrying if I'm judging you for your thing; no one is.4Chris Meinzen.Enjoy professor crushes.Enjoy hearing Karen DeSalvo speak.Stop doing your PPD and vaccinations at the last minute.Enjoy Karma Ashtons patience when you need a vaccination at the last minuteEnjoy a few moments shadowboxing in the stairwell when youre postcall.Substitute dancing, if applicable.Enjoy praying, or meditating, or that feeling when you dont know what to do with your mind and it goes up.Enjoy dark chocolate.Enjoy second lines.Enjoy a fancy kind of coffee.Stop making excuses for exercising.Stop procrastinating.Enjoy something whimsical instead of procrastinating.Enjoy something indulgent before something hard.Stop indulging when you realize youre still procrastinating.Enjoy Pandora while you do practice questions.Enjoy making it through a diffcult four years.Enjoy bitching with other med students about studying.Stop bitching when its too much.Enjoy the feeling of going through diffculty and having something to show for it.Stop being haughty.Enjoy graduating.5Wallace Wilson.678Ohne Ttle #3The sun pours down, and drowns me.But thats a world to hold toand it shines more brightlyI'll come to, follow toa new shine. Place myself inthe hands of paint. Wait for thesound and clamor of hollow bells.Where is the hope ofthe past held and when andwhere do the vapors ofunfltered cigarettes. thereare unfulflled vessels, pots ofhalf empty ash,seams pincered at half anglesand shallow featuresand just better featuressunken eyes, rattled shoes.They opaque weeping dreamsfrom full moons. I would mayberepeat those tones andhope they stick.terror to be penand from the ether, but that face doesnt stickit foatsSamuel Hatfeld.9conversations with a sweet tastecampdown elms, they would farein this summer, they wouldstumble down interstatesand pester the cannonballriders. If I could only see how empty the furnace is.Faces illuminated by bright green house lights, expressions, the hand holds itselfby the corner of an apron andbury itthe sadness in quiter nightsreveals itself in turns, nothingto bind to simpler thoughts, notense to quench time. No home,false air flls lungs,there is no more heel, no more,Some patent sunrisethat ire fnds a wayand fnds some passage in those scenes,holds its worth10SolomeI remember you as sun and calico sheets(when rays born in mornings)and the days feel strung in(warp and weft)cheeks threaded underneathlayers of powderor lips red as cabernet(a weavers stitch)that stick at the edges from lipstickparadise creek flls with melt(rapids without sound)and so goes my heart Do you remember?(kiss, folded curls,grocery lists)stripes on the icewidowed ringing,your timid voice(is hanging portraits)in the pain ofnew hair, clipped nails(without you)I'll be empty nights(hold your fears)and so goes my heart 11James Stoeckle.12Darin Williams.The Airbus A319 can hold 124 passengers at maximum capacity.Apparently 123 other people were as eager as I was to return home from Las Vegas.I was seated in the back next to a gregarious older gentleman.During our short introduction I told him that I was a second year medical student; he told me he was a retired caddy and was on the pro tour in the 1980s.Any other day this would have sparked a lengthy conversation, but I had just ended a three-day weekend in Las Vegas with my best friends from college; I needed some sleep.I politely told him I wanted to take a nap, and he understandingly smiled as I plugged my ears with my soft pink earplugsthe same earplugs I had used 4 days earlier to drown the sound of a sneezing classmate during an endocrine test.Im not sure how long I was asleep-- long enough for my contacts to dry outbefore I got a nudge on my left shoulder.I assumed he realized he forgot to tell me about the time he had a beer with Larry Mize, but the news that I got was far from an intriguing golf story.Hey, I think they just called you, he pointed up.I sat puzzled.I thought maybe I had won a contest in which I was an unaware participant.The speaker dinged, Is there a doctor on the plane? Not one back here, I thought to myself.I wondered who would get up.I wondered about the man or woman I would envy and admire, my typical thoughts when I see doctors spring into action.I wondered why no one got up.Please, is there a doctor on the plane? Please come to the front, the ominous bell sent a chill through my body.Maybe this was something I could assist with.Maybe the pilots were having a debate about the mode of inheritance of Fragile X syn-dromeI could certainly help them with that.I knew that wasnt the case, but could a second year medical student possibly do more good than harm?I was about to fnd out. Cabin PressureAn inexperienced second year medical student called into action13I was certain to let the fight attendants know that I was JUST a medical student, but I would see what I could do. I as-sumed I was going to see a patient with dyspnea and chest pain, maybe a pulmonary embolism after a long plane ride. I have seen so many of those in textbooks that this HAD to be what it was.When I got to the front of the plane I saw a young woman who had a surgical mask draped over one ear. She was awake, moaning, and vommiting into a bag.I tried to elicit a history without getting much information between heaves.She was in a great deal of discomfort, was freezing and had cyanotic fn-gers. I felt for peripheral pulses and couldnt get anything.I got a carotid pulse and she was slightly tachycardic.At this time, a nurse came up to help.Welaidtheyoungwomandown,coveredherwithblankets,andgotanoxygentanktohelpherbreathebetween heaves.We kept her on her side, even though she was dry heaving we didnt want her to aspirate.I began going through the motions.Shes breathing.Thats good.We tried to take a blood pressure.I dont know if it was the nerves, the less than sub-par stethoscope or the fact that the cabin sits around 86db, but I thought I got a systole of 110, no diastole.I began writing all the vitals down.At least this way I could monitor her progress.She began talking.She suffered from Atypical Hemolytic Uremic Syndrome, and she had a kidney transplant two years ago. She was on Prograf and Prednisone.I remembered HUS from renal.Buzz words began popping into my head, HUSE. ColiLow plateletsdid she say atypical?This focused my exam.I asked when the last time was that she had urinated, and if there was any blood or pain.Before the fight, and there was nothing unordinary, she moaned.I gently pressed on her lower abdomen, since the transplanted kidneys are placed in the pelvis directly connected to the iliacs, and she said there was no pain.I began writing down all of her medications and recorded her vitals again.Nothing had changed.The fight attendant was now relaying messages between the nurse and me, the pilot, and the ground crew.The pilot wants to know if we should land, the fight attendant eagerly looked at me as she held the phone to her chest.This was the single scariest moment of my life.Behind me 121 people, zero doctors, sat fxated on me as I knelt beside this woman on the foor of the plane.I cant make that call, I quivered, hoping that the roar of the two V2500 turbofan engines drowned out the sound of fear in my voice, but her vitals are remaining stable, her fngers are no longer blue, and she says she feels a little better. We decided to stay in the air for the fnal 30 minutes of our fight.We moved two very polite passengers out of their seats in frst class, and we sat with her for the rest of the fight.Keep-ing an eye on her vitals we held her hair back and put a hand on her shoulder as she vomited in between sips of water.I think that was the best thing we could have done for her: letting her know she wasnt alone. 14The fight ended and we rushed her off in a wheelchair while briefng the paramedics.She was taken to the hospital.I sat down for a minute to breathe.The pilot came up to me and thanked me and gave me a fight voucher for future travel.Thanked me for what?I was a human heart monitor who was quite possibly more scared than the sick woman alone on an airplane.I dont think by any stretch of the imagination that I am some kind of hero nor did I do anything to save this girls life.Medi-cally, I hadnt done much at all.I simply gave her some solace and hopefully made her trip home a little easier.Whatever I did for her, however, she did much more for me.She helped me to realize that medicine and clinical knowledge will not be able to fx everything.In this feld, there will be ailments that one cannot cure with a drug or procedure.Sometimes being a presence, a shoulder to lean on, is all the medicine you will have, and you have to make sure you administer the proper dose.[Afterward:This happened in January of 2013, and I wrote about it shortly after.Thanks to social media I was able to follow up and make sure she ended up ok.It turns out that she had sepsis, but she is doing great now.She and I have become friends and continue to keep in touch.She just messaged me recently saying that she will be in town for Mardi Gras, and her husband would like to meet me.A reminder that no matter how small, our actions do impact our patients lives.]15Corbin Pomeranz.161718Margaret Knoedler.19Thompsons CornerThepaleyellowlightontopofthefrontwindowbeganfickeringagain,accompaniedbyabuzzingfromthetwenty-year-old heater that still whispered its solemn pledge of steadfastness.It was a corner building on West and 23rd, a once vibrant area of down-town Norfolk, the archaic lamination that had made the place cheery now slowly peeling away.The frizzy green hue of the awning above the door to the bar caught the wind, like straw dancing in place.Crowds no longer bustled or sang.The once seamless charcoal stained brick was broken now.Moon craters, Thompson thought, the kind shown to children touring a science museum.Above the awning, a black wooden sign read Thompsons Corner. The letters were chipped and gold.In warmer weather, a nobody might stop in for a drink or two, but during winter, only a handful of natives found their way to a stool.From outside, the cold enhanced a refection of morose fatigue, which tended to follow its customers throughout their day.At frst, the building had held resounding promise to a young man trying to frmly plant a foundation in his life.He was twenty-seven when he bought it and still tasted its seductive allure twenty years later.Thompson often recalled the young grease ball who frst brought him over. Itsgotabonafdespeakeasyfeel,excellentlocation.Andthebrickfoundation,themaninhaledasthoughsmellinghis grandmothers pot roast for the last time, absolutely marvelous.Thompson assumed that this would be only the frst of many entre-preneurial investments, a springboard into lifes aristocratic pleasures.He used to bathe in long daydreaming moments of reaching far above mediocrity, stretching his arms wide, graciously accepting his future.The cold plateau of middle-age had taken a while to settle in. He assumed it always did.Valeries leaving fourteen years ago brought a suffocating punch of loneliness that still followed him around throughout the day.Then came the gross economic downturn of the surrounding twenty-block square.Norms Antique store down the road didnt last long.There had been a caf on every block before; now there were a total of three.The apartment buildings turned vacant and later began crumbling, wanderers and druggies huddled inside for warmth.Thompson had seen one lying out in the street once, dried red vomit in a halo around his head.The ambulance came, but they were too late.Thompson watched as the man was rolled into the back, draped by a sheet, and one of the paramedics whispered to him that sometimes people like that arent meant to be fxed. Only government buildings- the industrial waste plant, the police station- remained.No more tourists, no crowded weekends, just a lin-gering mortgage.He was trapped, steamrolled, he thought, wedged down into place by a neatly packaged box of inconveniences, all combined into a whisky on the rocks kind of salute to the end of one night and the slow start of another.Single malt. His routine and support of the place continued because of pride and Wednesdays, which were a kind of regimented stimulation. No matter how unspeakable the stories in the Wall Street Journal, the locals gathered on Wednesdays.It was their keystone, a ritualistic event.Thompson knew that his friends, customers, or whatever they were to him kept his monotonous pulse in rhythm.Don t you look like a peach tree blazing through the summer, Ray said. Ray was the industrial waste chief for the plant two miles down.With-out turning around, Thompson could tell when he walked into the bar by his scent, some odd combination of curry powder mixed with mint leaves and Barbasol.Ray said the imported cologne got him laid, but Thompson always assumed it was to hide the diluted musk of his work. Marty Carney.20You cant honestly still be wearing that shit, Ray? A one hundred percent natural solution to keep every single broad and her roommates coming back for more, my friend. His hands slowly moved from the watermelon bulge at the middle of his white linen suit to adjust the coat of slime forcing the thick black curls on his head in place.His predictable next motion was a greedy frst sip of the dry martini Thompson had poured for him, without hav-ing to ask. Thompson saw Davis slip inside, unnoticed, just before Ray sat down, waiting for the perfect moment to interrupt, Are you fucking serious, Ray? Did some Indian guy take a dump in that cologne of yours? And lets not kid ourselves you havent been laid since you helped that migrant worker at your plant keep her green card.Before Ray had a chance to say anything Davis had taken his usual seat at the end of the bar and already motioned for his frst greyhound.Listen, once you stop milking a citrus bitch drink every night, well call you up from the kids table and care about your opinions, Ray said.Davis forced a fearless grin onto his hairless face, the same kind a middle school boy might have before pouring more gasoline on a bonfre.He was the youngest of the locals and relentless.Every Wednesday he shamed the rest into getting obliterated.They hadnt planned it this way, never deciding on a particular time each week.It simply happened.First with Ray and Hugo; Davis wandered in later, about a year ago during winter.It was February now, Thompsons least favorite time.There was nothing redeeming abouttheshortest,coldestmonthoftheyear.WhentheSoutheasternVirginiaweatherhoveredabovefreezingandthedaysslapped headlong back toward night, the rain felt like buckets of ice water dropping constant from the sky, as though something up there might be laughing and crying all at once, a rain that seemed like it might never end, silencing any outdoor happiness.A constant reminder of solitude, the same rain when she left.He frst saw Valerie during a short stent in New York.There was a diner outside of his friends apartment, where he was staying. Louis said the place had the best blueberry danishes in New York, served by attractive women.The diners blue door had opened a new world in Thompsons mind.He sat in a grease-stained booth on the left side and watched for a while.He read the paper.The frst time he looked up from the newspaper, a blue-crumbed stained mouth, drooling coffee, her soft curling auburn hair foated closer and handed him a napkin.He was clumsy and she was beautiful.Thompson had to go in three more times before remembering her name, too distracted by her face.She wore a solid green nametag, Valerie.A month later, they were dating.There was the wedding in Virginia.He spent what was left of the inheritance from his parents on a ring and a bar.Everything in those frst two years was nave and breathless.They talked of children, but none came.Another year and a doctor, who said it was him.In the end, she left in search of love and fertility, a holy cru-sade Thompson often thought.He had never understood going to church every Sunday, but had gone along with it to make her happy. After fve years of marriage, she told him she couldnt love someone God didnt love.It had rained that laughing and screaming kind of way.Thirty-three years old, and a corner building fading into an antiquated dream.People tried to help.Friends wanted to fx him up, but Thompson knew, in the way dogs know when theyre dying, and hide in the corner, he thought, that he would never feel such comfort or hurt again, that his emotions were clam-closed, slap-fucking empty. Hey Cordell, that martini isnt gonna shake itself, Ray said, his left eye drooping a bit.The vodka had smoothed its way in.Davis had in front of him six napkins folded into paper cranes.Thompson looked closer and noticed the frst four had formed a line, head to tail.I call it the amazing crane centipede, Davis said.I wonder if they enjoy eating each others shit? Hey Ray, I made the last one porky so you wouldnt feel left out.Chk chk, Davis imitated a megaphone voice, Will Ray Cassiato please remove his face from that nice cranes ass?21 21Ray hoisted himself up before the announcement was fnished and began chasing Davis around the bar.But Davis had been a sprinter in college and skipped backwards without the sweating Italian sausage getting close.There would be a big Thursday morning clean up, but Thompson was used to that.He walked over to the Wurlitzer.The jukebox had been his frst purchase for the bar.Real ffties steel lining, clean black and white tags, the names of great artists, and a touch of red.He thought some Irma Thomas might pacify the beasts.When the caramel smooth voice clicked on, they fnished their last lap with Davis spinning a full circle on his stool after hop-ping over the frst two.Ray had sprung a leak, the linen now sagging with perspiration and curry favored stains.Where the fuck is Hugo? Ray asked, breathing heavily and then belching. Ruler of my heart, driver of my soul, where can you be, I wait patiently.Probably got lost in one of his patients vaginas again, Davis said.Alright boys, quit your whining. Thompson poured Jack Daniels into three shot glasses.To those we love, and the control we once lost.Never controlling our generosity and losingTo the snatch down the hatch, Davis screamed.They all ruthlessly disregarded the next three hours of their lives, focusing in-stead on their overfowing glasses.Thompson was cleaning the counter when a soft blind rustling came out of Rays mouth.He was passed out on the bar with Davis eight feet to his right, staring at the Wurlitzer, humming the theme song to Gilligans Island, mouthing inaudible lyrics, eyes closed.The door opened.It was still raining and the street lamp blurred the huddled silhouette walking through the door.She shook her black hair then quietly mashed it back into place with her palms.Thompson had slowed his mechanical cleaning and focused on her eyes.Whip-lash blue, the kind a polar bear might have in some snow draped Christmas card.The stark contrast of her faces pale elegance enhanced their gaze.She had sat down. They both stared.It wasnt until Thompson realized that she was looking at his own graying complexion that he actually spoke.Hello, was all he could say, trying not to sway the supple piece of time foating perfectly between them.Hi, she sat quietly for a second. Then said, Im thirsty.Thompson reached for a glass and stopped.He looked at her youthful lips and cheeks, fush pink, and his mind was in motion.Blood on snow, some kind of frozen fame.I havent asked someone for their I.D. in a long time.Well, lets not start today, I dont have one, okay?Okay.He exhaled the way his mother had when she was about to give into another half hour on the beach, back when things were solid and Thompson could look up at someone.Before his parents both died trying to ski someplace new and exciting.He had spent his thir-teenth birthday with an aunt and the fourteenth with foster parents.He only went to college to qualify for his 21st birthdays inheritance. When the bank signed the check, he left, thinking it would be forever.Vietnam was an up and coming place, but Paris gave him a sense of fnality and peace.The wine was cheap, endless.He could be an artist, someone who made crepes.He could sell ice on the streets to American tourists looking for something other than warm tap water.At the moment the world began to clear up, he knew he was lost. Too old to be a bohemian.Nothing was stable anymore and fve years of freedom had taken its toll.The money was never important to him, it was just there.22Thompson had often imagined himself greeted with bugles and limousines when he fnally returned to the States as an exotic wonder, a pioneer of sorts.Luckily, he woke up before every cent was gone.It was time to go home and live like a man.He was sur-prised at this thought, which sounded like his father.Thompson only saw his face in dreams, clean-shaven and above a tailored suit.The money was the only part of his father still alive.He held onto what was left, reached out to a friend who had made it big in New York. Thompson suddenly felt the girls eyes tracing the sullen creases on his forehead.Not like anyone really cares, what do you want? Thompson said.Hmm, she leaned over the bar and took stock of the bottles.Her nipples pierced through the thin gray shirt she wore.She had taken off her coat.Ill have the house special.Tompsons face quietly broke a smile.He only stopped after thinking how strange he must look squinting with his mouth open just enough to show his chalk gray teeth.The years had taken anything pearly from his ap-pearance.Hed once been something, black hair and skin brown from the sun.His muscles had cast shadows across his body, but now they all sagged into a sour milk white.She looked over at Ray drooling on the counter top, sputtering a few snoring syllables, then to Davis, who had decided to very cautiously play air guitar in the fetal position before falling asleep.Are they real?Sadly, yes.Its amazing how we all exist here only to express a third of our lives in a dream.She looked back at Thompson without blink-ing, deep-sea perfection.She held the kind of island-hopping posture that wanted to go everywhere, almost pretending she had.Im Ella.Thompson.He poured her drink and then raised his glass. To the best Long Island iced tea just south of the Maison-Dixon. To new friends.She pulled away, fnishing the glass in a few swift motions.Thats about as refreshing as kerosene.Thomp-sons mind cleared from its drunken haze and began multiplying her words.Ella punctuated every sound clearly and held onto the yew sound in new.He could not help circling around the idea, thinking more about the narrow shoulders drooping forward from the weight of her chest, two powder cream slopes symmetrically alive.Floating waves of black hair draping.Bare lips, fushed and coy.He met her steady gaze, she looked away quickly and then returned.Thompson had thought that the manipulating symphony of love had drowned ffteen years ago, along with his marriage.Sure, there had been girls, but nothing burning, nothing that kept him lying awake at night or gave him a sick throbbing feeling when it left.He wanted this to be different.So, how did you end up here?I was walking and the name looked nice.She said that her friends were all strung out somewhere and that she was tired of feel-ing numb.She had been on her own for the last few years, cut off, she said, her mother angry over her wanting to become an actress. Los Angeles was warm, but fake, empty, and shed fnally left after coughing up black shit.Smog and cigarettes, the real Hollywood. She had followed a guitar player back to the east coast, a guy who told her that his band would play better if she would just sleep with all of them.They broke up a few weeks later, when the lead singer tried to start a riot from the stage.That had been sad, but even worse when her guy had left her here on his way to Philly, to see another girl.Thompson hated the guy all of the sudden, some tongue pierced little fuck who thought he ruled the world.She said shed been living in town for three months, bagging groceries at the Food Lion ten minutes down the road. Is this place two stories? She asked.23Thompson fnished his drink, the third, he realized, since she had sat down.Now he felt his cheeks begin to swell.He started the next sentence a few times, each one with a different noun.Come on, she motioned upstairs and they stepped over Davis who now blocked the stairwell.Thompson started to clean manically, forcing a path through the clothes lining his foor.The lights turned off.He felt a frm grip on his belt leading him to the corner of his room, toward his bed.Everything was smooth.Hot breath burning fumes exchanged a sweaty pulse.The whole world spun, greedy and off-axis.They were foating around the room.Thompson focused on the warmth below his stomach and she told him it was his turn and then the light faded into a fnal collapse and he was cold and she was asleep.Thompson went downstairs to lock the front door.He guided Ray onto the foor.He turned the lights off downstairs and climbed the stairs again and slowly crept back into bed.The air smelled like a mixture of kerosene and sex.He smiled and the last thing he saw before going to sleep was her black hair, her pale, curved silhouette.Thompson could never sleep past seven; it was a disease.He knew it was Thursday because his head felt like a wheel of cheese being slowly eaten by a brigade of rabid mice.The other side of the bed was empty.There was a napkin on the table next to the bed imprinted with rose-colored lips.She had found a pen somewhere and above the lips, in cursive, Two blushing pilgrims, thanks for the drinks- E. Thompson drew the napkin to his nose; it smelled like lilacs.He walked downstairs and almost tripped over Davis.Ray came out of the bathroom with his coat draped over his right arm and Thompson was hit with the faint aroma of curry and vomit.Time to go make sure the minions are doing their jobs, Ray said as he walked to the door.Thompson tried shaking Davis awake a few times and eventually moved onto a few sharp kicks.Hey dickhead Im not a soccer ball.Davis stood up stumbled over to the bar hose, swallowing water in big gulps.Alright, Mr. Williams will be napping through frst period today.Davis was an English teacher at the only public school in the area.I will be keep-ing my tab open sir.Yeah, yeah I know.Davis opened the front door and paused for a second.Was I just having good dreams or was there a girl here last night? Davis said.I think we were both having good dreams.Davis smiled in his fearless, boyish way and left.Thompson spent the rest of the morning drinking Earl Grey and cleaning.He wondered if she would ever come back.He thought about her eyes, her black hair, her chest.His nose burned still from the kerosene.A few days passed, and then weeks.The farther away he got, the less real it seemed.The napkin was the only tangible proof that Ella existed.He wanted to travel again, but not alone.He wanted to take her with him.Two months passed and she became a symbol of everything he had lost, though he wouldnt believe it.He had gone to the Food Lion every week.It wasnt until Davis asked if he was still chasing the grocery bagging dream girl for three goddamn months that he stopped and he was alone again, waiting for Wednesday to come around.In summer, the rain came down warm and happy.Thompson had started running again and his favorite time to go was when it rained.It was cleansing, a sort of baptizing.The sad people huddled together under awnings or umbrellas. Thompson was shirtless, breathing in the salty droplets, fnally moving again.He had put the corner building up for sale and, knowing that he would get a fraction of what he originally paid, just wanted enough for his frst year of travel.He felt youthful and anxious.He didnt want to stop moving. As he came up on the corner building the sun had faded below the skyline and he noticed the light above the front window had gone out.He grabbed a ladder from inside and started removing the bulb when he heard footsteps walking up behind him suddenly stop.You know in this rain, you could shock the shit out of yourself up there.Now who would want to clean up that mess?The voice was rhythmic and elegant, like a wave of kerosene burning lilacs.24Oh, the Places Youll CycleExcerpts from A Bicycling Photo Diary By Irene Allie HurstMy cycling career started very unexpectedly. When I arrived at medical school at Tulane, with my mothers Trek 2100 alu-minum frame in tow, I had not anticipated the racing career that was brooding in my near future. I started riding casually for the Tulane Cycling team, being the teams frst year in existence, and decided I would try to race, not entirely sure of how frequently or how often I would truly compete. The team training rides involved toddling around the broken up streets of New Orleans, avoiding the crater- sized potholes and the aggressive drivers. The levee was always a welcome escape from the roadways, con-ducting many of our team training rides on the elevated safety of New Orleanss own safety net.Soon after the collegiate racing season began, I realized how fun (and rewarding) racing was. I continued to race through-out the year, competing in the local Louisiana and Mississippi Bicycle Racing Association races. My frst summer after falling in love with the sport, I signed up to complete some of the stages of the Tour de France in the Pyrenees, which border France and Spain, and are legendary for their unrelenting climbs and unsurpassable scenery. A few of my favorite pictures from that trip are featured below. There were far too many cols climbed to include all of the pictures here, but these few I included capture some of the more memorable highlights of that escapade.I continued to race after my France trip, winning the Louisiana State Individual Time Trial Championships under the ex-pert guidance and encouragement of my dear friend and coach Kenny Bellau, a local New Orleans legend. I survived in the cycling niche only because of the kind- hearted souls that I found therethe cyclists of New Orleans are some of the nicest and most supportive I have ever encountered. I continued to participate in training rides around the city, racing every so often while studying during my second year of medical school and for Step 1, unknowingly wrapping up my collegiate cycling career at Col-legiate Nationals in Ogden, Utah in 2012.From there, I joined the S3 racing team, while at the same time being elected for the USA Cycling Collegiate Female Ath-lete Representative position as a result of my performance at Nationals the prior two years. My last major Louisiana race ended up landing on the weekend of March 10th, 2013. Rouge Roubaix is known as one of the top ten most diffcult races in the world, and living in such close proximity mandated me to participate before I left the state. It was the hardest race I have ever partici-pated in. Nothing can sum up the amount of pain experienced after 104.6 miles of racing, not to mention to the 30+ miles that were raced through gravel and sand on road tires, although you will fnd I am smiling in the lone photo that resulted from that race.Despite having left New Orleans for away rotations in my 4th year of med school, the culture of cycling is very much embedded in me. I hope this photo journal conveys some of the triumphs and downfalls I have experienced with this sport over the last 3 years, and I hope even more so that it moves others to ride. You wont know how much something will change your life until you try.25Irene Hurricane Hurst.2627 Summer wild prairie training ride. Madison, Wisconsin. September 5th, 2013. USA Cycling Collegiate Nationals, Ogden, Utah. May 4th, 2012. Andrew Joslow.Deficit Monolithic viaducts divide my stream of consciousnessAnd the once quiet water turns turbulent with eddiesOf circular logic unable to reach their conclusions A steady rain begins to fall and Clouds roll inVeiling the foothills in a malleable uncertainty The vitreous water now matte as my eyes strain To glean something tangible and complete from the riverEventually fxing their gaze on the old bridge before me. 28Cali Dale.29Michel Gilette.?&?454545424242ccc! ww wwp! #? ww# ww O You... . p #whom I # #& of - ten and # . j #... J #si - lent-ly come # . j ##?&?. #J . where you are #. j # # # #that I may be. j # # with you, #.. # #. # . J! . jP As I # ## ##P?&? #. Jwalk by your side or # # # # # Jsitnear, or re - # ## # # mainin thesame room# ## ## . #with you, ##.. . JLit - tle you know the ###j j ?&?454545 . #3 # . #Jsub - tle e - lec-tric re that # ## . j #F # # for your sake is play - - -# #. # # J # ing with-in ..... #w #me. ## # ##p!# ## ## O You Whom I Often and Silently ComeWalt Whitman, from Leaves of GrassLargo e dolceLargo e dolcesempre dolcissimosempre dolcissimoMichael Gillette30Michel Gilette.Informed ConsentDotted lines legal pieces dash furtive glances,As dots of fear creep in and creases runThrough dads broken brow, clutching daughtersListless form underbright sterilelights;And sultry humming streetcar shakes feigned calm.Informed consent and costbeneft risks of loved ones made subjects;Not origins of action,Not memory-drenched eyes,but the randomizedclinical-izedcontrolled and statistic-ized.In short, her life shortens, But we want to enroll herto roll out this device,this drug,this dangerreduction plan..Can you sign on the dotted line?.Dominique Monlezun. 311492 Amino Domini, men climb aboard,as splintered sheen strikes at sea-foamed freedom,and drunken fear fashions mans heart, looking West;Informed consent is about trustthat you will travel with them.So Is Informed ascent about truncation,Spliced swells and stream-bitten granite,Gazing tired eyes spotted fag hung limplyon distant shore, but planted.And distant, doctor and patient,nevermore. 32Frank OHanna and the Worm Lady The afternoon rain fell suddenly, cutting through the dense summer heat. It was a heat that felt as though it not only came from the sun but also from some invisible heart in the city itself. The fever-ous streets, once showered in sheets of rain, felt slick under Frank OHannas shoes, and as the steam rose from the cobbled stones, it heralded the beginning of the waters muggy resurrection back to the sky above. He made his way to the university, thankful that he probably would not need to use his umbrella, listening for the church bells, breathing in the stale, wet air. Once across Lamentations Boulevard, he saw an old, gray woman about his age bending over and picking up small black bits from the sidewalk. As he approached, he could see that she was, in fact, picking up worms. Over and over, she would pick one up and throw it into the lawn. Excuse me, maam, Frank OHanna said. I do not mean to pry, but please tell me what you are doing? Her face was very round and pleasant, and she answered as though to a good friend. Well Every time it rains, these worms wiggle out onto the sidewalk, and most people do not notice and just step on them. So, I try to throw them back into the grass so they wont get squished! Frank looked at the sidewalk behind him and noticed for the frst time that it was strewn with small, long black corpses. His mind began to race sorrowfully, asking himself how many worms he had stepped on go-ing to the movies each day. Touching the old woman on the tip of her shoulder, Mr. OHanna asked, May I help you you know, with the worms? The round moon face laughing said Of course! And the two spent the rest of the afternoon bent over the sidewalk tossing little black worms back into the lawn. Later that night, his aged eyes still open and yet dreaming of the worm lady, Frank wonderedhow long ago it was that she had begun making her rainy day pilgrimages to clear the sidewalks. He wondered if she too was tired of cruelty and tired of being reminded of death. A buzz from somewhere in the darkness welled up and, rising and falling in pitch, circled above and descended. The sound ended in a quick hum of crescendo, and Frank looking at his side saw the slen-der form of a mosquito atop his arm, her proboscis buried deep into his bicep. Her delicate legs, as though they had grown like vines from his skin, stood steady and unyielding. He prepared to swat, and yet refrained upon seeing the glowing red orb of her abdomen swelling and growing and burning brighter and brighter. His eyes were fxated. Frank could not look away, and he could not bring himself to destroy the vessel of his blood, even if that blood had been stolen. The room was very silent, and though conscious of this strange absti-nence, Frank still only stared at the redness of the abdomen. Through, the mosquito retracted her proboscis and few away, bearing heavily her gifts and disappearing into the shiftless shadows of the hallway.William Lee Vail - Beotegui. 33Closing his eyes, he reaches out his hand, and feels. He feels the texture, the rise and fall of the terrain, lines criss-crossing at various angles and various thickness. It is like bark, he thinks, of a small tree. The surface has no discernible pattern. It is not smooth yet the undulations are certainly not bumps; they aremore like ridges. He wonders at its softness, its warmth, and he passes his fngers over it until his palm comes into contact as well, his whole hand now feeling, touching. He rests it there for a moment and reaches out with his mind, his eyes closed, trying to take in all the sensations present in the contact. It is not what he expected. The sharp distinction between the normal smooth surface and the scarred surface was evident even with the eyes closed and made him realize that it is nearly impossible to pretend like it is not there. He opens his eyes. The color is different too. Blanched in places, rosy in others, an odd brown color in still other corners. A weird mosaic of pieces accentuated even more by the changes in terrain. He moves his hand to take in the whole area, pressing a little more frmly at different points while passing lightly over others. This does not change the appearance or coloring, though, as would be expected. It gives him a better appreciation of the changes in thickness. No smell, taste, or sound to take in. But the sight and the feeling... Suddenly he raises his head, distracted by a noise from the back of the house, from the small enclosed space in the court-yard: the therapy room. It was a single high-pitched scream, followed by more. There is a sound, he thinks to himself. The sound of stretching, breaking scars, returning fexibility. The burned leg hops off his lap and runs up the stairs, freeing him to follow the sound. The beauty of the sight and touch had captured him and now the sound was pulling him into a deeper experience. But I dont need any tasting or smelling, he says to himself, able to keep a sense of humor about him even as his mind drifts to horrify-ing thoughts of fre and boiling water and pain.Reflexion on time with children suffering from chronic disease in Peru34Gregg Kennedy.Heslidesopentheheavyglassdoorandenters the physical therapy room. The 8x8ft whirlpool is empty onhisleft,theparallelbarswhichhelppeoplelearnto walkisvacantbehindit.Thewholebuilding,asingle room about 20x40ft, only two contains two people at the moment: the physical therapist and the child. He walks up the small incline towards the massage table against the far wall and peaks around the corner. The alcove to the righthasmulti-coloredgymnasticmatsthatcompletely coverthefoor.Itisonthesethathefnallyfndsthe source of the sound. A small girl is face down on the mat, burnscoveringherentireback,rightarm,uptheneck, and probably the right side of her face too, though that is buried in the multi-colored foor, only partially muting her screams.Thephysicaltherapistisonhisknees,fnding leveragetostretchthescartissueashardahecan, attempting to restore functionality to a body that wants tobuildanetworkofropesthatcollapseseverythingin on itself into one, giant, matted, ball. Slowlyheretreatsbackbehindthecornerand puts his back fat against the wall behind him. He closes hiseyes,againimaginingthefeeloftheburnscars, picturinginhisheadagainthepigmentedandnon-pigmented areas with sharp delineation between normal andabnormal,continuingtohearagainandagainthe little girl's exhausted pleas for mami intensify when the PT resumes his work. He stands there silent another minute then turns and walks down the ramp, out the heavy glass sliding door, and back to his own volunteer obligations.35Courntney Garry.3637David Fink.38Angel Child Look at angel child, rebellin again,Skippin class to hang out with his bleary eyed friends,Tokin up, takin hits, gettin bitches all day,And when he runs outta dough, gotta make another play,black market dealin, yeah its the darkest kindAttracting the worlds sleaziest and swankiest swine,Sell a gram, sell an ounce, providing assistance,To the rich white boys, and the wannabe hoodlums.The worlds an oyster, just pop open that pearl,But like all things good and bad, end will come to this whirl-ing dervish of a life, leads to an addiction to crime,Where poppin bullets is the new way to make a dime,so those bitches andthat money will stay on his shelf,propped up against posters of Sam or Rondellor all the homies lost to the long arm of the lawand rival gangs fghting over this single acre plot.Its territorial, the primordial urge,To take whats not yours, all the while you purgeThe world of the other, yeah man, they different than us,So lynch em, string em up, keep up the fght for the causethe terrorists, politicians, its the whole damn world,Nerve gas, killing innocents, just takes time to unfurl,And look at angel child, TNT strapped to his chest,Its time soldier, now go upstairs and get dressed.David Fink.Time to kill babies, children, women and men,So we can start this vicious cycle all over again,Murder maim and steal, its the true human wayAs long as at the end, the fnancier gets paidSo thats the underworld, the crux of society,The indecent river of drugs, sex crimes, impropriety,The loss of morals, the infection of hate,The instillation of a belief in a subpar fate.Youth, where it starts, so its time to defend,Our children from becoming someone elses means to an end,In a territorial, religious, ideological dispute,Because in the end, their actions become the rootof a never ending circle of pain, suffering and death,So whether its bombs, nerve gas or crystallized meth,Reject those that are looking only out for themselves,And search insidelearn to think for yourself..The meaning of life can be discovered through love,So when the time comes, choose not the hawk but the dove,And stride into the light, soak in the warmth of the sun,And see our revolution of peace has only just begun.39Marty Carney.As Quickly the FruitSo fuid once was dripping thoughts to pageLike tumbling sweetness, honeydew dropsAs quickly the fruit, which ripens with ageThe mind released, all writing stopsA gaze at the ceiling forms seconds then hoursOnly a soft rumble competingSoon light fashes, crash, no longer a showerGutted, the clouds wont stop bleedingThe ice cream fogged windows as warm breath exhalesA clock sings again, one, two, threeSearching the twilight and shadows detailsThe kettle whines, begging for teaA blink skips through time towards peaking warm lightThe dream conscious state, out of bedNow pink embered sky, kissing sleep to the nightSo simplifed, wispy thoughts spreadQuick soft golden hands touch life to the treeAn orchestral movement, words form every key40Sora Ely. 41Memories BecomeHenry Zeng.Memories becomeDistant raindropsAs the tempestContinuesDripsSplashesRuns-offMy memories thoughFleeting they areMeasured not by timeBut by moments,Encounters,FriendsRain dripsSplashesRuns-offFlowsFloodsInto my heart42Memories BecomeHenry Zeng.To cleanse, refresh, quenchWith purposeBeliefUnderstandingEmpathyWater, water everywhereAnd not a drop to drinkNot drink, but quenchA thirstThat which I had not knownTo touch a distant soulTo let the water fow throughYour blood, veins, heart, tearsTo know we all endureThe common tempestBut for a feeting momentClouds partAnd rains cease to drenchBut quench insteadNever forgetMemoriesAre measuredFleetingly byThe briefest moments,SynapsesWhich contain the tempestThat quenches our thirstFor purpose, belief, faith43For nowOnly the rainDropsDripsEchoesSplashesFadesVisceralPreciousNever forgetMemories becomeDistant raindropsAs the tempestContinuesDripsSplashesRuns-off44Matt Hallowell.45On NostalgiaMy wheels to the ground, the pavement damp,I take to the street.Through a crack in the sky,Incandescence perpetuatesto the place of its fate.Descending, I fee, the smell dank,Momentum carries.Through the trees of Fall,Void of colorto the place of my fate.Hollyhocks at age seven,Brilliantly yellow.Through the green leaves,Bumblebees fyto the place of their fate.The wheels spin, year after year,Interminable search.Through the instant of time,Yellow lostto fee toward their fate.The descent returns to my hollowing core,Brilliantly black.Through the deception of void,Yellow founduniting time, uniting space. Ramblings on Justice The fres of injustice. Burning brightly, melting away the invisible nothingness. Toburnwithoutfuel.Infniteandunknown.Whatarethesecoalsthatlingerinthe shadows? Possibly a product of leaving our feral days behind. Possibly a residual of those same origins. Some of us choose to ignore them. Some of us build our lives against them, in the hope that after all these years, all these incidents, we will over-come. Overcome one, overcome a few, overcome them all. These same injustices as inspiration. A guiding light to the existential paradise. What is justice or injustice with-out a wrongdoer? Without someone who upsets the balancewithout something to correct?Nature.Initselforasamechanism.Isthereamasterengineerwhofailed torecognizetheimperfections?Orsetthisintomotionintentionally,aprolonged introspective journey down an interminable winding road. Inspiration and frustration. Bringing together and pulling apart. As the forever cycling, expanding & contracting universe. Where the inadequacies of our rationality and our perception fail to grasp. Now, do we take this for what it is? Accept and ignore. Escape. Do we fght within our power? Only to evolve some new injustice, reach some new problem where the risks may be greater. For the fallen child, for the fallen parent, for the newborn or dying elderly, we search for reason. And we come across paradox. We fnd rationality inad-equate. Yet, at the base there is. We fnd it in the summer breeze, the brown locust, the black and blue butterfy. We fnd it in human interaction, in a prolonged hug or a mutual smile. And when we cant fght nature, when the problem isnt solved, it is still there.Whenrationalityfailsandtheneedsofinjusticestingseeminglyirreversible this time, it can still be found. 46Marie-Christine Wright.47It never occurred to me that I would literally be barred from certain places because of my gender when I dreamed of becoming a neurosurgeon. However, this ugly truth became a reality for me last week when, naturally, I continued to follow my Attending (along with the resident and other two students, all male), until I realized we were heading into the male locker room. I sat obe-diently in the doctors lounge, which is adjacent to the male locker room, and waited. The next day, I wanted to use the female locker room, and found the amenities way down the hall from the doctors lounge, situated off of the nurses lounge, much further from the OR.There are more mens bathrooms in the medical school than there are womens, which is an issue I also encountered in law school. You always had to miss more class for a bathroom break if you were a woman. I never thought I would be one of those women who has to ruin everything for everyone, but now I get it. Its uncomfortable to have to acknowledge this inherent sexism, and the literal solutions seem almost frivolous and burdensome. Why restructure everything just so women can have equal access to locker rooms with men? I certainly dont want to be part of a Greys Anatomy-style unisex locker room. At the same time, we expect our patients to understand that we are indifferent to their naked bodies, regardless of gender. Maybe we can attain the level of maturity we expect of our patients. Thats a big maybe. But at least we can start thinking about changing the status quo. We owe ourselves that much. Graham Hadley. 484950When I frst encountered the pit of an avocadoI thought it was beautiful Like the cherished toy of some boy-king from long agoPolished and cared for by a thousand servants.I washed it thoroughly and placed it on the balcony Where I dry my clothesAnd now I watch it fall apart and turn to dustAs the city watches me. When I First Encountered the Pit of an AvocadoChristopher Carr. 5152Michelle Honda53Trivellas Andromahi5456Jeremy Nudell57525960Cali Lubrant61Colleen McClellen62Colleen McClellen63To An Insect To be performed by a man or a woman in pajamas or sleepwear, addressing a sparse kitchen table containing not much more than an overturned glass and an upright mug of steaming coffee, rapidly cool-ing. Beats are indicated. Line breaks are pauses.MONOLOGIST - Man, I am really sorry. Its been a hard week. (beat) I mean, I was trying to put you outside. (reachesformugandchangesmind;addressesglass)Iwantyoutoknow-Iwouldhavewantedyouto know - that it would never even occur to me to do that. You know. Cut your head off. With a drinking glass. (beat) Its from France.(muttered:) Is that a guillotine joke?Would that make you feel better? No. Probably not. Honestly, I thought it would make me feel better. You know, to bring you outside. Mercy for the little guy, or something.(starts to pick up still-hot coffee; sets it back down) Did you have a family? See, man, this is what Im saying. I shouldnt be asking after your family. I mean, I should - of course I should. Theyre worried sick about where you are because I murdered you with a French drinking glass. I should be apologizing. Im sorry. Im really sorry. I feel worse than I should for things that arent a big deal. (beat) Oh, god! Sorry. Its a big deal that youre dead. I mean, to you. And your family, probably. But dont you get tired of the jokes? The New Orleans Oldest Resident stuff? I mean, its my house. (Monologist is startled. Sees another cockroach. Quickly picks up the inverted glass and not quite slams it back down.)Gah!(Thinks. Picks up mug and sips coffee now cold and promptly spits it out.) Scene64Patrick ChangsStudy Breaks65Chih Cheng LiPassion66PassionMadeline Jansen67Three VignettesI. Steadfast Tin SoldierHe was of tin and steadfast loyalty; she was of paper and ephemeral beauty. No one could touch them. Passion had consumed them; fre had swallowed them whole. But nothing burns forever. In the aftermath, she was gone without a tracesave the jewel she once proudly wore, strewn amidst the ashes. He, on the other hand, had been so malleable, so easily deformed by love that when the last embers were fnally cooled, all that could be sifted from the dust was a cold metal heart.II. the Little Mermaidhe once said he liked girlswith big eyes and dark curlsso she cut her eyelids and foundthe hair chemist downtownhe once said he liked chickswith bodies thin as sticksso she whittled down to the bonethrough the skin till it shonenow he says he likes a girl --une belle au naturelso she cut the rest of her skinto display the emptiness withinIII. CinderellaHe was feeling pretty shitty that day. At least until he looked up.There you were, your radiance eclipsing the gloom of the rainy day. The streets no longer looked so flthy and infested. It was as if some fairy godmother had waved her wand and all the rats transformed into royal coachmen. Your white T-shirt was completely soaked by the rain and clung to the small of your back. Your gleaming blonde ponytail swished behind you in ambiguous gestures (he tried to decipher some sort of hidden language in those movements) as you pedaled on your bike through the rain.He managed to catch up to you at the crosswalk of the intersection. He was feeling pretty good. Until you looked up.And he saw that you were a man.Must have been the ponytail. Lydia Chow69Life After LifeWhenyouarethechildofimmigrantswhosefamiliesstillliveintheirhomeland, theres a distance you cant cross even when youre physically by their side. Theyve seen all your other cousins grow up before their eyes, but they can count the number of times youve fown to visit on one hand. You, with your muscled frame and tanned skin, so unlike your Taiwanese cousins with their slender limbs and snow-white skin, can only communicate with them in simple sentences and blank stares.WhenGrandmawasincriticalcondition,hereyeswereopenthewholetime.It seemedthatshestillcouldsensewhatwashappeningintheroom.But,withthe oxygenmasktightonherfaceandthemachinepumpinghardconstantly,itreally looked painful.Four days later, your fathers siblings had to decide whether to send her to ICU or not. That was on Sunday.Three days later, Grandma was moved to the hospice room.Her lung infection got worse. She was slipping away. But, somehow her eyelids were still open, even though her eyesight was no longer focusing on anything.Everyone had gradually accepted the reality, except Grandpa. He sat by her bedside and still kept telling her, Be brave, hold on...Finally around 5:30 pm, your uncles and aunt all had arrived in the hospital room and surrounded the bed.Your fathers two older cousins consulted with Grandpa outside the room for quite a while. Grandpa came in, sat by the bedside, and he started say-ing the same phrase : (Be brave, be strong.)One of the cousins touched his back to remind him...Suddenly, Grandpa said: I really dont want to let you go, but now I have to. Lets get together again in our next life. After he was saying these words, Grandma closed her eyes and the heart beat stopped.70 Tulane University School of Medicine, New OrleansSpecial Thanks toDean KahnFunding for This Project Provided by The Peterman-Prosser ProfessorshipFront and back covers painted by Alegra Grieb: Class of 2016Medical school can be a dehumanizing process, says Vo. I think being in touch with the more emotional, more artful side of yourself can be benecial in the way you act with people.