Aerial Magazine - October 2023

Verbal & Visual Arts

THE Fifth issue

O ctober 2023

AERIAL

carefully created, composed, and curated by OHSU students

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Editor’s

Statement W

hen we create, we put substance to the unique perspective embodied at the moment of creation. However, each individual piece an artist, writer, or musician creates captures only a season of their life. Our feelings change as do our perspectives, as we move from moment to moment, and season to season.

In a career with a long journey of training and apprenticeship, many of us know that our time as students is the first of many perspectives that we will develop over the course of a lifetime. In this issue of Aerial, we honor the momentary experiences of students from many degree programs to demonstrate the many-faceted and multidimensional view of the student experience.

We hope as you progress through this edition, you are as moved by the diversity of emotion, talent, and experiences conveyed by students in their chosen mediums as we have been.

Signed,

The Aerial Editorial Team

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Table of

Contents V

Autumn Winter Spring Summer

Mt. Reynolds in the Fall.............................Sam Clari My Crown..................................................Saron Tedl Dreams................................................Shannon Youn Donor #13..............................................Amanda Wad Anatomical Tooth..........................................Anna Bal Learning/Unlearning..........................Helen Harriso Sentimental..................................................Erica Leser Winter’s Miracle...........................................Jessica L Many Hands..............................................Sam Clari Gratitude............................................Allison Conno Reflections Meet..............................Krysta St. Michel Bereavement..........................................Jenna Daviso Postpartum Reflection............Kaaren Spanski-Dreffi Sea Spirit..............................................Jessica Renken Virtual Fatigue...................................Allison Conno Dream Pool..............................................Keaton Wei A Season of Light..................................Amalia Larse Reprieve................................................Amanda Wad Cordillera Blanca.......................................Alex Cha A Granddaughter’s Take................Alanna McCarthy

25. Blue Bird.................................................Sean Bowde To You, I Am...............................................Erica Leser Synesthesia..........................................Shannon Youn Reflections on the High Desert..............Layla Entriki Come Fly Away With Me.............Caitlin Diefendor Sunday Sunrise...............................Stephanie Bobbitt

33. Crimea Dreaming..............................Tetyana Horne Burning Through Motion.......................Bryce Walke St. John’s Sunset.......................................Bryce Walke Life As We Know It........................Lisa Marie Nelson VI

Sam Clarin

Mt. Reynolds in the Fall School of medicine

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My Crown

Saron Tedla

School of Medicine

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Dreams

Shannon Young

School of MEdicine

D

o they dance across the face of an unborn child?

Or flutter through the window

And splatter on the floor?

Are they braided in a nest

Stitched into a tapestry

Maybe even laced into a shoe?

Do they collect in crevices and corners

Like dust

Like trust

Like love?

Do they leap and twirl

Naked in the moonlight

Or bundle up against the bitter cold?

Do they nestle against bruised spirits

Or whisper into sleeping ears

And hold us through our loneliest of nights?

Are they etched into the walls of wombs

Of tombs

Or drift away

Like smoke

Into nothing

Into everything?

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Donor #13

Amanda Wade

School of Medicine

D

id you know, in the moments before

you left how this would be for you? For me?

Did you anticipate the lights, bright,

startling in their sterility and me,

with my hand poised just so, like they

taught me?

We shared a moment

of silence for you, and the others, masked,

eyes covered. I wondered if I could stay

erect, looking, recognizing our mutual fate,

not now for me,

but eventually.

The first time WAS the hardest.

When I closed my eyes, I saw you, still.

Now the thoughts ebb and flow, waves

crashing, impossible to ignore before

receding into that far compartment

of my mind, the one that lends me reprieve

from the thought of my own mortality.

I hold onto both.

One for my sanity.

The other for you, the person

I never knew but will never

forget.

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6

Anna Ball School of Dentistry

Anatomical Tooth

Learning/Unlearning Helen V. Harrison School of Medicine 7

H

Sentimental Erica Leser School of Medicine

ow are you?

How is school?

Well

Hard

Repeat

How are you?

How is school?

I’m well

It’s hard

Repeat

How are you?

How is school?

I’m doing well.

School is hard.

Repeat

How are you?

How is school?

I’m doing alright.

School is going… well.

Repeat

How are you?

How is school?

I’m doing fine, grandma. Better than you

School is fine, grandma. You’ve asked me five times.

In the last 15 minutes.

How are you, grandma?

Do you remember where I’m at school, grandma?

It’s okay that you don’t

I’m glad you remember to ask

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Winter 9

Winter’s Miracle Jessica Li

School of Dentistry

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Many Hands Sam Clarin School of Medicine

Calling, driving, steadying

Admitting, questioning, triaging

Poking, drawing, percussing

Palpating, auscultating, ordering

Many hands make the load light

Comforting, holding, reassuring

Covering, cleaning, adjusting

Listening, learning, diagnosing

Prescribing, repleting, monitoring

Many hands make the load light

Billing, itemizing, invoicing

Calling, negotiating, denying

appealing, rejecting, crying

Resigning, mortgaging, moving

Many hands make the load light

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Gratitude Allison Connor

School of Medicine 12

Reflections Meet

Krysta St. Michell School of Medicine

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The anger comes first.

How could she think she grasped it?

The feeling of never getting to hear him speak again.

The open circuitry of you, that you will never get to fully understand,

because he’s gone and he can’t close the circuit.

There is power running through your body, but the current will never flow.

The tough part comes last.

As you stare at a reflection that does not match,

the barbwire and C-clamps inside you that threaten to lacerate you and widen the wounds. She is an abstraction of the version you wish to be.

A medical student that is smooth and not fraying at the edges.

She prepares for the day like she did not just lose an amalgamation of heritage and piety.

As the reflection states again, “Maybe this is all you get.”

Memories of laughter, pain, and shared secrets,

Two and a half decades of a visual version of half of you.

You could point to and say proudly:

“That’s him. That’s my Dad.”

Maybe that is all you got.

jenna Davison

School of MEdicine

The pity comes next.

As you stare down at your stalwart hands,

palms up to show the callouses.

His hands.

No longer were they in existence to set beside yours - only then,

would someone understand why your distal extremities lay in contrast to the art in your tongue.

Bereavement

M

“ aybe this is all you get.”

She states it smoothly so someone like me could understand.

She breaks it down into incremental pieces,

each word a raindrop lightly coated in cyanide,

appearing to you as a bodily lifeline floating effortlessly from the clouds,

but tearing things apart as they come down.

Maybe it was enough.

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Kaaren Spanski-Dreffin School of nursing

A place for my soul to keep,

At the bottom I can barely see,

A reflection of the person I used to be,

The level fluctuates day by day,

Sometimes sunny, sometimes gray,

When I rest and take care of me,

My reflection moves closer to see,

When I am stressed, sad, or tired,

She fades back down, undesired,

One day I hope my levels stay,

Closer to the previous day,

For now, I try to fill the well,

Instead of retreating into my shell,

For soon I hope to not need,

To see the reflection to know it’s me.

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Sea Spirit

Inside there is a well so deep,

Jessica Renken School of Public Health

Postpartum Reflection

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Spring

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Virtual Fatigue

Allison Connor School of MEdicine

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n spring, the world awakens from its sleep

And nature begins to stir and leap

The bees buzz, the birds sing

A season of renewal, a time of spring

The trees are dressed in shades of green

The flowers bloom, a beautiful scene

The gentle breeze carries the scent

Of new beginnings, a fresh ascent

The sun shines bright, the sky is clear

A promise of warmth, a season of cheer

The earth is alive, with each passing day

A celebration of life, in every way

So let us embrace the beauty of spring

And all the joy and wonder it can bring

For in this season of rebirth and growth

We find inspiration, and the promise of hope.

Dream Pool

Amalia Larsen

School of MEdicine

In spring, hope springs eternal

As the world emerges from its hibernation

A reminder that after every winter's night

Comes a new dawn, a season of light

A Season of Light

I

Keaton Weil

school of medicine

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Cordillera Blanca

Alex Chau School of Medicine

Reprieve

Amanda Wade School of Medicine

W

e stood in a shadow

of dry cement, waiting

for the rain to pass.

The tree held

just enough space

for the two of us watching,

floods of leaves surfing

the steep hills.

I don’t remember whether it was an Oak

or a Maple or a Willow now,

just that it held us

for the moment, dry enough to see

the deluge around us.

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A Granddaughter’s

Take

Alanna Mccarthy School of Medicine

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Yiayia’s Pastitsio:

Lamb ragu

on homemade

tagliatelle

with whipped

ricotta and

parmigiano

M

y yiayia always made her pastitsio with lamb, no matter the audience or occasion. We used to crack up about how quintessential Greek grandmother that was. She was the definition of a strong woman to me. She was valedictorian of her high school class, but as the daughter in an immigrant family, wasn’t afforded the opportunity to go to college. She made the most of her circumstance, and after raising a family, used her culinary talent to become a private chef and published cookbook author. She was so proud to earn enough to contribute to our higher education. She died before getting to see me graduate or start college, but I felt her there. I hope she’d be proud to see her granddaughter becoming a physician, something made possible by strong women like her. I feel closer to her by learning her craft, as well as my own. And I always make my version of pastitsio with lamb.

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Blue Bird

Sean bowden

School of Medicine

To You,

I Am Erica Leser

School of Medicine

I am

a tangle of the who and what and why

of me myself and I

I am flying with my wings nailed to the ground

I am watching the future with eyes from the past

I am free when I do not know it

I am trapped when the door is open

I am the highest of highs

I am far too low

I am listening to the sound of my freedom

But it sounds like merely an echo

I ask what could have been

I see the answer as better and more

I can be a mess made by this world

A piece of passion, strength, and power

Mixed with a dash of fear, darkness, and tragedy

If this is what it means to be free

Maybe you have to look deep inside

To find the me that is me

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Summer

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Synesthesia

Shannon young

School of Medicine

H

er blood was red, her voice sapphire.

Her skin was blue, her laugh gold.

In the end, the earth reclaimed her.

Or whatever god she worshiped.

Or even the belly of a thousand birds.

And maybe someday when every trace of her is absorbed

she will wash up on a beach somewhere

a piece of ocean glass soft and sifted

Or emerge from the soil in the petals of the tulips-red, sapphire, blue, and gold.

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High Desert

Reflections on the

world and two bodies that had already left.

Cradle to grave medicine, they call it.

A suicide.

The first daughter.

Layla Entrikin

A motorcycle accident.

The second son.

School of medicine The babies, I was expecting. They were light;

M

they were joy. I listened to their hummingbird hearts and wished them the happiest of y first week as a medical student in

Madras, Oregon I saw two babies enter this

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birthdays. Nurses vigorously rubbed mewling, wet cries out of their lungs. You tell us all about

Come Fly Away With Me caitlin Diefendorf

School of medicine

you again so soon. I pressed on their chests looking to see if their ribs were still intact. A broken neck? A smashed nose? I did not wipe the blood off his legs. Or the dirt from her face.

Her cargo pants were wet with river water. She had pink nail polish on. Matted hair. A silver toe ring. He was still wearing a helmet. A ripped red polo shirt. What was her name?

What was his?

I forgot for a moment I was supposed to be practicing medicine.

“Have I traumatized you enough for one day?” the doctor asked. He smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes.

He had his cell phone clipped to his brown leather belt. The gray hairs at his temples wrapped towards the nape of his neck.

it, sweet pea. I oohed and aahed over their wisps of goopy hair, the peeping of new eyes. Their skin was pink and ripe. Tiny knit hats over cone shaped heads. I wiped blood off their mothers’ legs. Congratulations, Mommy, congratulations. How big is he? What is her name?

I forgot for a moment I was supposed to be practicing medicine.The bodies, I was unprepared for. They were cold; they were stiff.

The funeral director leaned against the industrial mental sink; arms crossed. Sorry to see

I laughed, but I didn’t mean it.

At the end of my week, after a late hospital shift, I crawled into my unfamiliar bed. I could smell juniper and sage brush through the open window. I inhaled through my nose and out through my mouth. Dry desert air burned my throat. My scrubs lay crumpled at the foot of the bed. I stared at my popcorn ceiling.

I closed my eyes against the rising sun.

I tried to remember the last time I cried, but I couldn’t. So I slept, and I slept.

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Artist Statement

“

The rosy light coming through the laundromat reminds me of waking up at the crack of dawn as a little girl and piling into the car with my mom and three siblings and laundry for our family of six. We would spend the whole morning in the laundromat playing leap frog and begging for gumball quarters while mom sipped coffee from a thermos and watched soap operas.

”

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Sunday Sunrise

Stephanie bobbitt

School of dentistry 32

Crimea Dreaming

Tetyana Horner School of Nursing

Thoughts of Balaklava, Crimea, On a Hot

Summer Day in 2013

W

e stroll on the Promenade

in Balaklavskaya Harbor

through rows of souvenir stalls.

We elbow our way along the painted

old plastered building walls

that may have witnessed too much war.

Near a black streetlight pole, I notice

Aleksandr Ivanovich Kuprin, the master

of old Russian prose,

and greet him warmly.

I ease my hand and arm around

his hot bronze elbow and ask

if we could take his picture or a selfie

but he gives me a cold shoulder

and keeps staring into the harbor,

tall and proud.

We take the picture anyway,

which instantly reveals the disharmony of looks -

Oh, snap! -

Fedora in his hand, he is in an old-fashioned suit

and I am in spaghetti straps.

Obviously, I am no lady from his books.

Oh well.

Next time, Mr. Kuprin, next time.

Next summer, next year.

I squeeze his elbow once more

We laugh and proceed to the shore

and catch a boat ride

to Golden Beach.

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As we glide along the emerald waves

of the Black Sea,

I see

the Barrel of Death

on top of a nearby mountain

and pray

it would hold there

and not roll down on us

as we pass by.

But then, secretly, I wish the mountain

would loosen its grip

and let me witness the barrel

roll down into the bottomless abyss.

I wish to see its aerial flip

and its fountain of splashes

as it disappears

in the deep waters of the Black Sea

shocking the jellyfish and small boats away,

and then it re-emerges and floats aimlessly,

like a lost buoy,

as I watch its demise from a safe distance.

Oh well. Some day.

Next time, next summer, next year.

My daughter, my sister, my friend,

and I disembark at the pier

and find a space to spread our blankets at the end of a scarce sandy patch on Golden Beach

amidst the big boulders

and deeply tanned people who still face

the Crimean sun without fear of burns.

As sailboats and yachts

We take turns

at a distance, near and far,

going into the sea to float on the waves

parade in front of us on the horizon,

as we watch more boats bringing

intermittently interrupted

more people to the already crowded

by pods of frisky dolphins

shore.

whose noses, rising from the water,

disappear again in an instant.

The waves compose their lulling tune.

Two ferries, Poseidon and Neptune,

On the Poseidon, we breeze our way

take their turns delivering

back to Balaklava. On the shore,

more sun-and-sea enthusiasts

we agree we need to come here more.

and carrying away those who’ve had

Sometime next year? Next summer?

their fair share of Vitamins ‘Black Sea’

Exhausted, happy, carefree,

and D.

we trudge through the Promenade

in Balaklavskaya Harbor.

Leisurely, we sunbathe, sea bathe.

We are imprudent to think

We watch others doing the same.

that these beautiful days will last forever.

We eat ripe fruit; we play a card game.

When Fate steals them from us in a blink,

We drink warm lemonade.

our next times, next summers, and years

We soak up this sultry summer.

become ‘NEVER’.

Burning Through Motion Bryce WAlker School of Dentistry 34

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St. John’s Sunset

Life As We Know It Lisa Marie Nelson School of Medicine

Bryce Walker School of Dentistry

S

unrises and sunsets,

Wavelets and tree breaks:

Life as we know it.

Not that long ago,

The mist settled,

Fogging the line

Between here and gone.

Weeks burned by

Drives done without knowing

Medicine taken, minutes taken

Joy mixed with grief

Holding back regret from

Swallowing months of time

And after the storm, when

The sun finally stirs,

I leave.

Borne on wings of purpose

But flown nonetheless.

Distance measured in miles not inches

More than a heartbeat away

From the comfort of you.

Will you forgive me,

Will I forgive me,

Will this distance break us,

And when

Will we get back to

Life

As we know it.

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Aerial Magazine Team

Editors-In-Chief

Keaton Weil

Communications

Lead

Secretary Sam Clarin

Leadership Team Katrina Rapp

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Sydney Weese

Design Team Keaton Weil

Sydney Weese

Rand Kaller

Helen Harrison

Social Media Yami Murillo

Selections Committee Sean Bowden

Yami Murillo

Katrina Rapp

Sam Clarin

Keaton Weil

Sydney Weese

Rand Kaller

Top Row: Sean Bowden. Middle Row (from left): Yami Murillo, Katrina Rapp, Sam Clarin, Keaton Weil. Bottom Row (from left): Sydney Weese, Rand Kaller. Not Pictured: Helen Harrison.

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