Letter from the Faculty Advisor

We ask, “What does writing have to do with medicine?”

Mrs. A sits across from me in the exam room, a smile on her lips but missing from the rest of her face. “I have stomach pain,” she says through the interpreter. “I feel like I can’t swallow, and my ears are always plugged. I’m tired all the time. My heart races.” We’ve had this conversation before. Mrs. A is perfectly healthy. Several panels of labs and images have revealed no abnormalities, yet here she is, not even weeks after the last appointment wherein I assured her that she is well. If you looked at her medical chart, you might understand Mrs. A to be a somaticizer. A hypochondriac. A pan-positive-review-of-systems-pain-inthe---

But if you asked me who Mrs. A is, I would tell you something else. Mrs. A came to the United States 5 years ago with her family. She has a strong faith and supportive community. She hates the Michigan winter (who doesn’t?) She loves music and reading with her two young children. Her husband, also my patient, died from metastatic cancer two months ago. This is her story. Her clinic notes do a quite poor job of telling it.

So much of medicine is about stories. The stories our patients share with us remind us that they are people with rich lives outside the walls of the hospital, not just collections of symptoms and disease states. We carry their narratives with us to remind us why we do what we do, and to bring the light back when we feel burnt out. Writing, therefore, is not a diversion from but rather a natural extension of the storytelling so critical to our professional lives.

It is with this in mind that I am very pleased to serve as a faculty advisor for the inaugural edition of MSU COM’s literary magazine, Tensegrity. We are honored to bring you works of written and visual art from across the health colleges, representing a diversity of experiences. We hope that Tensegrity helps inspire you to discover and tell stories of your own.

- Jessica Heselschwerdt, MD

BUT HOW DOES IT END?

On my way to work before dawn, the unwrinkled snow was spread out over the fields like parchment and the full moon was writing a poem.

There were some good lines about trees, and I was quite eager to read all of it. But, as the sun shouldered itself into the sky, the moon’s delicate pen ran out of ink.

The Office Visit

Knock, knock

A stone skips over the clear water

I can see myself sitting on the dock

I open the door to somebody’s daughter

What brings you in today?

A waterfall thunders in it’s glory unfolding before me is ever changing spray this is her time to tell her story aches and pains pulverizing anguish and trauma weight losses and gains all explained with barely a comma her words dance like rain ripples of concentric circles radiate her pattern anything but plain a unique story to appreciate labs ordered questions addressed plans for how to go forward perhaps she is a bit less stressed the door opens with a click her waterfall fades in my mind over is my break from my own personal creek I hate to leave her behind

But, another door beckons amazing what can be just 900 seconds.

November

The season of gray beaches: when sepia driftwood angels and seaweed krakens wash ashore, and gulls hang like clothespins on the sky; when fishbones lay sown into sand, and thunderheads drag their tentacles across the horizon as though they have always been there and as though may never leave.

- Ryan Skowronek, OMS-II, MSUCOM

Time Lacks Discretion

Time lacks discretion for those that come and go we weep, we fear, we embrace yet the jagged edges of the mind stand barren amidst the blaze of our hearts

So take a moment to breath to engage to disrupt the dullness of cardboard monotony

Upend the structure and venture unbounded into the grace of possibility

Let the curves of your heart carry you through the liquid fluctuation of your soul where the edges are sanded and change is a continuum of unending connection

Blooming on an Inlet Dune

The mouth of Two Hearted River- a place which inspired Ernest Hemingway to write a narrative recognizing the regenerative powers of nature. Kelsey Sharples, OMS-II, MSUCOM

Homecoming

I once heard a story about a young man who had returned home from a business trip, walking through the airport to retrieve his luggage. A huge crowd gathering on the tarmac caught his eye through one of the glass windows lining the walkway. He paused, as he saw the stairs of a private plane unfurl and descended to kiss a plush red carpet covering the ground. Through the window, he spotted people playing musical instruments, waving flags, cheering and holding their hands out in hopes of a handshake. An older gentleman emerged from the plane and descended the stairs, smiling and waving at the crowd that had gathered to greet him. Shaking hands with the select individuals who bordered the carpet, he made his way to the car that awaited to take him to the next part of his journey.

The man staring out of the airport window made a plea to God, equal parts anger and awe, “Is that ever going to happen for me? To be that special that people stop their lives to welcome me home?” The man felt God answer him, “My child, you are not home yet.”

An illuminated open door leads to an underground salsa club, a space for creative and musical expression.

Human Windmill

Deanna Ingrassia, OMS-II, MSUCOM

I had assumed that “home” in the story meant heaven, and as I had no plans of becoming a politician, movie star, or other such famous persons, I thought the same would be true for me; that I would not have that kind of welcoming until I had finished my journey on earth.

A few years passed, and I had made the trek from California to Michigan to attend medical school. On the first day of orientation, I approached the front stairs of Fee Hall, and the faint echo of applause floated to my ear through the humid June air. My head shot up as I remembered the story of the man at the airport from years before. Tears sprung into my eyes as I ascended the stairway and saw that both sides of the hall were lined with people, students and administrators, clapping and congratulating each member of our class as we arrived. Until that moment, I hadn’t known how much it would mean to have people who had been through the journey before me acknowledge and appreciate the work it had taken to be standing in this hallway. Although I had thought I would have to wait my whole life to experience this feeling, I was wrong. I had been welcomed home.

- Nicole Matouk, OMS-I, MSUCOM

First Autumn in Michigan

During a short walk on campus between classes, I ran across an unfamiliar trail. Stepping off of the sidewalk and onto the less traveled but more beautiful path, I felt a kinship with the surrounding trees as we both prepared to let go of the old things that no longer served us. Although it would be hard to see the glory of Autumn fade, my sadness waned as I imagined the new pathways and possibilities that would reveal themselves throughout the seasons of this journey.

- Nicole Matouk, OMS-I, MSUCOM

A Choice Of Venues

It was one of those mornings when unhappiness came down like a heavy curtain closing off the lights of the stage. After spending far too much time staring toward my feet, I looked up through the window.

The clouds grazing the air like a passing herd of bison were heading off to wherever.

And I definitely felt better just knowing that.

Sunlight

To think We heal or cure another, Is to take credit for growing a plant.

We are here to prune leaves

Water cut stems

Repot what has been unearthed, Uprooted, and brought inside.

But it never will or could be Us that extend and unfurl Leaves off of fresh shoots That live with us in parallel.

Let’s not rotate terra cotta pots in well-illuminated windows And start calling ourselves The sun.