OBLITERANTS
M A G A Z I N E
UNIVERSITY OF MIAMI MILLER SCHOOL OF MEDICINE
poetry / photography / music / critique / prose / graphic / art
DEAR READER, DEAR READER,
Welcome to the 13th issue of Obliterants.
In the midst of long days and early mornings that often accompany a life in medicine, it is easy to forget the spaces where we can simply be. This issue is an invitation back into those spaces. We offer this magazine as a form of refuge, where art softens the realities of daily life and expression can exist without urgency.
There are experiences in healthcare beyond simple explanation From moments of quiet grief to unexpected joy, there are spaces where language alone falls short. Through a wide spectrum of expression, we find new ways to hold these experiences and bring them to light transforming what is difficult to articulate into something that can be more fully understood.
This year, our team has found connection through a shared love of the humanities and a commitment to bringing that spirit to our community. Each piece is a thread in a larger tapestry, reflecting the many ways we make meaning of our lives in and beyond medicine It is this sense of belonging that we hope to extend to you through this issue.
Within these pages, we hope you find not only beauty, but also permission to pause, to feel, and to create Regardless of your background, the humanities belong to anyone willing to slow down
Thank you for being here. Thank you for reading, for engaging, and for being part of this community.
With warmth, Medical Humanities Interest Group Board
MEET THE TEAM MEET THE TEAM
SNEHAAKURATI
President
ISABELLAGUANCHE VicePresident
IRISKIM ObliterantsEditor-in-Chief
SHREYAPATHAK Treasurer
AISHWARYARAJAKUMAR EventsChair
EMILYPARRA Secretary
ANNIKADHAWAN ObliterantsCommittee
VISHNUNANDURI SocialMedia
GAURIAGARWAL FacultyAdvisor
YASHMITHASADASIVUNI ObliterantsCommittee
SAARAKHAN Newsletter
ACEAFZAL EventsCommittee
EventsCommittee
SeniorAdvisor
KELLYHARRIS
ISHAHARSHE
AFAMILY’STOUCH
MuskaanSawney
HEARTBREAK SunnyGreene
AIN’TNOSUNSHINE
MillerMusicCollective
KREYÒLINTHEHALLWAY
KervenCassion
CONNECTINGCONFORMERS
NicoleFraga
LASCASASDELOSVEGUEROS
IsabellaGuanche
SEIZINGAUTHORITY EmmaSass
AMIOUTOFAJOB? JustinDreyer
REALISM
ElenaBosack
22. 22.
UNTITLED EmilioRoig
BODEGA2077 AidanKunju
.
ERIK’SCAROUSEL NicoleFraga
BALLADOFTHEBEARDEDLADY
IshaHarshe
SnehaAkurati
FINALLY,ANANSWER RupabaliSamanta
BOTTLECAP YashmithaSadasivuni
THEPHYSICIAN-ARTIST
CassandraCoriolan
SECONDARYINTENTION EmmaSass
THETHREERULES IrisHyun-AKim
A FAMILY’S TOUCH
As the tumultuous waves crash onto the charcoal-colored rocks and the cuckadhoo calls for the sun to rise above the bayan-covered Maharashtran hills, the temple bells sway and morning prayers begin.
Soon enough, the bright screeching of the autos and hissing of the pressure cooker were carried away into the warm summer breeze Along with it, the worries that were far beyond her age– simply soothed by Naani’s fingers massaging her worry lines away, followed by her palm gracefully taking rest on her shoulder.
A little girl, curled up within tattered comforter covers, cracks one eye open ever so slightly. A familiar shriveled arm hangs above the comforter in front of her; a fingernail tickling her tel-covered hairline Naaani hmph. She closes her eyes with such force, her eyebrows scrunched deep, restlessly willing for the tune of the streets to begin to fade and the day to begin again
“HEARTBREAK”
BROKEN PIANO
my piano, they chopped it down, piece by piece mold sprouting, thriving between the silent ivory keys the sounds of my lifetime trapped within the wood, and with every slash of bark another memory escapes there goes another melancholy key, splintered free the last time it will ever sound, one final echo into the grey sky a staccato part of my life transformed into firewood just in time for the winter. please keep somebody else warm the way this place once gave me shelter i listen as it decrescendos softer, softer. nothing lasts forever, you know
“AIN’T NO SUNSHINE” MILLER MUSIC
GELILAH YOHANNES, AMIT
KREYÒL IN THE HALLWAY
ThefirstthingInoticedwasn’tthesmellofantisepticorthequiethumofmonitors,itwastheaccent
I had barely finished introducing myself to the first nurse when I heard it, warm and unmistakable. A Haitian accent. BeforeIcouldevenswitchgears,kreyòllalage
“ThisisthefirsttimeI’veseenaHaitianstudenthere,”shesaid,smilingwide “AndI’vebeenhereforfiveyears”
Her words hung in the air longer than expected Five years One Haitian student It was a reminder of how rare we sometimes are in certain spaces, even when placements are random and coincidence is supposed to level the playing field Somehow,themomentfeltbiggerthananintroduction Itfeltlikerepresentation
Naturally,theHaitianformalitiesfollowed.
Whereareyourparentsfrom?
HowdidyoulearnCreole? HaveyoueverbeentoHaiti?
For anyone familiar with Haitian conversations, the script was predictable but comforting Each question felt less like curiosity and more like recognition, a quiet confirmation that I belonged I answered proudly No hesitation I was puttingonforthediaspora
Thenextday,wordhadalreadytraveledfasterthanIhad.
Anothernurseapproachedmewithagrin.“Hey,Iheardyou’retheonewhospeaksCreoleandlovesHaiti.”
Just like that, the clinic changed It was no longer only a place for patient charts and clinical notes Between cases and conversations, stories about Haiti began to fill the spaces in between work Nurses shared memories of childhood neighborhoods, mango trees, school days, and long evenings filled with laughter Haiti existed there not as headlines or statistics,butaslivedexperience
They began to see my passion for the culture too Some of the aunties even discovered videos of me dancing Konpa on Instagram.Theirapprovalcamequickly,teasingsmiles,nodsofpride,andjokesthatfeltlikefamily.
Buttheconversationsweren’talwayslight.
WhenIaskedwhethertheywantedtoreturntoHaitisomeday,theanswerssplitintotwoworlds
“There’snoHaitianymore,”somesaidquietly “It’stoodangerous It’snotthesame”
Icouldhearthegriefbehindthosewords,memoriescollidingwithreality,nostalgiatangledwithtrauma
Othersspokedifferently,theireyeslightingup
“Ican’twaittogohome Ourcountryissobeautiful Imissit Ialwaysdreamedofretiringthere”
Bothtruthsexistedatonce:heartbreakandhope,lossandlonging
One afternoon, while writing notes at the nursing station, an idea appeared almost casually, a picture day. Just somethingsimple.Acelebration.Imentionedittoonenurseinpassing,notexpectingmuch.
Bythenextday,theclinicwasbuzzing
“We’rehavingapictureday!”sheannounced “BringyourHaitianclothes!”
Suddenly,thesmallideahadalifeofitsown Therewasnobackingoutnow
Onthedayoftheshoot,Iwalkedintotheclinicandfrozeforamoment NursesstoodproudlyinHaitianapparel,blue and red dresses, flag pins, T-shirts, headwraps Some staff members I hadn’t even met yet rushed over to introduce themselves.
“Waitformebeforeyoutakethepicture!”onesaid “Iwanttobeinittoo”
What started as a passing thought had turned into something powerful: a shared moment of pride Laughter filled the room Phonesflashed Forabriefmoment,theclinicfeltlesslikeaworkplaceandmorelikeacelebrationofidentity
And I realized something, they hadn’t just participated They had taken ownership of it I had only sparked the idea; theycarriedtheflame
Haiti’s story has always been layered. The first independent Black nation, born from revolution and resilience, yet often reduced to headlines about poverty and crisis. Lately, it feels like every news cycle carries another negative story, anothernarrativeshapinghowtheworldseesHaitians,andsometimesevenhowHaitiansseethemselves
Once,aclassmateaskedme,completelyserious,“DoHaitiansreallyeatpeople?”
For a moment, sarcasm almost won I wanted to ask whether the Haitians they had been volunteering with had tried to eat them yet But I understood something deeper: ignorance often comes from distance I couldn’t fly everyone to Haiti Icouldn’tcontrolwhatmediatheyconsumedorwhatstoriestheybelieved
ButIcouldcontrolonething.
HowIspokeaboutHaiti. HowIrepresentedit
So instead of shrinking from those conversations, I leaned into them Every interaction became an opportunity, to sharetruth,culture,pride,andhumanity
In the clinic hallways, between patient visits and paperwork, Haiti lived through language, laughter, memories, and music Andinthosemoments,Iunderstoodthatrepresentationisn’talwaysloudorgrand
Sometimesitbeginswithafamiliaraccent…andaconversationinKreyòl.
CONNECTING CONFORMERS
Cyclohexane. Cyclohexene. Cyclohexyne
It’s all about the connection and how-close-the-bonds-are Rings; rings render better resonance and carbocations
Closeness comforts changing characters and circumstances
Cis/trans which label should we use?
most important functional groups on the same side or opposite? But can’t they change positions just by a bump with some racemic mixture?
never having to choose one or the other not cemented by sigma bonds but barely connected by pi-bonds bonds that break by the simple addition/subtraction of an electron opens space to allow another or to make a different connection both exist 50% of the time you never know what you get
Life how we are made never a choice a happening of sorts that we attempt to control what’s in the flask you never know until the reaction occurs and there’s a product but the same starting materials different isomeric structure breaking, bonding, and rebuilding
We’re all just a different set of conformers trying to react
“LAS CASAS DE LOS VEGUEROS”
PINAR DEL RIO, CUBA
“Keep or trash?”
SEIZING AUTHORITY
The attending thrusts an object in the air.
“Keep!”
I fold the clothing, or bedding, gently placing it onto his wheelchair
The Police watch, jeering that it is all “trash,”
“We have orders to decontaminate the street”
The attending, unflinching, sets a standard.
I do not turn around, feeling the Police gaze on my back. We continue this until each item is accounted for
The word decontaminate moves faster than hands, faster than consent
Everything becomes disposable when it’s unnamed.
When the water trucks come, water arcs hard against the pavement
The stream finds everything left behind. Blankets darken, cardboard collapses What isn’t moved is washed flat.
I stand between them and my patient.
My team yells, telling me to move. They wouldn’t dare Spray my stethoscope.
See what authority looks like soaked.
And they don’t
The stream breaks around me and my patient, then resumes after us
The smell of homelessness is sour. Street medicine smells the same, damp, left out too long in the rain. But we keep working as if smell were not a verdict.
AM I OUT OF A JOB?
I’ve been reading the news and sitting through meetings about generative AI while using it daily in medical school It helps me write practice questions, organize notes, and even look up info during rounds AI has already become part of my learning process And that leaves me wondering: what will be left for me to do as a doctor?
Will the role I’ve dreamed about since childhood still exist by the time I finish residency? Or is medicine transforming into something I won’t recognize?
There’s always been anxiety at the end of training will I find my place in this profession? But now, with AI accelerating so fast, that question feels heavier It’s not just about finding a job It’s about whether the job itself still needs me.
AI is already streamlining many of the time-consuming tasks doctors used to handle manually: editing manuscripts, sifting through journal articles, doing drug calculations by hand Older physicians might scoff they did it all without shortcuts But for the next generation, these tools are shaping a new kind of training, and we need to ask: what’s essential now?
I think about my dad, a glaucoma specialist, who hated electronic medical records. He preferred flipping through manila folders instead of clicking through endless tabs Yet, he loved his Apple gadgets and drove an electric car He was tech-savvy but didn’t want tech changing how he practiced medicine He often asked, “Is this new technology worth it for me?” I’ve started asking myself the same thing
AI helps me catch grammar mistakes and push past writer’s block, but this essay? All mine That statement already feels rare.
Still, I hear the warnings My sister tells me not to become a radiologist AI’s coming for it I just left a meeting about language models that might make clinical decisions before a doctor even enters the room I’ve scrubbed in with robotic surgeons operating from a chair, yelling at residents like we ’ re back on Xbox The job I imagined as a kid? It’s evolving fast
But people still call me
My sister texts me pictures of rashes on her daughter My best friend calls when his girlfriend ends up in the ER I remind them I’m just a medical student Still, that trust that human connection can’t be replaced by a machine. Not yet. Maybe not ever.
Medicine has never feared new technology But now we need to rethink what it means to be a doctor Are we just information retrievers? Because a computer will always win that race The real challenge is keeping our humanity front and center while the tools change around us
Isaac Asimov once wrote, “Any technological advance can be dangerous… but human beings would not be human without them.” We can’t reject progress. But we do need to reshape how we think about medical education, training, and practice
I’m not saying we should add coding bootcamps to Step 1 prep Medical textbooks are thick enough But we should teach adaptability like we teach anatomy Because passing an exam is one kind of milestone learning how to evolve is another
Doctors have always adapted. We change the drugs we prescribe Surgeons refine their techniques And now, with AI, we can offload the grunt work and refocus on what matters: the patient
So here’s my call to action: physicians must defend their role in society We can’t retreat into clinics and let administration or algorithms dictate how we practice As the saying goes, evil succeeds when good is silent If we want the next generation to dream of healing others like we did, we have to speak up and shape what medicine becomes
Yes, some specialties may fade or morph But behind every machine, there will still be a person And on the other end of the exam table, there will always be a patient looking for help, hope, and a human being
“IT’S
UNTITLED
This piece is inspired by Banksy and a photograph of my parents at Niagara Falls taken before I was born. For me, it represents a moment I never witnessed but have always felt connected to. It reflects the intimacy of inherited memory and the ways love and family can shape us before our own stories even begin
dispatch –
9 yo female: unresponsive, no spontaneous respirations, drowning accident? more on the way!
attending –a hushed whisper: look out for a brain death consult tomorrow
tucking away memories of his own daughter, shuffling through the rest of rounds.
brother –face in hands, trying to hide the redness of an unimaginable emotion can we please just play hide and seek? if only i played with you yesterday i didn’t know! i swear, i didn’t know! you wouldn’t have today the tears streak beyond his hands –found you.
resident –deep breath, remember, remember SPIKES, pupil, gag, corneal, vestibulocochlear, did we order the CT? perhaps I should grab the pupillometer i can’t be wrong
father –attempts to rise, but instead, his length crumbles knees give way, face in hands, redness creeping, a familiar sight for a visceral feelingunearthed the protector – unarmed shuddering, defeated in a battle he never could have apprehended.
WORST DAY
ISHA
OF LIFE
medical student –tip toes, craning forward for a better peek behind the symphony [or shield] of lines, tubes, monitors, bustling nurses and doctors, and there, finally: curiosity kills. stumbling backwards, after seeing the unseeable fighting back tears, fidgeting, teeth biting lips, eyes darting around, searching for an absent solace. how will i ever be able to call it?
mother –head shakes NO! you ’ re not listening to me –teeth seething. she’s in there i know it Angie*, wake up! wake up! i tucked you into bed last night, you ’ re not supposed to still be sleeping, you silly girl. listen to your mother now. NO! wake up! Angie, wake up! the fruit of her womb lays lifeless before her, as disbelief shreds through her.
the cries of a mother searching for her child’s soul drown the halls as goosebumps rise they say you meet someone on the worst day of [their] life.
*nameofpatientchangedtoprotecttheiridentity.
REALISM
(forget, you say? sure, silhouette/forget – that would also have been better! oh, you mean…?)
At last she leaves the canvas as it is –A faithful failure, imperfect bliss.
FINALLY, AN ANSWER: A MEMORIAL FOR V.A.
You were gone, and I didn’t believe it The person who filled any room with laughter The personification of being larger than life You were only 21, a mere 364 days older than me How could this happen?
In my plethora of pre-med psychology courses, I was, of course, taught the stages of grief, but it wasn’t until I went through it myself that I understood the dynamic nature of these stages. To say that I was in denial during those initial days and weeks is an understatement. I walked around campus desperately looking for you, genuinely believing that I would turn the corner of McBryde and catch a glimpse of your contagious smile. I spent those days scouring the internet trying to find an answer. I needed desperately to find some sort of biological explanation for why you suddenly passed There had to be a reason I knew that I just didn’t know what exactly it could be
T you were gone, I took my first solo flight I was beyond terrified A through my head while boarding and during take-off If you had b d reassured me of the statistical unlikeliness of these scenarios. As we broke through the layer of clouds and the plane finally leveled, I cautiously looked out of the window. The fluffy clouds below me, basking in the radiant glow of the sunlight, and the picture-perfect serenity of it all, filled me with a sense of peace. It was as if I could feel you having the time of your life while flying freely alongside the birds and your most favorite airplanes. Although I did not fully understand why it had happened, I finally accepted that you were gone.
It’s been two and a half years. You gave me the courage to do many things: take more solo flights, further my leadership roles, reaffirm my faith, and feel comfortable sharing my music with others. I’m in medical school now. Looking at the curriculum, I saw that we would start with cardiology. I felt a mix of fear, excitement, and wonder. Although I didn’t want to label it in my head, somewhere in my subconscious, I knew that there was a strong possibility that I could finally get the biological aspect of the answer that had been plaguing me for the past few years. Yesterday, during lecture, I heard it. My ears perked up, my heart beat faster, and I felt a pang of deep pain. But I didn’t have time to fully process it with the constant busyness of medical school. So today, as I reviewed my notes from that lecture in the quiet and comfort of my own room, I finally took it in. Finally, an answer, which despite providing momentary relief, has left me profoundly sad yet again.
PHOTO: RUPABALI SAMANTA
AIDANKUNJU
“They’refloatinginthere,nonotatthetop,justsuspendedinthere It’smagicalisn’tit, howtheyfloat?Butpayattention,they’regrowing Slowly Ittakestimetogrowem,that’s whyourmarginsaresosmall ButIassureyouit’sworthit Nowseehere-thesmallerones -thoseareourGooGoos Theygetallthenutrientstheyneedfromourproprietary amnioticsolution.Withtherightfine-tuningandacheckupeveryfewmonths,they’ll growintoGaGas LookatthatGaGarightthereinthebiggerjar He’sakicker!Iwatch themsometimes,pressmyhandupagainstthejar Igivethisonealittlesmooch Ithinkhe smiledyesterday Ormaybeitwasjustthewaythefluidmoved Oh,justwaittillyouget yourown-they’vegotawonderfulsmell Here,comecloser,letmecrackopenajarfor you Yes,holdhimlikethat Keephisheadup Thereyougo”
ERIK’S CAROUSEL
Hellolittlelightbrownox
YouwhenIwakeandwhenIsleep
Sittightlytoughenedbyhundredsoffriends
Seeminglyslumpedbutsupposedlystrong
Humpedcameldebatestrustinhimself,inothers
Limitedlicksofliquidrefreshandremind
Zealouszebraridesintimacybuthopsoffatisolation
Lurkinglionesscommentsaheartpretendingnottobite
Whichoneontherotationtoday?
Ericksongrabbedahandfulandmadeastage
Movetothenextandyoucancallyourselfmature
Ridinginreversecausesregretandmotionsickness
Chooseyourvehiclecarefully anindicationofpsychosocialdevelopment18moor29?
PHOTO: AISHWARYA RAJAKUMAR
Capped tight, screwed shut.
Windows closed, walls up. A glass half empty, or a bottle this full?
Darkness in is darkness out
If light could seep in, only shadows show; it’s hard to play
h i d e - a n d - s e e k when they’re everywhere
The hollow echoes, but sealed doors scream like cries in the ocean ’ s void, submerged and drowned. Untold stories hiss endlessly, and if the bottle shatters, the hisses will turn into shrieks. So, the lid spins and twists, and when the water breathes, it fizzes out. The hisses whisper, and then drift with the breeze.
YASHMITHA SADASIVUNI
If your doors are closed and loud, Open the cap and Break it down.
It’s time for you to Just let it out
BOTTLECAP
PHOTO: STEFANY MARJANI CONTARIN
BALLAD OF THE BEARDED LADY
stage lightsblind her, but harshly reveal for All to see, the famous Bearded Lady.
while others morphed into society’s most Desired, Delicate ladies, she morphed into a mutant she-man, not enough to shroud but just enough to shred her Dignity
hacking away each week, her sprouts kept growing her body kept growing restraint kept its leash during the day, but nightfall brought its raging binges
her body claimed a war on itself an invisible sword pierced her barren womb month after month. a battle only she could feel, and none could see.
Misunderstood, Mistaken, Undesired, sometimes, even by herself. she is the Unwanted Chosen One with a deep breath, she lifts the wand to see within polycystic ovaries? I feel more like an Opening Act
ESSAY
Criterion Year 035 - Spine #1151
El espíritu de la colmena
Spain, 1973
Dir Victor Erice
99 minutes
Color, 1:66:1, Spanish
She told me she finally understood what had happened to her after watching Brain on Fire
Not a documentary Not a medical lecture A dramatization
Anti-NMDA encephalitis had fractured her life months earlier, leaving behind cognitive gaps, neurologic symptoms, and a hospitalization she remembered only in fragments When asked about the onset of her illness, she struggled to reconstruct it She could not fully describe what had been happening in her brain What she did remember was the isolation The long diagnostic process, the uncertainty, the sense of being unmoored from her own mind
Watching Brain on Fire did not give her new laboratory values or imaging results. It did not alter the autoimmune process in her brain. What it offered was structure. Through the film, she understood the nature of her condition and, more importantly, saw herself reflected within it The story did not replace her medical care It organized it For the first time, her experience felt narratively coherent
The Spirit of the Beehive begins with Ana watching Frankenstein For her, film does not remain entertainment; it becomes an attempt at explanation. She does not understand why the monster exists or why it must suffer, yet she senses that something essential is being revealed. The image precedes comprehension. Film gives her a space to interpret before language can catch up.
Too young to grasp the mechanics of death, Ana absorbs it symbolically The monster’s loneliness, the villagers’ fear, the child’s drowning These images seed in her an awareness of absence that no adult fully names Her older sister, Isabel, gestures toward meaning without clarifying it The adults withhold explanation altogether. Ana is left inside a structure of partial knowledge, enclosed within the “beehive” of quiet observation and unanswered questions.
Scenes such as Isabel playing dead reveal how death first appears to Ana as performance, something rehearsed and reversible Anguish enters gradually, not through explanation, but through sensation Meaning accumulates without resolution When Ana later sees the blood in the sheepfold, she does not require instruction. She understands what has happened. Only then does the figure of the monster, once fabled by her sister, become visible to her. The apparition is not fantasy alone; it is the shape her mind gives to what she cannot yet name.
Her parents sense this shift Their concern carries a quiet recognition that something irreversible has occurred What has changed is not simply what Ana knows, but how she knows
The well becomes a visual descent into that accumulating awareness. It marks the deepening of Ana’s interior world, a space where curiosity turns toward solitude. Her fixation on the abandoned sheepfold emerges from the same impulse that first drew her to the screen Film introduces the possibility that what appears monstrous may instead be misunderstood, quietly contradicting Isabel’s earlier claim that movies are “all fake”
The sheepfold becomes an extension of that inquiry It is a space where imagination and reality begin to overlap, where Ana tests what she has absorbed against what she encounters. In entering it, she is not chasing fantasy; she is trying to reconcile image with experience.
Watching Ana search for the spirit in the sheepfold, I thought of the patient The film did not alter the autoimmune process in her brain It transformed fragments into narrative It gave her a beginning, a middle, and a return
Like Ana, she had lived inside something she could not name The hospitalization remained disjointed in her memory The neurologic symptoms felt alien Film created an external structure she could step into It did not replace medicine It translated it
In clinical spaces, film is often dismissed as dramatization, as embellishment, as something that distorts reality. Medicine privileges precision, mechanism, and evidence. Those are necessary. Yet patients do not experience illness as mechanisms They experience it as rupture Film, even when imperfect, restores coherence where explanation alone cannot It allows suffering to be seen as part of a pattern rather than as isolated malfunction
In The Spirit of the Beehive, Ana never receives a clear answer about the monster. No adult explains it in a way that resolves her confusion. What she gains instead is an interior language shaped by image rather than instruction The spirit she searches for does not disappear once the film ends It becomes part of how she understands absence, death, and fear Film does not cure what it depicts It does not repair what is broken It creates a space in which what feels incomprehensible can be held without immediate correction For Ana, that space begins in a dark theater For my patient, it began on a screen months after her hospitalization In both cases, understanding did not arrive as fact. It arrived as form.
Medicine often seeks clarity through explanation Film offers something quieter It allows meaning to accumulate before it is defined In that accumulation, isolation softens What once felt singular begins to resemble something shared The beehive remains intact, but the child inside it has learned how to look beyond its walls
FILM SYNOPSIS
Set in a small Castilian village in 1940, in the long shadow of the Spanish Civil War, Víctor Erice’s El espíritu de la colmena (The Spirit of the Beehive) follows six-year-old Ana, who becomes quietly consumed after watching a traveling screening of Frankenstein When her older sister tells her that the monster is not dead but lives as a spirit in an abandoned sheepfold, Ana begins to wander the austere countryside in search of it, blurring the boundaries between story and reality The film unfolds less through conventional plot than through atmosphere: honey-colored interiors, the geometric stillness of the beehive, vast empty landscapes, and long stretches of silence that seem to suspend time itself. Released in 1973 during the waning years of Franco’s dictatorship, the film is widely regarded as one of the defining works of Spanish cinema of the 1970s, its quietness often read as a meditation on repression and interior exile More than a story about a child, it is a study of how imagination absorbs trauma and how unanswered questions settle into the architecture of the self
CRITERION YEAR
This essay emerges from what I have called my “Criterion Year,” a personal project to watch 180 films over the course of a year from the Criterion Collection, a curated body of cinema recognized for its cultural, historical, and formal significance I began the project out of a desire to encounter perspectives from different parts of the world and to study the human condition through the lens of film, which has shaped my imagination since childhood What started as an attempt to cultivate sustained attention outside of medicine gradually became something more deliberate: a parallel curriculum in narrative, image, and interior life. Watching these films alongside clinical training has altered the way I listen to patients, especially when illness fractures the coherence of memory and identity Film has become not an escape from medicine, but a way of thinking within it, a means of connecting what I see on the wards to broader human attempts to make meaning of suffering, fear, and uncertainty
Films from the Criterion Year that shaped my reflections include Three Colors: Red, L’Avventura, After Life, Lost Highway, Andrei Rublev, and Dreams.
You can only fight pain with love that’s what she taught me She taught me how true strength is born from love. Even after a horrific and deeply traumatic experience, she chose to hold only love in her heart. That choice demands a depth of strength that is hard to comprehend.
She met pain with love and endured because of it, refusing to let suffering harden a gentle soul That kind of resilience will inspire me forever
I made this painting for a patient I had the privilege of meeting on my psychiatry rotation She was living with PTSD
The first thing she asked me, “How do you say love in your language?”
“AMONG THE LEAVES AND BRUSH” ISABELLA GUANCHE
SECONDARY INTENTION
When the coat becomes the gown, the room shrinks, the exit blocks.
MRI loud, far too tight.
Pre-op pressure: 162/106
I hesitate when the nurse asks, “what do you do?”
Toes curl, muscles tighten, the IV slips into the vein and I sleep
At home
betadine oranges my skin for days, lingering where I cannot reach, cannot remove
When I uncover the incision, a lazy closure, too tight, strangles the skin. I trace it for weeks The tension holds Later, under my hands, I remove betadine and perfect subcutaneous sutures
I know what too tight feels like.
“THE THREE RULES” IRIS HYUN-A KIM
THAT DANCE BETWEEN BEDSIDE AND BENCHSIDE
Its Friday.
Lab is downtown and the Clinic is in Kendall. I dance between that that speaks and that that does not
The 836 highway as what bridges this in-between.
I dance between either neighborhood as I go from bench-side to bedside
Seamlessly, loudly, silently.
The seen is heard and what’s heard is a patient
The unseen is quiet & what’s not heard are embryos, trophoblast and placenta endothelial cells.
One grows in its external world and society
The other grows in the endometrium or in a T-75 flask encased within a 37 °C CO2 incubator.
One can speak and that is a patient
One cannot speak and those are embryos and cells
The heard and seen (a mother) act as a Vessel to grow that that cannot be heard or seen.
So that it may became the new generation of what will be seen (infant).
Kendall is far. Downtown is not.
Patients Speak Cells do not
"Where it cannot grow" explores the dissonance between visibility and experience in endometriosis I was inspired to create this after helping care for numerous patients with extensive disease throughout medical school
“WHERE
The
Waiting Room an original play by
Victoria Gomez
ACT ONE
SCENE ONE:
WEEK 3
Setting: A plain, empty space devoid of any objects or decor that would tell us where we are. There are two doors, closed, facing downstage, located stage right and stage left, also plain. They draw no attention save for the fact that they are all there is to see.
At Rise: EM stands alone, center stage. He looks up and out, then around to survey the space.
EM
What the...? Who the...? Where the...? Huh?
EM takes some steps to wander the room, looking around for some sign of someone or something. He is confused but not frantic He continues to move about the room, picking up the pace a little as his confusion builds
EM
Hello? Is anyone...is anyone there? Can anyone hear me? Anybody? Helloooo. No? Okay. I just...I...I have some questions. Actually, do I? Um. Okay. Where am I? Matter fact, who am I? Uhh. Yeah, let's start with that maybe.
He makes his way to the stage right door and decides to turn the knob. The door is locked. He begins moving toward the stage left door when a knock is heard coming from the stage right door. He freezes and turns back toward the door, then slowly approaches it and tries knocking again He waits a few seconds, then hears another knock back.
EM
Uh...come in?
Nothing happens. A few too many seconds pass and EM moves gingerly toward the stage left door again. Right as he's about to reach for the knob, another knock is heard, this time startling him. Immediately after, ELLE enters.
ELLE
Hi. Sorry about that. It's hard to hear through those things sometimes. Didn't wanna barge in on ya. Did I spook you?
Maybe a little.
Fine. I guess.
Whoops, my bad How're you doing?
EM (hesitant)
That's good. Fine is good.
ELLE
EM
Okay...
Yeah, a few.
Shoot.
ELLE
Oh yeah. I wouldn't expect you to be much better than fine, and I'm glad you're not much worse either.
EM
ELLE (after a beat)
So I imagine you have some questions-
EM
ELLE
EM
Um. Okay. Who- who are you?
Oka y.. .E lle . Fine is good?
Hi!
Hi.
It's nice to meet you.
ELLE
Great question! You can call me Elle. I'm a friend. I'm here to...answer your questions!
EM
ELLE
EM
ELLE ELLE
She holds her hand out to shake his, and he takes it.
EM (timidly)
Nice to meet you too.
Go ahead, ask away
Okay...who am I?
Oof. Yeah. That one's complicated. Do you mind if we come back to that? EM
Uh. Sure.
Next
Where are we?
Let's call it the waiting room.
The waiting room?
Yep.
ELLE (with a smile) EM
And what are we waiting for?
ELLE
Fair, yeah. We're waiting for you to leave. EM ELLE
To leave here?
That's correct.
And here is...?
The waiting room.
PHOTOS: ROHAN KHEHAR
Right. Right.
And how did I get here?
To be honest, I'm not really sure.
Uh-huh.
But I can tell you
Okay, why?
Because of her.
Who?
Her.
ELLE points out into the distance, rests her eyes on something we can't see. She points. EM follows her gaze and her fingers. He is perplexed.
Who is she?
(encouraging)
Another great question. She is going to be your mother.
My mother?
Yep.
What's a mother?
ELLE
Nothing, what's a mother with you? Ha ha!
PHOTO: AISHWARYA RAJAKUMAR
Huh?
There is a very awkward silence.
EM
ELLE
Forget it, sorry. You've got a lot going on. Right. She's your mother. She's going to take care of you.
EM
Take care of me.
ELLE
Yep. You're going to be her baby. You'll get to meet her once you leave.
EM
ELLE
And she'll get to meet you!
EM
Okay...so then how do I leave?
ELLE
Through that door.
ELLE points at the stage right door.
EM
Right Okay And when do I leave?
ELLE (sigh)
Yeah. Oh boy. This is- this is a lot, and I don't wanna overwhelm you with too much right now, but the gist of the thing is that you can leave when she's done making your body.
Right. My body?
EM
ELLE
Mmhmm. So you can be a person out in the world. Gotta have body for that.
EM
And how long does that take?
ELLE
A little while, honestly. We'll be here for a while. A body is no simple thing
Hence the waiting.
Correct
EM
ELLE
EM
And you're gonna wait with me?
ELLE
Indeed.
For my body to be done.
Exactly.
EM
ELLE
EM
And she's gonna make it for me?
He gestures out to the distance.
ELLE
Yeah! She's working on it right now!
EM (pause)
It doesn't seem like she's doing a whole lot.
ELLE
Well at this point, it's hard to see. The whole thing starts really really small. Like super small.
EM
But it's happening?
ELLE
Yeah, for sure. Lots of stuff is happening, trust me. Only, get this, she doesn't know it's happening yet.
EM
She doesn't?
ELLE
Nope, although she might soon by the looks of it.
ELLE squints at the distance.
ELLE
Yep. You see that little stick?
Yes.
She's gonna pee on it
Pee on it.
EM
ELLE
ELLE
Mmhmm, she's gonna pee on it, and then put it down, and then wait a few minutes, and it's gonna seem like forever. And then, when she looks at it, it's gonna tell her that, well, that she's making you a body for when you leave here.
EM takes a deep breath. A projection appears upstage center showing "WEEK 5". EM and ELLE look back at it, then back out.
Note: this projection will change to match the gestational week each scene at rise. of
She's happy. She's crying.
Because I'm waiting?
EM (after a moment)
ELLE (very slightly relieved)
Because you're waiting.
EM EM
ELLE
BLACKOUT. END OF SCENE.
“AMONG THE LEAVES AND BRUSH” ISABELLA GUANCHE
ABOUT THE AUTHORS THE
AIDAN THEEPURA KUNJU
isathird-yearmedicalstudentattheUniversityofMiamiMillerSchoolofMedicine.Hisacademicinterestsbridgeneurology,ethics,and themedicalhumanities,withworkspanningclinicalresearchonParkinson'sdisease,narrativemedicine,andtheethicsofemerging technologies.@aidantheepura
AISHWARYA RAJAKUMAR isasecondyearmedicalstudentinterestedincapturingartinnaturethroughphotographyoftheworldaroundher.
CASSANDRA CORIOLAN
isaHaitian-Americanwomanandpre-medicinestudentwhorecentlycompletedtheMiBSprogramatUniversityofMiami Forsevenyears, shehasservednewandexpectantparentsinthedeliveryoftheirinfantsthroughoutSouthFlorida,MexicoandtheDominicanRepublic.Lastly, shehasbeenaprofessionalpainterforover15yearswheresheengagesinvisualdialogueaboutmedical,scientificandsocialthemes
DANIELLE ABDENNOUR
isasecond-yearMD/MBAstudentwhograduatedwithadoublemajorinbiochemistryandFrenchfromSaintAnselmCollegeandwent ontoearnherMasterofScienceinBiomedicalSciencesdegreefromUM Beyondherpassionforscienceandmedicine,shealsoenjoystheartoflanguageandpoetry,bothofwhichcanbevaluableinnavigatinghealthcareandtreatingfuturepatients.
ELENA BOSACK
EMILIO ROIG
EMMA SASS
FELIPE ECHEVERRI TRIBIN
IRIS HYUN-A KIM
ISABELLA GUANCHE
isathird-yearmedicalstudentattheUniversityofMiamiMillerSchoolofMedicineandalifelongstudentofethicsandthehumanities Sheenjoyswritingpoemsinherhead,wheretheylingerbeforedecidingwhethertheyarebraveenoughtobeseen.
isathird-yearmedicalstudentwhograduatedwithaMasterofScienceinBiomedicalSciencesfromtheUniversityofMiamianda BachelorofScienceinMicrobiology&CellSciencefromtheUniversityofFlorida Heisinterestedinemergencymedicineandenjoys drawingbothbyhandanddigitallyasawaytounwind
isathird-yearmedicalstudentattheUniversityofMiamiLeonardM MillerSchoolofMedicinepursuingacareerinGeneralSurgery Her writingdrawsfromtheoperatingroomandstreetmedicineoutreachtoexplorepower,intimacy,andresponsibilityinmedicine
isathird-yearmedicalstudentattheUniversityofMiamiMillerSchoolofMedicinewithabackgroundinbiomedicalengineeringanda growinginterestinophthalmology Hisworkexploreshowcinemaandthevisualartsinformmedicalperception,narrativereconstruction,andtheexperienceofillness Throughhis“ImageBeforeExplanation:CinemaandMedicinefromaCriterionYear” project,hewritesessaysthatbridgefilmanalysisandclinicalreflection.MoreofhiswritingcanbefoundonLetterboxd(@felipe2000).
isaVanderbiltalumna,Fulbrighter,andincomingNIHMedicalResearchScholar Sheenjoyswriting,doodling,andsearchingfor manatees Findherlatestprojects@arcofiris Iriswouldliketodedicatethisworktoherlatebeloveddog,Cubby Loveyoualways
isasecond-yearmedicalstudentwhograduatedwithaminorinArtHistoryfromBostonCollege.Creatingandcelebratingartareincredibly importanttoIsabella,andsheenjoysallformsofvisualart,includingpainting,photography,sculpture,andceramics!VisitGuancheArtistryto seemoreworksbyIsabella.
isathird-yearmedicalstudentwhograduatedfromtheUniversityofSouthFloridawithdegreesinCellandMolecularBiologyand Psychology.Artandwritinghavebeencreativeoutletsforhersincechildhood,andsheenjoysusingpoetrytoexpressherselfandreflectonkey experiencesandemotionsinherlife
isathirdyearmedicalstudentwhograduatedwithhonorsinneurosciencefromtheUniversityofMichigan.Beyondhisacademicpursuits, Justinchannelshiscreativityintocookingandwritingtocaptureandencouragehisaudiencetoquestiontheirstandingassumptionsofthe world
ISHA HARSHE
JUSTIN DREYER
ABOUT THE AUTHORS THE
KERVEN
CASSION isathird-yearmedicalstudentandgraduatefromtheUniversityofFlorida.Beyondmedicine,Kervenexpresseshiscreativitythroughdancing Konpaandvideography Healsoenjoyscreatingmemorablemomentswithfriendsandfamily
MILLERMUSIC
COLLECTIVE
MUSKAAN SAWHNEY
NICOLE
MillerMusicCollectivebringstogetherthemusicalartsacrossMillerSchoolofMedicine Throughjamsessions,volunteerperformances,andgroupshowcases,theybringpeopletogetherandbuildcommunitythroughmusic.Checkthemoutoninstagram@millermusiccollective
isafirstyearmedicalstudentwhograduatedwithamajorinMolecularandCellularBiologyfromUniversityofIllinoisUrbana-Champaign. Beyondacademics,sheispassionateaboutreadingandwriting.
FRAGA isathird-yearmedicalstudentwhoearnedherBachelorofScienceinPsychologyfromBrownUniversity.Beyondhermedicalpursuits,she hasapassionforunderstandingpeople howwebehave,connect,andmakemeaningofourexperiences Sheturnstowritingasacreative outlettoreflectmoredeeplyonherownlifeandtoremainpresentwithinaprofessionthatsooftendemandsconstantfocusonthefuture.
ROHAN
KHEHAR isafirst-yearmedicalstudentwhograduatedfromtheUniversityofSouthernCaliforniawithadegreeinHumanEvolutionaryBiologyanda minorintheCinematicArts Outsideofmedicalschoolheenjoyswriting/directingshortfilms,flying,andphotography Moreofhisworkcanbe seen@rsky picturesonInstagram.
RUPABALI
SAMANTA isafirst-yearMD/MPHstudentwhograduatedfromVirginiaTechwithamajorinClinicalNeuroscienceandminorsinPsychology, Medicine&Society,andHistory.Herhobbiesoutsideofmedicineincludeart,singing,photography,andbaking,whichhelpkeephergrounded throughoutherpursuittobecomeaphysician
SNEHA
AKURATI isathird-yearmedicalstudentwhograduatedwithadoublemajorinGlobalHealthStudiesandStudioArtfromtheUniversityofMiami Beyondheracademicpursuits,Snehachannelshercreativityintoart,usingitasapowerfultooltocaptureandconveythestoriesofthose aroundher FollowherartisticjourneyonInstagram@snehaarts
STEFANY
MARJANI CONTARIN graduatedwithaBachelorofScienceinBiologyandaminorinPublicHealthfromtheUniversityofFloridaandiscurrentlypursuingthe MasterofScienceinBiomedicalSciencesattheUniversityofMiami Sheisanaspiringphysicianwithaninterestinhealthhumanities,and sheenjoysdancingandcooking Shelovesanimalsandusesphotographytosharethebeautyfoundinbothnatureandcuisine
SUNNY
GREENE isafourthyearMD/PhDstudent(GR2)whograduatedfromHollinsUniversity,asmallliberalartsinstitutionintheheartoftheBlueRidge MountainsinVirginia HereshelearnedtoblendherloveforscienceandmedicinewithhercreativityBeyondherdualdegreepursuits,Sunnydabblesincreativewritinganddabblinginpainting.
VANESSA
ADDISON isathird-yearmedicalstudentwhograduatedfromtheUniversityofArizonain2023withadegreeinBiochemistryandBiophysicsandis pursuingObstetricsandGynecology Sheenjoysusingdigitaldesigntoolstoreflectonclinicalexperiences,inspiredinpartbyFridaKahlo'sunflinchingportrayalofthefemalebody.Herworkcentersontheintersectionofpain,perception,andreproductivehealth.
GOMEZ isathird-yearmedicalstudent,graduatedfromtheUniversityofMiamiwithamajorinBiologyandminorsinChemistryandTheatreArts A lifelongtheatrekid,Victorialovesfindingwaystocombineherloveforthestagewithherpassionforlifescience,includingherOB/GYNscholarly projectfortheAcceleratedPathwayProgram
YASHMITHA
SADASIVUNI isasecond-yearMD/MPHstudentthatgrewupinHyderabad,India ShegraduatedfromtheUniversityofMiamiwithaBachelorof SciencedegreeinNeuroscience.Yashmithaenjoyspoetry,findingittobeauniqueformofstorytellingthatcanconveynuancedemotionsyet leavemuchofthestoryopentointerpretation
VICTORIA
"TELL ME, WHAT IS IT YOU PLAN TO DO WITH YOUR ONE WILD AND PRECIOUS LIFE?”
- MARY OLIVER
You,whohavechosentospendyourlifeinservicetohumanity,havealsochosentoofferyour words,art,music,andimaginationinhonorofthispath Iamgratefulfortheworkofalltheartists andtheObliterantsteam! -GauriAgarwal,MD