Ars Literarium Volume VII

Volume VII Summer 2021 Journal of Art and Literature

ARS LITERARIUM

Front Cover: Blastocyst, Acrylic Jean-Pierre Etchegaray, PhD Assistant Professor Department of Biological Sciences at Rutgers University

Volume VII

ARS LITERARIUM Summer 2021

mission

Ars Literarium seeks to express the medical narrative through the creative voices of the members of the Rutgers Biomedical Health Sciences Campus in Newark, NJ. The journal provides an outlet for members of the community who spend endless hours managing the stresses and responsibilities of patient care to find peace through creative expression. Transforming memories or emotions from an intense day spent with patients into words or visual art allows for a stronger, healthier connection to the self and a deeper appreciation of the patient perspective.

The journal is published annually by the Healthcare Foundation Center for Humanism and Medicine at Rutgers New Jersey Medical School.

For information, inquiries, and submissions, please email us at: arslit@njms.rutgers.edu.

council members

Manasa Ayyala, MD

Director of the Healthcare Foundation Center for Humanism and Medicine Rutgers New Jersey Medical School

Tanya Norment

Program Administrator of the Healthcare Foundation Center for Humanism and Medicine Rutgers New Jersey Medical School

Faculty Advisors

Beth A. Pletcher, MD

Associate Professor of Pediatrics and Medicine, Rutgers New Jersey Medical School

Andrew Berman, MD

Professor of Medicine, Rutgers New Jersey Medical School

Editors-In-Chief

Nandini Mishra, MS-2 Sarah Shoeb, MS-2

Editors

Danielle Lee, MS-2 / Graphic Design Kajol Patel, MS-2 / Graphic Design Ryan Jin, MS-2 / Art Editor Bianca Yugar, MS-2 / Art Editor Halle Sarkodie, MS-2 / Literary Editor Hector Lisboa, MS-2 / Literary Editor Taylor Anthony, MS-2 / Literary Editor

acknowledgements

Ars Literarium’s annual publication is possible due to the support of The Healthcare Foundation Center for Humanism and Medicine at Rutgers New Jersey Medical School.

With special appreciation and gratitude to The Healthcare Foundation of New Jersey for their generous support.

Thank you to Tanya Norment, Dr. Pletcher, and Dr. Berman for their advice, mentorship, and guidance throughout the year!

dear reader,

The COVID-19 pandemic caused unprecedented suffering and loss of life, forcing us to question the crumbling systems around us. Frontline workers made the valiant sacrifice of facing the threat of the virus head-on as they served as the anchors of a scrambling reality. Its effects were far-reaching into essentially all other aspects of life and life as we knew it ceased to exist. Social lives dried up, beloved businesses closed, and daily lives became shrouded with profound uncertainty. Our reliance on the humanity of others and need for human connection became more evident than ever.

The pieces in this issue are reflective of the humanity of frontline workers. It was a time when healthcare workers were forced into overdrive and exposed to a side of the pandemic that many others were sheltered from. While our last issue delved into the suffering and pain that was at its zenith last summer, this summer the atmosphere is much different. Although there’s still much work to be done here and around the world, there is a newfound sense of hope in the air. The vaccine was a ray of light in the darkness, and with this breakthrough, diligent mask wearing, and social distancing, we are heading back towards normalcy. We are approaching a life similar to the one before the pandemic, but with perspectives shaped by the struggles of this past year.

With that in mind, allow the talented artists and writers in this issue to take you on a journey--a life journey. Our issue begins with beautiful works of art detailing the beginning of life, then explores the beauty and pain that permeates it. It ends with reflections on loss of life, an inevitability that many of us were forced to reckon with in the past year.

It is our pleasure to present the seventh edition of Ars Literarium. We hope it can accompany you as you step forward into a new day.

Sincerely, Editors of Ars Literarium

TABLE OF CONTENTS The Origin For Delivery, Yasmin Abedin

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Miracle of Life, Nivetha Srinivasan 11 Lullaby, Aqueena Fernandez 12 Mosaic Man, Aqueena Fernandez 13 Autism, Yunjin Lee 14

The Journey Empower Your Thoughts, Ankita Punetha 16 A Perspective on Liberty, Jorge Aldo Barajas Ochoa 17 Untitled, Nate Kuhrt 18 The Deliveryman’s Journey, Anurag Modak 20 Aortic Valve Stenosis - A Haiku, Huzaifa A. Shakir 21 Burning with Ecstasy, Michael Teters 21 A Pandemic World, Emmaleigh Hauk 22 Tick-Tock, Sarah Healy 22 Psychosis, Nivetha Srinivasan 23 Five Years, Mubashir Shabil Billah 24 Heron, Robert Maressa 25 Waiting, Robert Maressa 25 Broad St., Jake Mariani 25 Be Like The Sea, Self-Care, Debra Rocco 26 Wild Composure, Brandon Smith 27

The Destination Fighting Corona, Sneha Manikandan

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From Up Above, Mubashir Shabil Billah 30 Heavy is the Armor, Sydney Asselstine 31 The Clinic, Jake Mariani 31 Pick Two, Elan Baskir 32 Venomous Arrest, Chaden Noureddine 33 When I Die, Veer Patel 34 The Evening Hour, John Kostis 35 Getting to Know the Person Behind Our Patient, Samantha Glotfelty 36 Nursing Home Puppy Therapy, Lauren Potash 38

THE origin

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For Delivery Acryclic

Yasmin Abedin, MD, MPH PGY-4, Department of Obstetrics, Gynecology, and Reproductive Health Rutgers New Jersey Medical School

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Miracle of Life Photography, Pumpkin Carving

Nivetha Srinivasan MD Class of 2023 Rutgers New Jersey Medical School

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Lullaby

Acryclic on Canvas

Aqueena Fernandez Student, Women’s Health Institute Rutgers Robert Wood Johnson Medical School

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Mosaic Man Acrylic on Canvas

Aqueena Fernandez Student, Women’s Health Institute Rutgers Robert Wood Johnson Medical School

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Autism

Acrylic on Canvas

Yunjin Lee PharmD Class of 2025 Rutgers University Ernesto Mario School of Pharmacy

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The Journey

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Empower Your Thoughts Pencil Sketch

Ankita Punetha Postdoctoral Fellow in Microbiology, Biochemical & Molecular Genetics Rutgers New Jersey Medical School

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A Perspective on Liberty Photography

On a winter night, I sat down in Battery Park to watch the scenery at dusk. I noticed the man in the photo looking in the same direction, towards the Statue of Liberty. The concept of “Liberty” came to my mind, but as a foreign physician on a visa. Then, I thought about my patients. I am a foreigner in this country, but my patients are foreigners in the hospital, and some of them are foreigners in a hospital in a foreign country. Even if our situations may be different, I grasped a bit more about how my patients may feel.

Jorge Aldo Barajas-Ochoa, MD PGY-3, Internal Medicine Rutgers New Jersey Medical School

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Untitled Each step sent an echo down the dimly lit, locker-lined hall that was in stark contrast to the glass buildings we passed before entering. The old hall would probably be more fit for a school like Hogwarts rather than a modern hospital littered with Au Bon Pains, 8-year-old me thought, having just seen the most recent Harry Potter. I looked left and right, taking everything in before our guide, Dr. Z, a woman maybe 50 years old wearing a long, white coat, promptly stopped. She held open a door, corralling my mom, who was pushing my wheelchair-bound brother, Greg, and I into the auditorium.

“This is where we will be presenting Greg’s case!” exclaimed Dr. Z, “The first-year students love it when we are able to have guests.”

I knew Greg was special, but I hadn’t really thought much of it. Beyond having to take handicap entrances and sometimes getting to cut the line for rides at amusement parks, to me, he was simply my older brother. Like any brother, I loved him. But I would also frequently get annoyed when he’d poke me on long drives or shout during my favorite TV show.

Eventually, the students piled in. I promptly slouched down in my seat in the front row, trying my best to blend in with the wooden chair and not be noticed. My mom and Greg sat front and center with Dr. Z. Once the crowd settled, Dr. Z flashed through a bunch of slides listing physical traits, each of which described Greg.

Low hanging ears; a large gap between his eyes; unable to walk...

According to her, all of these characteristics suggested a genetic mutation, but the location of said mutation eluded her and her colleagues for over two years. It wasn’t until after his second birthday - Greg’s initial life expectancy provided to my parents (which he has since long exceeded as we hope to celebrate his 30th birthday this coming November) - that he was diagnosed with Wolf–Hirschhorn Syndrome, or the abbreviated name my mom told me later that afternoon, 4p-.

At the conclusion of the talk, my mom played a song she had written for Greg on guitar: Heaven in Your Eyes. After a sufficient standing ovation, most students subsequently lined the side of the auditorium. The line started moving, with each student eventually passing in front of us to share a brief word.Most were simple: ‘Thank you for taking the time to speak with us’; some were compliments regarding my mom’s song or questions about Greg, and fewer were open-ended conversation starters.

I remember one student asking me directly, “So how has it been growing up with Greg?”

Although a fairly straightforward question, I returned him a blank stare. It wasn’t something I’d given much thought, and no one had asked before. Having Greg as a brother definitely presented challenges that wouldn’t be considered normal - some minor, like always having to leave ten minutes early for soccer practice to make sure there was time to unload Greg from the car and set up his wheelchair, and some major, like being ordered out of the house and sent to a neighbor’s for the night while my mom patiently waited for EMTs to arrive as Greg suffered through an intense seizure on the floor - but does normal even exist?

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Untitled (continued) “It’s been fine,” I said, adding further comments about how my parents did a great job making sure my oldest brother, David, and I were able to pursue our hobbies and experience everything commonly associated with childhood.

Thinking about it now, I’d like to change my answer: it’s been great, much better than fine.

Although his lessons weren’t explicit, Greg taught us all a lot and forced us to take nothing for granted. For example, when you have a brother unable to walk, you have a deep appreciation for being able to run - I think this was part of the reason both David and I ran track & field in college. On a similar train of thought, we made sure to celebrate every accomplishment, small or large.

Later in my childhood, I remember sitting and watching Monk, my favorite TV show at the time; Greg joined me, being laid on the carpet nearby. Just after shouting during a critical part of the show, for the second time, he sat up.

This was new. Although the feat was commonly achieved by a 7 to 9-month-old baby, many cheers ensued, and my mom patronized him for hours to try and get him to do it again once my dad returned from work.

Joining the rest of the world, the past year has been stressful. For our family, we’ve been particularly concerned with relation to Greg and Covid-19. Due to his condition, Greg has limited lung capacity as well as poor kidney function; we suspected the virus would be a death sentence if he were to become ill, and last May, he did. The school & hospital he currently resides at took many precautions to limit the virus’s spread, but to no avail, as he, his roommate, and many other fellow residents developed coughs and high fevers. As luck would have it, he did recover. Moving forward, we are thankful for his continued health, but sad as we mourn the loss of Greg’s roommate and dear friend for the past 10 years.

Nate Kuhrt MD Class of 2024 Rutgers New Jersey Medical School

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The Deliveryman’s Journey O esteemed deliveryman, heed me please!

Where is it that you go in such a hurry?

Why don’t you stand here for a moment, if you please?

Certainly, your body must be weary.

You travel on the same path every day and night.

Do you not wish to rest from time to time?

Innumerable goods, in what amount, to which place, at what time must be delivered, How is it that such minutiae by you are so easily remembered?

Every morning I see you head out in garbs brightly colored, But each evening you return in clothes of hues so faded.

Bearing such a heavy burden is no easy task.

Do you truly wish to do it every day, if I may ask?

Each day a singular question floats on my mind: Without you, how could we have survived?

I recall a time when on your path lay a blockade, A solution we strove to discover for our subsequent, troublesomehalf-dead state.

Upon you, everyone does rely.

This undisputed fact, everywhere, is abided by.

O eternally-moving traveler, of your importance I shall forever preach!

Hence, O tireless deliveryman, with my head bowed low, I salute you sincerely.

Anurag Modak MD Class of 2024 Rutgers New Jersey Medical School

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Aortic Valve Stenosis - A Haiku Glistening white shine Precious pearls in oyster shells Lie deep in your soul Huzaifa A Shakir, MMD, FACS, FACCP Assistant Professor of Cardiothoracic Surgery Rutgers New Jersey Medical School

Burning with Ecstasy Oil on Panel

Michael Teters, DABR, Medical Physicist Assistant Professor, Department of Medical Imaging Sciences Rutgers School of Health Professions

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A Pandemic World Watercolor

Emmaleigh Hauck MS Candidate, Rehabilitation Counseling Program Rutgers School of Health Professions

Tick-Tock We watched from afar There was no time to prepare The virus is here Sarah Healy, Director of Special Projects and Strategic Initiatives Office of Clinical Affairs Rutgers New Jersey Medical School

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Psychosis Oil Pastel

Nivetha Srinivasan MD Class of 2023 Rutgers New Jersey Medical School

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Five Years

“That’s why residency is five years,” my attending joked as I struggled to secure the seat belt on the patient in the operating room. I smiled but my struggles continued until my attending walked over and made me look like a fool as he did it effortlessly. As my five years comes to a close, I think back to that learning experience and many more. Five years is a long road, but it is incredible to see how far I have come in that time.

Residency is different from any other teaching methodology that we grew up with. Through your early education years, you sit in a classroom from morning until afternoon being spoon fed information. Each lesson is carefully taught and reviewed. Every detail is combed over, and hours of homework are given to reinforce the material. Then you make your way to college and classes are barely a few hours a week. Most of the studying takes place at your own pace between the myriad of social activities. Supposedly, it is called “adult learning,” but maybe it’s just a sneaky way for professors to get out of teaching all day every day. Then you get to medical school and one of my friends put it quite aptly. “If college was like sipping at a fountain of water, medical school is like taking a firehose to your mouth.”

Then you finally get to residency, and all of that is thrown out the window. There are no more classrooms, no more laboratories, no more lectures. Okay, maybe there are a few lectures, but the real classroom is the hospital.

It feels like a bygone era of apprenticeship. A common phrase among surgeons is, “see one, do one, teach one.”

I was working with my junior resident, and she exclaimed her struggles with clinic patients. As she prepared for her clinic phone calls, she went through each chart, sorted the patients by difficulty, and started with the easy ones. I was confused by all this extra effort. When I went through my clinic, I just started at the top of the list and worked my way down, not a care for what challenge lay ahead. She reminded me, “You’re the chief now. You forget what it’s like to be a junior. Before I call a challenging patient with advanced stages of cancer, I have to read through the book to sound more educated. Patients realize when you don’t know the answer right away. I have to read first before I can talk to those patients.”

Then it dawned on me; not long ago, I was there. I used to read before each patient because I wanted to be prepared. I did not want to seem clueless when a patient asked a question. I wanted to be ready for what came and that meant I went slower than my chiefs and attendings, but I was still learning. Five years later, I am now the chief. I know the answers. I take care of patients quickly, confidently counsel patients and make definitive plans. Five years is a long time, but it is amazing how far I have come. I don’t know exactly when this transition occurred but now, I am the chief. Now I am the one with all the answers.

Residency feels like an apprenticeship, and I am forlorn by its impending conclusion. It has been quite the journey. From start to end, I have been fortunate to stand on the shoulders of giants and grasp at whatever knowledge I could learn from each. In my eyes, the apprenticeship does not end when I graduate. I hope to continue learning by osmosis from those around me. Maybe one day, I will find a struggling resident and remind them that residency is five years for a reason.

Mubashir Shabil Billah, MD PGY-5, Chief Urology Resident Rutgers New Jersey Medical School

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Heron

Waiting

Remembering the first Glorious nirvana bliss In the weight room Only seventeen and no cares Nothing but a cloud Riding the cloud Oh the vomit and even that Was like surfing on a skateboard Smooth sailing and the cloud Everything was perfect and correct Later in life being a chauffer Diladid small yellow important Perfect and still Remembering those perfect moments You can’t take any of that away With your stigmas and diagnosis And time past and way before It doesn’t matter I was a doctor then without school And who cares I don’t and it was personal And now the shit dope That is killing everyone 2019 and so many dead Not coming back either Because its too deep and too sudden But it was bliss once

The empty room As you first walk in I am sure he wondered Why is he even here For Vivitrol, that will work So he hopes and prays I can just imagine Myself, where he is.

Thinking if only I did not have this Knowing feeling that this Or that will make it better Never asking the question Why is it wrong?

Robert Marsessa Community Coordinator, Care Center Rutgers New Jersey Medical School

Broad St. Someone spent Sunday night turning the trashcans over.

It’s the first day of autumn and my soul is yellowing.

Today I have a full caseload and there’s a mandatory staff meeting on burnout.

It’s going to be a trying day. I may lose my nerve.

Jake Mariani MS Candidate, Rehabilitation Counseling Program Rutgers School of Health Professions

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Be Like the Sea, Self-Care Photography

Take that moment to visit the sea in person or virtually, and think about nothing else.

You have accomplished so much, take a deep breath in and out. Listen to her sounds.

Self-care means stopping servicing everyone and everything and just being in this moment. Breathe in and out.

The sea knows this, as she slides across the shore. Some waves get hectic, she knows it’s just a storm, not her entire being.

Then she takes a breath after the storm and restarts her calm ways. She cares for those in and around her, providing space and nurturing ways.

Be like the sea - breathe in the air, slow down and keep yourself at peace even when storms are around you.

Debra Rocco MS Candidate, Rehabilitation Counseling Program Rutgers School of Health Professions

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Wild Composure Acrylic on Canvas

Brandon Smith PGY-1, Orthodontic Resident Rutgers School of Dental Medicine

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The Destination

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Fighting Corona Digital

Sneha Manikandan MD Candidate Rutgers Robert Wood Johnson Medical School

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From Up Above Photography

NYC stands tall In the face of adversity NYC stands strong Together we fight fearlessly Covid brought us down But we stood up high In this town We will unify 7 o’clock, The bells ring On this bedrock We are strong

Mubashir Shabil Billah, MD PGY-5, Chief Urology Resident Rutgers New Jersey Medical School

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Heavy is the Armor Heavy is the armor, worn every day To battle the unknown, the unchartered – Behind the mask remain unphased Through blood, sweat, tears The loneliness, the fears A sea of soldiers, heroes without capes Donning and doffing Grasping for more brave Marching forward endlessly The light waxes and wanes And at the end of the day – So heavy is the armor.

So easily it’s crumpled and tossed away.

Sydney Asselstine, MD Resident Physician, CentraState Family Medicine Rutgers Robert Wood Johnson Medical School

The Clinic The space is windowless lit fluorescent A waiting room crowded with friends, neighbors, Three generations of estranged family members Looming over a locus of meaning Phlegmatic rags tied round ruddy chins Eyes bloodshot darting in one direction Holding a heap of damp clothes and bones in my arms She shudders as her breath leaves her body My supervisor whisks me away as the ambulance drones nearer Promising “this isn’t something that happens everyday here...”

Jake Mariani MS Candidate, Rehabilitation Counseling Program Rutgers School of Health Professions

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Pick Two 2.

Two. Pick two.

Yes, pick two.

You. And you.

Only you two.

Only you two can go see.

Mommy.

I guarantee.

You won’t like what you see.

So pick two.

Two children of my dying patient whose mommy they will

never again see.

This is a disease we can’t treat, only prevent.

Please—I beg—PLEASE! Stay home, wear a mask, distance and get the vaccine.

And be wise.

Because I am totally done.

You’ll see mommy on a vent.

Spent.

FiO2 100%.

But SaO2 80%.

Status post cardiac event.

Maximum machine and chemical support until the end.

The full extent.

The full extent of her disease.

That ravaged her pulmonaries.

Then coronaries.

A catheter to help her urinaries.

And her final organs to fail: her kidneys.

No visits from family.

Precautionarily.

To keep everyone else free.

Of this disease so beastly.

That is—except for final goodbyes.

Before she dies.

Each child cries.

Many Why-Oh-Why’s.

Why is two the maximum?

She has a husband, four daughters and a son!

How can we leave out even just one?

Not to mention a granddaughter or grandson.

Elan Baskir, MD PGY-1, Medicine-Pediatrics Rutgers New Jersey Medical School

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Venomous Arrest Traditional and Digital

Chaden Noureddine MD Class of 2022 Rutgers New Jersey Medical School

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When I Die A starved student’s mouth waters as layers of skin are peeled like onions to reveal pork like strands of red muscle Fat droplets resembling spoiled cottage cheese cling onto the blunt scalpel that cuts on demand The formaldehyde filled cadaver lab appeases overworked minds while teasing appetites As a cadaver it must feel anti-climactic to feed the mind that could advance science but most likely will only pass an exam I would rather be charred to crisp, fed to the air free of the hungry intellects of students But, how hypocritical of me A first-year medical student plucking nerves like acoustic strings hoping the sounds resonate for tomorrow I want my ashes to drown in the crystal clear waters of Bermuda so I can at least discover Atlantis.

Not stuffed in a claustrophobic box, crammed into the earth where bacteria betray my insides, convert them to gas There lies a bloating body unable to inflate through its casket oozing fluids to stay afloat Is it better to be defenseless against a sea of maggots in a dark box or the imaginations of dissectors in an industrialized room?

Please, just burn me.

Veer Patel MD Class of 2023 Rutgers New Jersey Medical School

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The Evening Hour When the evening hours come I cannot stand my pain my pain melts my heart because you are away My mouth shut to strangers I only want to talk to you and in my darkest times you are sunshine When the evening hours come everything looks different I think that life is ending I want always happiness to give you My mouth shut to the others old dreams get resurrected and I promise you they will come back memories, thoughts and acts of life When the evening hours come I am not the same as in the morning sad but sweet images I see as we walk hand in hand together

John Kostis, MD Professor, Department of Medicine Rutgers Robert Wood Johnson Medical School

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Getting To Know The Person Behind Our Patient While visiting the ever elegant and graceful 93-year-old Dr. Maria Teresa Moevs, the atmosphere within her property felt warm. Along a winding road sat her residence, an isolated white farm home in a sea of green, surrounded by luscious lawns and trees which seemed to touch the sky and where a red barn rested not too far along the drive way.

She had no choice in buying this home, “once my kids saw the brook [nearby], they were in love with the home,” she reminisced, “they loved the water.” Thinking back to my own childhood and the moments where my siblings and I begged our parents to buy our current home since it had a pool, I couldn’t help but feel immensely connected to Dr. Moevs. Like my parents, she immigrated to the US, and made an entire life for herself seemingly without hesitation or doubt in her capabilities to do so. Like many of us, she cherished her family, so much so she was motivated to buy a home because of the way her children romanticized it. However, Maria Teresa was unique for the way she fostered an appreciation for academia everywhere she went, not only for her children, but all those who surrounded her.

Dr. Moevs too had ties to Douglass College, my alma matter, which served as her former teaching grounds, where she was a pioneer woman in her field. There she created the Italian House, a living-learning community for women studying at Rutgers University. She spent so many years of her own life encouraging others to pursue their dreams, my peers and I wondered as we sat along her wrap around porch debriefing from the interview for a bit, what encouraged her to think this way? What about her experience in Italy, while World War II was going on, set her apart from her female counterparts? Why was she an archeologist despite the culture within university at the time which so vehemently discouraged female academic excellence?

“I was exposed to university at a young age, and no one told me not to, so I did,” she accounted so effortlessly.

Despite her simple answer, her memoirs never failed to mention her appreciation of being born into a family which valued education. She stressed how education is an opportunity, a privilege, that not all individuals are granted. Yet still there is something very exceptional about Maria Teresa, which I can only think to attribute to her archeologist background. She seems to love and enjoy everything she’s ever owned, perhaps this explains why education is so meaningful to her. As an archeologist, she lived by learning from everything around her in life, and then promptly shared this knowledge with others. It is her nature to not only explore via education but to pass on this acquired knowledge. This became immediately evident as we walked through her home, which quite felt like my own, primarily full of love, but by way of curated art and furniture with pieces that each possessed an identity of their own. Dispersed within the room I noted all items which either emphatically represented her Italian heritage or stood as reminders of her beloved husband and children. Everything within her home, especially as a former archeologist, possesses a sentimental purpose beyond functionality. By elaborating on the history behind the items within her home, Maria Teresa offered us invaluable insight into her life.

As a medical student who had recently finished up my home visit electives to geriatric patients, I couldn’t help but reflect on my encounter with Dr. Maria Teresa Moevs. There’s something to be said about being allotted time to get to know a someone and asking them 0 questions about their medical history. Understanding who someone is without the context of what may make them vulnerable to you allows you to foster a true relationship with them. Often times our geriatric patients come to us unguarded, and we take them as frail, failing to remember there before us stands an entire life full of experiences, emotions, and fulfilled relationships. If I had met Maria Teresa in a hospital setting, there is no way I would’ve gotten to know her as intimately as I did in her home. I may have not seen her as complete as I did when she had a true chance to show me who she was and the life she lived through the items she collected all her life. Maria Teresa stands as a reminder of the life that lives behind every one of our patients. May we never forget the lives within the people who comes to us as patients.

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2021 Addendum: I wrote this short essay about two years ago during my internship at the Women’s Health Institute and wanted to add an addendum as I’ve recently learned that Dr Maria Teresa Moevs has passed. I hope this reflection can serve to honor her memory and the waves of inspiration she had on young women motivating them to embody her dedication to a lifetime of learning. May she rest in peace and be remembered fondly for the pioneer she was.

Dr. Maria Teresa Moevs being honored with the first certificate for being a WHI Pioneer Left to Right: Samantha Glotfelty, Dr. Gloria Bachmann, Dr. Maria Teresa Moevs, Vanessa Ortiz

Samantha Glotfelty MD Class of 2022 Rutgers Robert Wood Johnson Medical School

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Nursing Home Puppy Therapy Photography

This photograph is dedicated to my late father, Martin Newman. Regretfully, my father passed away from Covid-19 while he was living at his nursing home in Monroe, NJ, during the height of the pandemic. I was unable to visit my Dad while he was sick and I never gave him one last hug before he passed. I do, however, find comfort in knowing he had many joyous moments when I was able to see him. I always brought Romeo, our Boxer, along for the visit.

My father had a love of all animals and especially dogs. My Dad raised 11 Boxers throughout his life and I inherited my love of the breed from him. When Romeo would enter the facility, the entire resident population would light up!

Everyone was thrilled to get puppy hugs and kisses and my father was a proud “grandpa” to his Romeo.

Lauren Potash Management Assistant, Office of the Dean Rutgers School of Public Health

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Back Cover: Saying Goodbye, Acrylic Tasmima Tazin MD Class of 2023 Rutgers New Jersey Medical School