LITERATURE & VISUAL ARTS JOURNAL
VOLUME XIII • 2020
Cover Art “Herder of None� by Sarah Cox, Long School of Medicine Class of 2023 Photograph taken with a Canon 77D at Lake Natron, Tanzania.
For entry guidelines, to view past journals, and for more information about joining a committee, visit: https://www.texashumanities.org/literature-art/connective-tissue/ Contact the CT Editorial Staff at connectivetissuejournal@gmail.com
The works published in this journal were selected based on their artistic and literary merit and do not reflect the personal views of UT Health San Antonio, the Center for Medical Humanities &Ethics, or the editorial staff.
VOLUME XIII • 2020 EDITORS-IN-CHIEF
EVENT COORDINATORS Jonathan Espenan MS3
Winona Gbedey MS1
FACULTY ADVISORS
Lina Mahmood
Alexis Ramos
MS4
MS4
EDITORIAL STAFF Catherine Barnhill
MS2
Nursing Student
Connor Byrne
Kajal Dalal
Maggie McGlothlin
MS1
MS2
MS3
Sanaa Prasla
Chelsea Wu
MS2
MS2
Christopher Zhu MS1
COPY EDITOR Sheila Hotchkin
Rachel Pearson, MD, PhD Assistant Professor of Medical Humanities & Ethics
DS1
Aarushi Aggarwal
Ruth Berggren, MD Director Center for Medical Humanities & Ethics
FINANCIAL MANAGERS Rebeca Carranza Atkins
Assistant Director Center for Medical Humanities & Ethics
SELECTION COMMITTEE LEADS Roshni Ray MS2
Sanjana Reddy MS1
SELECTION PANEL Farhan Ahmad
Connor Byrne
MS3
MS1
Lucas Hastings MS1
Emily Sherry
Phillip Yang
Christopher Zhu
MS2
MS1
MS1
Bethany Pierce
Jesi Picazo Mooneyham
Skyler Kanegi MS1
MS2
MS3
Eduardo Gonzalez
Glennette Castillo
MS2
MS3
EDITORS’ NOTE LINA MAHMOOD ALEXIS RAMOS Editors-in-Chief
We would like to extend an enormous thank you to Dr. Ruth Berggren and Dr. Rachel Pearson for their guidance; to Sheila Hotchkin for her editorial expertise; and to Dr. Jerry Winakur and Lee Robinson for their support. We appreciate the time dedicated by the editorial staff and selection committee. Finally, thank you to the artists and authors who have graciously shared their work and made this journal possible.
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We are honored to be Editors-in-Chief of Connective Tissue during our final year of medical school. A passion for exploring where arts and humanities overlap with medicine has driven the creation of this journal year after year. Last year’s journal sought to bring much-needed awareness to the issue of environmental health. This year, we decided to highlight a different challenge facing our world today. In doing so, many questions arose. When we think of refugees, immigrants, migrants, or asylum seekers, what immediately comes to mind? What does it mean to be portrayed in the media as an Other? As health care professionals, can we look beyond our own experiences and biases, and truly empathize with the Other? In our search for a proper title encompassing what all these questions conjure, we landed on “Crossing Borders.” Our theme not only refers to literal borders but aims to look past our preconceived and unconscious biases as they pertain to displaced people. It is our hope that in this issue, we can offer a glimpse of the diverse experiences inside our own community. In highlighting these incredible journeys, we have the capacity to accept our differences as a natural part of our shared humanity. To regard each human life as equally worthy of compassion, safety and well-being, whether here in the United States or thousands of miles away, is not solely our duty as medical professionals but as humans as well. As proof of us all sharing extensive similarities, we received an unprecedented number of submissions - more than 200 pieces of artwork, photography, and writing from the UT Health San Antonio community. Each submission, in its unique way, conveys its own perspective on a different part of the world. We hope this issue accentuates how medical professionals can provide culturally aware and cognizant health care, all while crossing borders.
Lina Mahmood
Alexis Ramos
Editor-in-Chief, Connective Tissue Vol. 13 Long School of Medicine, Class of 2020
Editor-in-Chief, Connective Tissue Vol. 13 Long School of Medicine, Class of 2020
DEDICATION
Graduating fourth-year medical students cross the border into intern year — our first year as qualified physicians—with excitement and a healthy dose of anxiety. Our class also crosses into the unknown amid a pandemic whose outcome we cannot fully predict. We’ve had our share of unexpected changes this year: suspension of our clinical rotations, initiation of online lectures, cancellation of student celebrations and ceremonies, delays in licensing exams, and postponement of weddings and travel. These changes, however, pale in comparison to the sacrifices made by those who have walked before us across the border into essential work. Physicians, nurses, respiratory therapists, medical technologists, custodial staff, lab technicians, non-health care workers in the food industry, and more don’t have the luxury of sheltering, working from home, or social distancing. Every day, they risk their own and their families’ well-being in order to care for patients and society. In past Connective Tissue journals, we have often published the following statement: “The faculty, staff, and students of the UT Health Science Center at San Antonio are one body with one common mission: ‘We make lives better.’” This sentiment rings truer today than ever before. We would like to dedicate this issue to YOU. To the health care worker unsure of the future but walking boldly toward danger every day. To the heroes of the pandemic and their unseen sacrifices that keep society afloat. To all that you continue to do to serve patients and share hope at a time when fear and doubt pervade our world. We cannot begin to express our sincerest gratitude for your commitment and unrelenting efforts to care for your patients. This journal aims to provide the fiber that binds us; to draw out and reunite all the artistic and literary minds of our community; and to bring together all fields of health care and science with one Connective Tissue. Soon enough, we will join you in your work of essential service. For now, although we may seem physically distant, the world is sending well wishes and good health. We hope to connect with you, however briefly, through Connective Tissue. Lina Mahmood and Alexis Ramos Editors-in-Chief Long School of Medicine, Class of 2020
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GLOBAL CONNECTION: IRAQ A Loss to History Aws Al Dabbagh Friend of UT Health San Antonio
(Left and Center) The completely destroyed remains of the leaning minaret, called Al-Hadba’ ("the hunchback"), which constitutes part of the Great Mosque of Al-Nuri (green dome). The minaret was bombed during the battle between Iraqi forces and ISIS in 2017. Before then, the mosque had endured many conflicts and hostilities over 850 years. (Middle Right) Our Lady of the Hour Church, Kaneesat Al-Sa’aa, a Catholic church in central Mosul built around the 19th century. It was partially bombed during the Iraq War in 2006, then looted and further destroyed in 2016 by ISIS. Both were considered significant historical sites in the city of Mosul, Iraq.
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Survivor
Aws Al Dabbagh Friend of UT Health San Antonio
Remember Iraq? Lina Mahmood Long School of Medicine, Class of 2020
Even though there have been anti-government protests since October 2019, there isn’t much mention of Iraq in the news. Not too long ago, the Iraq War occupied every major U.S. news network, later replaced by the rise of “Daesh” (a.k.a. ISIS) in the region, with the dominant story being Daesh overtaking Mosul, a major city in Iraq in 2014. News anchors bring in “Middle East analysts” and “global experts,” who discuss the imminent ISIS threat to the U.S. They analyze in detail how this relates to Islam. How come the people of Mosul are just letting Daesh into their city? You know what, let’s just send in some bombs to stave off the threat from the U.S. But no one talks about the everyday people, Christians and Muslims, who, if lucky, are anxiously trapped in their homes, constantly in fear for the lives of their children and the loss of their livelihoods. Anytime, Daesh can knock on their door, claim they don’t own their house, then proceed to evict them and their family from their home, not even allowing them to keep their possessions. No one talks about students, who lost years of education because their schools are closed. No one talks about the agony people felt at the loss of several beloved monuments, symbols of an incredibly rich ancient history that sadly no longer exists. No one talks about the absolute terror we felt waiting for news from family, listening intently to their updates, relying on scant U.S. coverage on the state of the city under siege, wanting to go there and see our families but being trapped on the other side. Watching and waiting. Every. Single. Day. While Mosul was “freed” from Daesh, civilian houses and the city’s infrastructure were bombed indiscriminately. A worker in a traditional market (Souk) in the old part of Mosul post-liberation from ISIS rule. Amidst the wars and destruction over the past 20 years, the people of Mosul will continue to persevere. Our lives go on with the hope of a better future…
On the news, Iraq is as good as freed. The Iraq War is simply a “mistake” on the periphery. A costly mistake for the U.S., of course. No one talks about what it cost, and continues to cost, Iraq.
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CONTENTS AWARDS P PHOTOGRAPHY
L LITERATURE
A VISUAL ARTS
55
WINNER
WINNER
WINNER
WINNER
10 Calm After the Storm
11 Dear Ryan
9 Immaculate
12 Humanity.
Michael Grzeskowiak, MD
Caitlin Castle, MD
Neil D’Souza, MD
Aarushi Aggarwal
HONORABLE MENTION
HONORABLE MENTION
HONORABLE MENTION
55-WORD STORIES
HONORABLE MENTION
14 Step by Step
15 River of Blood
13 Layers
12 Migrant Medical Clinic
Katharina Tosti
Chara Booker Rodriguez, DPT
Amanda Means
Sadie Trammell Velasquez, MD
COMMITTEE SELECTIONS L L L
The San Antonio Refugee Health Clinic Maria Morrow, Roshni Ray, Sijil Patel
Beyond the Border Mo Saidi, MD
At the Western Wall
Bars
P
Palenqueras
L A L
Keerthana Pakanati
Gabriela Guerrero
A Day in the Life of a Refugee Muslima Razaqyar
Goodbye Bao-Quynh Julian, MD Jessica Hill
A L
A Healable Child
Jonathan Espenan
Jessica Hill
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Aerosolized Dream Amena Qavi
"The Intelligent, Important and Beautiful Girls of Guatemala"
27
L
Foreigner Roshni Ray
28
P
Perspective is Everything
29
P
Las niñas de Santa Rosa
A
Lagdi Lahore Di
16
Cameron Holmes
17
18 19
L
30
Gabriela Guerrero
Sijil Patel
When They Align
31 32
Aarushi Aggarwal
20
22
P
Matriarch
A
Reverberate
33
Averi White
34
Jonathan Espenan
Care the Most PICU
P
16
Dadi Sanaa Prasla
P
Aarushi Aggarwal
Mo Saidi, MD
A
L
8
23
L 24
A
Water Balloon
35
Glory Hughes
Inspiration
36
Bao-Quynh Julian, MD
25
P
Elements and seasons
A
Natural Beauty
26
37
Meredith Hosek Amanda Means
38
A A L P
L
39
Rebirth Neil D’Souza, MD
40
The Moirai
P
J. Rolla
41
Fond Greetings
A
Sarah Cox
55
42
P
L
P P
Milky Way Galaxy over an Abandoned Adobe Home on the Border
A 43
44
Cassandra Jones
Brain Death
45
25 Years Michael Grzeskowiak, MD
Retrospection
A Lion’s Eyes
P
53
Borders: Right Chest and Arm
54
Barrington Hwang, MD
A
65
66
A
La Calavera
55
There is Always Something More
Nichole Henkes
55
So He Fights
67
Cameron Holmes
67
Lilac-Breasted Roller
56
P
Untitled
68
57
P
Elizabeth Stewart
Paula Lorena Perez
L
War At My Windowpane
Rio Grande Walls at the Santa Elena Canyon on the Border
Pen and Paper
58
Chase Ballard
I Am.
59
Emily Sherry
A
Beyond the Border
70
Christian Jacobsen
P
Untitled
71
Kajal Dalal
Parrot Tulips
55
A Tomorrow will be good
61
Evan Saenger, MD
62
Alissa Hall
Lived With Pain, Resting In Peace
73
Zachary Kahlenberg
49
A Brainy Weather
72
Paula Lorena Perez
Corina Badillo
P PHOTOGRAPHY
69
Richard Usatine, MD
Edward Harris
P
A VISUAL ARTS
The Interchange of the Mighty
Averi White
45
48
64
Emily Sherry
55
Criminal
Lighting the Way Forward
Sarah Cox
A Untitled watercolor no. 26 60
Reality
63
Sujaan Lal
47
Maggie McGlothlin
L LITERATURE
52
46
Jun Song, MD
Vinh-Son Nguyen
P
Maggie McGlothlin
L
Tree of Life
Rapid Urbanization
Still Life: Fresh Summer Figs Essential
L A
51
Elizabeth Allen
Cassie Chan, MD 55
Without Borders
Sammar Ghannam
How far would you go to come back?
A Jail Cell Reexamined Emily Sherry
Mikaela Miller
Richard Usatine, MD
A
P
Holly Ratcliff
Dorothy Long Parma, MD
P
50
Road to Mbale
L
55
Appearances Can Be Deceiving
73
Anonymous
55 55-WORD
STORY
The 55-word story is a form of “micro” literature that provides an opportunity for time-efficient reflection and serves as a tool for self-care. Over the past five years, hundreds of students, residents, and faculty have participated in Project 6-55, a reflective writing workshop that teaches this approach to narrative medicine.
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“CROSSING BORDERS” FEATURE THE SAN ANTONIO REFUGEE HEALTH CLINIC Maria Morrow, Roshni Ray, Sijil Patel 2019 SARHC Medical Student Leaders
The San Antonio Refugee Health Clinic (SARHC) serves the estimated 4,000 refugees living in Northwest San Antonio. The patients come uprooted from their homes due to political instability and violence. The largest portion of SARHC patients are from the Middle East, South Asia, and Africa; they speak a wide variety of languages ranging from Arabic and Pashto to Burmese and Hindi, to name a few.
Wellness Nights, which have tripled in attendance since their implementation in January 2019, and weekly oral health care screenings, which include a biannual procedural event with the UT Health San Antonio Christian Medical-Dental Association student organization. Under the supervision of 16 faculty mentors, 250 students volunteer over 2,000 hours per year. These students learn to work in interprofessional teams and to identify and meet the needs of diverse and underserved Many barriers prevent SARHC patients from health populations. care, including lack of insurance, financial resources, interpretation and transportation, as SARHC is one of six free Student-Faculty well as culturally insensitive care. Chief among Collaborative Practice (SFCP) clinics organized by these are language barriers. Inability to the UT Health San Antonio Center for Medical communicate can prevent patients from making Humanities & Ethics. SARHC, among the other appointments, describing symptoms, SFCP clinics, serves the dual purpose of providing understanding diagnoses, and complying with much-needed health care to some of the most treatment plans. vulnerable people in our San Antonio community while inspiring future health professionals to work SARHC is incredibly fortunate to have in-person with underserved populations. interpreters from the San Antonio community, as well as a phone interpretation service to cover any For the refugee community, crossing borders is gaps. The long-term goal is to bridge refugee associated with trauma. It means leaving behind patients to the American health care system so homes, family and the lives they’ve always known. they can achieve the best possible health for Crossing borders comes with inevitable change and themselves and their families. uncertainty, but at SARHC we work to ensure that crossing borders is more representative of safety SARHC typically sees 500 patients annually, and opportunity, rather than fear and judgment. addressing immediate needs and connecting them We value compassion, kindness, empathy and, to the larger health care system. Specific care most importantly, an emphasis on cultural offered also includes monthly Mental Health humility. 8
WINNER, VISUAL ARTS
Immaculate Neil D’Souza, MD PGY3, Department of Radiation Oncology
Oil on linen, 16x20in
9
WINNER, PHOTOGRAPHY
Calm After the Storm Michael Grzeskowiak, MD PGY-3, Department of Medicine
10
WINNER, LITERATURE Dear Ryan Caitlin Castle, MD PGY2, Department of Psychiatry
Dear Ryan, I hope this note finds you doing well. I wasn’t close enough to you to know what you imagined your “forever home” looking like; I’m sure that if I asked, you would have told me. If it is even a tenth of what you deserve, it must be wonderful. I bet you miss your wife and kids like crazy, and they, you. I’m a resident now (I know, wild, right?), and when I get a page from the ortho service, I sometimes imagine how cool it would have been to hear your voice on the other line. I frequently run into other medical school classmates in the elevators and hallways. After they leave, I see a flash of what it might have been like to see you in the hospital, headed to a case. I’d greet you warmly and get a quick update on your family and life. After we parted ways, I’d delight in telling my medical students about your accomplishments and share my pride in having gone to school with you. I still spend time in the medical school library when I have something I need to get done and can’t seem to get it together at home. I studied for my final STEP exam, prepared for a journal club, and worked on a poster presentation — all things you would have excelled at. I almost always sit on the first floor, and when I look out the big windows, I see the bench with your name on it. I’m thankful for my time, albeit too short, with you. Equally in life as in death, you made me think twice, be kind to others, and prioritize family. It’s not unusual for me to remember you when a question has been posed by a speaker and no one is raising their hand. Sometimes I raise mine to answer, even when I don’t know the answer, because I know you would have. All the best, Caitlin This is a letter to Ryan Folsom (Long School of Medicine Class of 2018), a fellow medical student who was killed just months before graduation. Ryan was an exceptional student and person. I think of him often and remain inspired by his memory.
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WINNER, 55-WORD STORY
Humanity. Aarushi Aggarwal Long School of Medicine, Class of 2022
who are we to deem the fate of another to feel superior because of our possessions and the security that shrouds us yes we are each unique from the other but we are of the same essence humanity which allows us to hold another's hand and pull them into the shroud of safety with us
HONORABLE MENTION, 55-WORD STORY Migrant Medical Clinic Sadie Trammell Velasquez, MD Associate Professor
“French translator? Why?” I asked. “Congolese migrants coming from Argentina,” he said. Two to three hundred men, women, children every day arriving by Greyhound bus from the Texas-Mexico border. Guatemalan, Salvadoran, Venezuelan, Congolese, Honduran nationals - seeking asylum. Three months later, there are no patients. “The laws changed, no one is coming today,” he said.
Volunteering in the migrant medical clinic from April to October 2019 in downtown San Antonio.
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HONORABLE MENTION, VISUAL ARTS
Layers Amanda Means Long School of Medicine, Class of 2022
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HONORABLE MENTION, PHOTOGRAPHY
Step by Step Katharina Tosti Dental School, Class of 2021
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HONORABLE MENTION, LITERATURE River of Blood Chara Booker Rodriguez, DPT Physical Therapist, University Health System Today I closed my eyes and saw a river, A red river flooding its banks. A River of Blood In Texas flows a Rio Grande over plains, carving canyons in red brown earth It pauses in El Paso The pass between large mountain ranges, El Paso del Norte: the gateway, a connection between US A flow that has gone on for generations, of animals and fish, families moving, their blood ties on both sides In El Paso we have seen an angry flow, A River of Blood From the arteries and veins Trickles and gushes the blood Of Grandparents taking their grandchildren to the store, Of brothers, sisters, daughters, sons Stains that will never fade It could have been me, you, US They gather our dead, the mourning starts The blood stains are washed from the walls, the curbs, the pavement Down the drain to the sewer that ends up in the Rio and it becomes part of A River of Blood, 20 times stronger The same blood that was stolen from El Paso flows in me and in you. A circular current, a maelstrom. Can you feel it in the pounding pulse of anger? In the red eyes from tears? When will it be enough? What will be the point when we all say STOP, NO MORE? Unless we find the will, the blood won’t stop flooding; Tomorrow I will not need to close my eyes to see A River of Blood 15
Mo Saidi, MD Retired Professor, Department of Obstetrics and Gynecology
Beyond the Border
At the Western Wall
In the fall, the bluebonnets hidden under the rocks, lie dormant. The heavens carry thick clouds, lightning and thunder rule the skies.
I love you, God, I know you can do anything. I pray and beg for mercy. Please save my children make them saints of God.
Beyond the border, mild winter is a break for birds who had escaped cold north, endure long flights coming south. The robins return, herald coming of the spring, young twigs grow, the sun poised, shines, brings veritable colors to the meadows. In April, the moon glows, stars blink, leaves of grass wave in the breeze, the geese unscathed, cross the border in V’s, fly north, Texas bluebonnets open their eyes, and cheer. A poem about the geese flying over the border ignoring man-made barriers.
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Oh, mighty God, please do something about my spouse. Help him recover his bright mind regain his humor, become active again make him a saint of God. Oh, my loving God, be kind to my daughter bring her fiancé home from the bloody war impaired from the roadside bomb please restore his body, enable him to walk, make him a saint of God. God, I’m lonely and irrelevant and confused―I long for love. Please redeem my sanity and award me happiness. Make me a saint of God. A poem describing a desperate mother praying at the Western Wall in Israel.
Bars Keerthana Pakanati Long School of Medicine, Class of 2020
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Palenqueras Gabriela Guerrero Long School of Medicine, Class of 2022 These women are from a city called San Basilio de Palenque. It was founded sometime in the 17th century by escaped slaves who established a free city for Africans in the Americas. This small city of about 3,500 is located about 30 miles away from the regional capital, Cartagena, Colombia. Some travel back and forth every day, while some have moved closer to the bigger cities. They sell fruits and traditional coconut sweets to locals and tourists. San Basilio de Palenque has a unique culture that it still protects to this day and even has its own language, Palenquero, which is a Spanish-based Creole language with some grammatical characteristics of Bantu languages. They have become cultural icons for the city of Cartagena, and their rich history often goes unknown.
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Dadi Sanaa Prasla Long School of Medicine, Class of 2022
No one’s been able to say her name correctly Stumbling over her Bangla name, but she never minds She speaks directly to me, hoping maybe I’ll understand Why she always feels so cold and weak The words sound almost like my grandmothers’ bhasa, but not quite the same
Her jamai translates as she gives her unruly grandchildren the look I wish I could talk to you in your own language I wish I could tell you how much you remind me of my dadi
Bangla: endonym for Bengali language Bhasa: language Jamai: son-in-law Dadi: paternal grandmother
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A Day in the Life of a Refugee Muslima Razaqyar MD/PhD Student, Long School of Medicine
It is hard to explain the reality of someone who has survived a war but lost so much in the process that it is a true struggle to wake up every day and live a “normal” life. One of the darkest nights of my life was in 1999 when we were fleeing Mazar-e-Sharif to escape the torture and death the Taliban had planned for my family. I remember opening my eyes to a bus full of desperate Afghans making one last attempt to save their families and leave the horrors of the past three decades behind. The back of the bus was full of women and children, and everyone was death silent; I even noticed a mother smothering the cries of the infant in her lap. I immediately sensed we were in a dire situation because an Afghan mother would rather cut her hand than use it to silence the cries of her child, and especially because if you know anything about Afghan women, it is that they chatter non-stop when sitting next to each other. My mind was so preoccupied with analyzing the situation that it took me a few minutes to realize that bonenumbing cold that had invaded my extremities and the foul smell of unwashed bodies had woken me up. Just when I was about to turn to my mom and ask her about our whereabouts, I heard a young man sitting on the floor of the bus struggling with matches. I knew soon the smell of sulfur dioxide would help mask the suffocating odor of the bus
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and wanted to take a deep breath of relief, but unfortunately the moment the fire of the match illuminated the interior of the bus, five or six men silently jumped on him to take away the matches. It looked like an epic scene from one of the Shahnameh stories of mythical Persian warriors that my dad would read to us during our long periods of waiting at a bomb shelter. It was his narration of the god-like warriors with silent but deadly battle skills that made months of darkness in a bomb shelter bearable. The sensation of pins and needles down my back returned my attention to the problem at hand. I tugged on my mom’s scarf for an explanation. The situation was indeed dire. We were on the mountains of Tora Bora, at the heart of Al-Qaeda and Taliban territories in the darkest hour of the night, and any source of light was considered a fair target for the infamous Stinger missiles the Taliban had accumulated courtesy of the CIA. For some reason, this news was not as alarming as the numbness spreading throughout my body. I couldn’t feel anything anymore, not even the freezing wind of the Speen Ghar mountains slapping the broken windows of our bus. I was finally going to die; it was a moment of pure panic, but I also found it amusing.
Bombs, rockets, endless bullets, all the assaults and abuses I had suffered that year couldn’t kill me, but the deadly cold of Afghan mountains was about to do the job. I thought about my dad waiting for us in Peshawar; would he be able to at least see my body? Or will it be too much of a burden to carry me across the border? At least I was dying first, so I wouldn’t have to experience the soul-crushing pain of losing my younger siblings. Imagining the face of my beautiful younger sister pale and lifeless was a painful reality I would no longer have to live with. Thankfully, the few near-death experiences I had faced in the first decade of my life had taught me that pain and panic was short-lived. I would experience the imminent moment of calm and clarity before greeting death. Before I could recite the shahada and come to terms with my own mortality one last time, I felt two warm bodies snuggling with me on both sides and malodorous blankets being piled on top of us. I had a short glimpse of my little brothers’ angelic faces and the concerned look of our travel companions before one of my infamous sleep attacks took me under and I gratefully slipped into the comfortable arms of oblivion. However, oblivion was short-lived because someone was trying to wake me up. I could hear myself moaning in pain and praying for death to
come soon, but then I heard someone say, “Sonia, my love, wake up. You’re safe. It is just a bad dream. I am here.” The familiar baritone grounded me back to reality. I reminded myself I was no longer in Afghanistan. I was in San Antonio, Texas with my fiancé Gerry, taking a nap on his couch so I could sleep off the effects of the formaldehyde from anatomy lab. I opened my eyes and smiled at him to mask my melancholy and replied, “I don’t think I will ever feel safe, Gerry.” I started getting my study material ready while Gerry brought me tea and snacks, but the moment I turned to resume my lecture, Gerry closed my laptop and sat next to me. “Are you OK?” I didn’t know what to tell him. I couldn’t explain the pure terror I was feeling with talk of another war in the Middle East. I couldn’t tell him that I heard a medical student say, “Let’s drop some bombs and clean up the mess the U.S. left behind in Iraq,” and how that painfully reminded me of all the nights I had spent in bomb shelters and all the people I had lost because of the war. I couldn’t tell him how isolated and alone I felt among my classmates sometimes. So, I just started crying until I was drowsy and fell back asleep. But the wonderful thing about Gerry is that I never have to explain anything to him. He knows what I am going through and the overwhelming sense of pain and grief I feel whenever someone mentions a war.
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Goodbye Bao-Quynh Julian, MD PGY-7, Division of Plastic and Reconstructive Surgery
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Care the Most Jessica Hill Long School of Medicine, Class of 2021
Based on my experience At the Pride Community Clinic It turns out one of the biggest fears Among medical trainees Is accidentally offending a patient Most common case scenario: You offend someone You are embarrassed You apologize THAT is our biggest fear This seems harmless as students But this mindset continues into our careers And translates as reluctance We are reluctant to provide treatment for people we don’t understand Reluctant to learn how to ask a patient’s pronouns Reluctant to hear where our patients are coming from At the Pride Clinic You may be embarrassed But your patient was in danger Before this safe place
Hiding during physical fights in waiting rooms Or going to an unlicensed provider Because they had nowhere else to go. Hormone sharing that led to major consequences. Self-mutilation out of desperation to change their body. “Trans friendly” providers Who used a patient’s dead name Repeated disrespect, disregard, and open hatefulness Cultural competency is essential But so is kindness And access to care Fear of offense is never a reason To deny treatment The irony is that this fear Fear of offending a patient Keeps the ones Who care the most Away from treating those Who need their kindness The most
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PICU Jonathan Espenan Long School of Medicine, Class of 2021
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A Healable Child Jessica Hill Long School of Medicine, Class of 2021
“But parents” This is the universal response To me expressing an interest in Pediatrics I have always loved kids’ energy The excitement of everything being new But parents From relatives to surgeons I hear how parents are so annoying So anxious Every cough earns an urgent phone call Every sniffle results in panic Why would anyone want to deal with that? But the struggle in Pediatrics Is not the worried parents Overreacting Bringing their child to the hospital When all the kid needed was sleep No, the struggle in Pediatrics Is when an infant is born with congenital issues And you have to tell a parent Their child’s timeline
And this tiny human might die from a virus Because they were too young to receive the vaccine And herd immunity has failed them The pain comes when a child was perfectly healthy Until they were dunked into boiling water And now must undergo weeks of surgical debridement The tears form for the absent parents Having crossed the border for a better life But then forced to choose between that dream And their child receiving health care; Who cries When this child dies in a room of strangers Their parents deported hundreds of miles away I now understand why Pediatricians give a tight smile When outsiders shudder at the idea of annoying parents As if the worst part of this path Is the annoying, caring parents With a healable child
The fear is when parents are not overreacting
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Aerosolized Ambition Amena Qavi Long School of Medicine, Class of 2023
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"The Intelligent, Important and Beautiful Girls of Guatemala" Aarushi Aggarwal Long School of Medicine, Class of 2022
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Bideshi Roshni Ray Long School of Medicine, Class of 2022
Foreigner (Bideshini)
One day, Ma said in conversation, Now’s come time to return back to our home country, Is it possible to return to the home country, When, eyebrows wrinkled, shaking their heads, Both of my countries tell me, You’re a foreigner. Your speech is incorrect, how are you Bengali? Then I want to say, And if I were brave I would, Is there an exam I need to take, To call myself Bengali? In my living room there hangs a picture of Tagore [famous author], I know the stories of Feluda and Goopy Bhaga [Bengali stories]. When I am outside [my family home], I crave mishti-doi [Bengali sweet], I secretly go eat phuchka [street food], And my mom’s hand cooking [homemade] shrimp, I can smell in my sleep. I am not brave, and how can I say they are wrong, What Bengali forgets what to call the number after ten. What right do I have to call myself Bengali? It’s been a long time, since my feet have touched Kolkata, But still, in my dreams, I have returned many times, Those colors, those sounds, you can find in my veins, When the country has always been within me, Can you still call me foreigner?
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Perspective is Everything Cameron Holmes Long School of Medicine, Class of 2021
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Las niĂąas de Santa Rosa Gabriela Guerrero Long School of Medicine, Class of 2022
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Lagdi Lahore Di Sijil Patel Long School of Medicine, Class of 2022
"Lagdi Lahore di" translates roughly to "She looks like she's from Lahore.“ My parents, particularly my mom, who is from Lahore, have played a huge role in defining my identity as a first-generation Pakistani Muslim American. Both of my parents are Pakistani immigrants and have been practicing physicians in the United States for almost 30 years. Despite their time in the States, they have never forgotten their roots and have always strived to have me and my siblings build a profound connection with our home country. They have raised me to take pride in my faith as a Muslim and in my heritage as a Pakistani American. This piece is acrylic paint on canvas. It is inspired by the art on Pakistani livestock and mango trucks that I have seen while exploring Lahore with my family. The vibrancy and intricacy of massive patterns on simple livestock trucks serves as a reminder that despite polarizing views and divisive borders, beauty can be found in the most unexpected places.
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When They Align Aarushi Aggarwal Long School of Medicine, Class of 2022
She had a visible bounce to her steps as she entered work this morning - that inevitable glow that trickles through with each smile given to her colleagues. It would be remiss to say that this day was not eagerly anticipated. Today, it did not matter to her if customers used her presence to take out their day’s frustration. It did not matter if her lower back pulsated with the burden of compensating for her worn-out shoes. It did not matter if she entered work energized by the snack bar that barely squeezed through the opening in the vending machine after she kicked it multiple times. As soon as the clock read 5:00 p.m., out the door she walked with a white envelope haphazardly stuffed with the fruits of her sweat-drenched labor. With her hands deep in her filled pockets and neck shrugged into the warmth of her scarf, she waited for her bus to arrive - never letting go of that cash-filled envelope shoved at the bottom of her purse. The ride to the grocery store was a short one, and for once she was grateful to have the torn cloth of the bus chair jabbing at the back of her thigh - a constant annoyance to keep her awake. As she neared the entrance of the grocery store, she quickly unfurled a crumpled sticky-note with the list she scribbled onto it during her lunch break: chicken broth, a tiny piece of ginger, turmeric, cinnamon, and two small chocolate bars for her children. “That’s all,” she muttered while tallying the total in her head before presenting the items to the store clerk. It was her ritual to count her grocery items in the sequestered aisles at the back of the store to make sure she could avoid
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the slight embarrassment of not having enough money at the time of checkout. She was in the clear this time. After 25 minutes of impatient foot-tapping on the bus ride back, she finally entered her brightly lit apartment. A soft smile slowly tugged at the corners of her lips as she watched her older son help her younger, sick daughter drink a warm glass of water. Without delay, she dropped her purse and coat to the ground, scurried to the kitchen, and began rummaging through her cabinets to find a pot to cook the soup - a recipe that had been passed on for generations in her family. Once ready, she carefully balanced the soup bowl as she shuffled to sit next to her daughter, snuggling under the shared blanket, keeping her warm. As she fed the spiced soup to her daughter, she had faith that this would be the remedy to help her recover faster and ease the pains in her body. She had no choice but to have this faith, for no other option was available to her. There were too many variables that went into a successful doctor’s visit for anyone in her family, and very rarely did they all align. When the appointment would be set and she had all the cash bundled in her hand, the bus would arrive 30 minutes late. When the bus was on time for her set appointment, her boss would threaten her with job termination if she missed one more afternoon. And right when the bus, her job, and her finances seemed to agree with each other, her daughter’s school would call with the threat of suspension if another day of school was missed. So while her daughter peacefully slept in her lap after dinner, all she did was utter a prayer that one day all of the stars would align, and that they would remain aligned so her children would never have to see this same struggle for their future families.
Matriarch Averi White Long School of Medicine, Class of 2020
This woman, the matriarch of her family, spent her life at the foot of Joseph Kony's infamous rock in Gulu, Uganda. I was initially drawn to her kind eyes and wrinkled face; each deep-set line seemed to tell a story about her life. She allowed me to take her picture only after her grandson retrieved and unfolded her wheelchair. Originally stooped over on the ledge of her hut, her demeanor shifted once she reached the chair. The photograph captures the newfound pride and elegance of this family's matriarch, who passed away several months after the photograph was taken.
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Reverberate Jonathan Espenan Long School of Medicine, Class of 2021
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Water Balloon Glory Hughes Long School of Medicine, Class of 2022
My heart is a water balloon At just one thought of you, it bursts Its contents filling every part of me from the pools in my eyes to the well in my stomach with things that flow Like the streams of music playing on drives to school, and the bubbles of laughter from your belly Like our meandering debates about politics, and the splashing waves of our tongues’ friendly arguments Like the cascade of pride spilling from your eyes, and the cloudbursts of encouragement falling from your lips But also, with things that didn’t flow before Like the blood erupting from your cerebral artery, destroying everything Like the tears running down my mother’s face when she speaks of you Like the fear forcing air out of my lungs, drowning me, telling me, like the doctor, that you’ll never get better. My heart was once flesh Warm and soft like your good hand that I squeeze, to tell you everything will be alright But for now it’s a water balloon 35
Inspiration Bao-Quynh Julian, MD PGY-7, Division of Plastic and Reconstructive Surgery
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Elements and seasons Meredith Hosek Long School of Medicine, Class of 2022
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Natural Beauty Amanda Means Long School of Medicine, Class of 2022
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Rebirth Neil D’Souza, MD PGY3, Department of Radiation Oncology
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The Moirai J. Rolla Long School of Medicine
“The Moirai,� dedicated to my sis: Remember the cardboard tree fort hidden in the embrace of the pines, The honey suckles on the far fence offering their one drop of sweetness, The glittering minnows drawn into bottle traps with crumbled saltine crackers, The twitching of fishing poles and red bobbers hinting at the trout below, And the gentle fireflies dancing through the night sky, Just out of reach. In difficult times, I yearn to return to those days, to unwind what was wound. Eyes closed, Feeling the thread in my hands, As it rounds and rounds the spindle. Memories mere glimpses, As they spin away. But to stop the loom, Would be to never see the tapestry. And so I let it slip through my fingers, Saying farewell to every moment, As the thread pulls away. Waiting for the day I can open my eyes, And see the work of my life, And smile.
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Fond Greetings Sarah Cox Long School of Medicine, Class of 2023
Photograph taken with a Canon 77D at Tarangire National Park, Tanzania
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How far would you go to come back? Dorothy Long Parma, MD Research Assistant Professor, Department of Population Health Sciences
1 Tonight, Interstate 10 is haunted. It’s high summer but the moon crouches on the horizon like a misshapen wheel of cheese. Swinging higher, it casts hollow malevolence on the promise of concrete carnage. A dozer blinks Jack-o-lantern eyes at me from the median. Could just be the wind of my passing, but I swear the rigs were singing in Celtic minor key. I emerge from the two-lane ravine expelling a musty breath Relief. The ocean doesn't want me tonight but the Qualitative Methods course does. Hello, Houston.
2 Now it’s comin’ on Christmas I’m back for more this time just me friends for company, music the desire to see if dreams exist in flesh. For this man who’s traveled thousands of miles, guess I can manage two hundred. Was he as I imagined? Yes More – voice and guitar wove intricate tales, light-filled trails from Donegal to Texas and back. 3 Last concert over, drives twenty-five hours straight to L.A. wife, infant son, second home: United States citizenship. Thirteen years is a long time to wait. Welcome. And me? Traveling back West, I’m so transported low cloud cover over Hill Country masquerading as a mountain range. Mi hogar propio, San Antonio.
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This piece was inspired by two road trips; a writing workshop that used mystery fiction as prompts; and one Irish musician and his travels across Ireland, Australia, the United States and Canada. With thanks to Tom for the bone machine; and to Keith, for continued inspiration
Milky Way Galaxy over an Abandoned Adobe Home on the Border Richard Usatine, MD Professor, Department of Medicine
The abandoned adobe home sits close to the border with Mexico in Big Bend National Park. On a summer night, you can look deep into the center of our Milky Way galaxy because Big Bend has some of the darkest skies in our nation. Our border region has some of the most beautiful vistas in the U.S. including the amazing towers of stone seen to the right of the Milky Way. Nikon D750 with Nikon wide-angle lens 14 – 24 mm f/2.8. May 2016.
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Tree of Life Cassandra Jones Long School of Medicine, Class of 2020 Inspired by fertility issues, a frequent struggle many of my colleagues face due to the requirements of our careers. We often choose our careers in order to provide life and hope to our patients; however, we know this career path may come with a cost. A reminder that being a mother is natural and a choice we all deserve.
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Brain Death
25 Years
Cassie Chan, MD
Michael Grzeskowiak, MD
PGY-2, Department of Neurology
PGY-3, Department of Medicine
Eyes upon me, I look upon you. A mother. A wife. A daughter.
He found joy in attempting to pronounce my last name. I smiled, adjusting myself in the oversized, immobile chair. “I had a choice,” he said. “They were going to get my mom and my brother.” He chose to keep them safe, Sacrificing his own life. Ten more years to go, Before they reunite once again.
I touch your hand. No response. Flashlight to your eyes. Large pupils, nonreactive. I test your last ties. Absent brainstem reflexes. “Please, breathe for me.” Time passes. Positive apnea test. I call the time, your expiration. The audience leaves. I am alone.
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Retrospection Jun Song, MD PGY-3, Department of Obstetrics and Gynecology
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A Lion’s Eyes Maggie McGlothlin Long School of Medicine, Class of 2021
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Reality Barrington Hwang, MD Long School of Medicine, Class of2019
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Rapid Urbanization Vinh-Son Nguyen Long School of Medicine, Class of 2020
According to the World Bank, Vietnam is urbanizing at a rate of 3.4% per year. Increased migration to Vietnam and an influx of immigrants from rural areas to the city have caused a housing shortage, increasing costs. This phenomenon begs the question of how can we foster sustainable housing development in lowermiddle-income countries and how can we serve the health care needs of areas with increased population density.
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Road to Mbale Holly Ratcliff Long School of Medicine, Class of 2023
We were racing down a corrupted road for nearly half an hour, driving even more hectically than usual. A moaning woman lay on the floor of the van, struggling through different positions, attempting to alleviate some of her agony, as her worried husband grasped to nestle her into safety and protection. This woman’s pain was inflicted by a prolonged 18-hour labor, and she had stopped progressing three hours ago. This was my third day at a rural health care hospital in Eastern Uganda; I would be there for six more weeks. On this day in early June, some of us were traveling to the nearest city to replace supplies - a 45-minute drive on ruts that scarcely deserve the title of “road.” As we prepared to leave our clinic, the midwife ran out to us, begging us to take one of her patients to the surgical hospital in the city for a Cesarean section. Had we not already intended to drive there, I do not believe she could have reached that hospital - her life, and her baby’s life, would have been forfeit. The midwife, Esther, showed either trust or desperation by handing over the IV and instructing me to keep it secure and flowing. The doors slammed; we were off. As we raced, I studied the exhausted woman’s face. She looked young, but I saw an unfamiliar hopelessness in her expression. I did not name “hopelessness” until months later, but at that moment I knew I did not want to see it in her face anymore. Hopelessness is frightening, mortal. So I turned instead to her young husband, 50
grasping his bride. He simply looked worried, sweating profusely as he tried to keep his love propped up and awake. This was their first child, and they had not planned on any medical help for this delivery, as they did not come to the hospital until the necessity of medical intervention was undeniable. For 45 minutes, I just stared at them. I prayed with desperation for her to be well. I convinced myself with certainty that she would be, that the baby would be born healthy, that this would end up being a great story, because ultimately stories always have happy endings. Two days later, Esther told me the woman had lived but her baby was stillborn. I never learned her name; her son was never given one. In the United States, odds are this baby would have lived. It wasn’t his choice where to be born, and it is not fair. At the time, I thought I should be detached, pretend that the loss is something I would “get over” like one recovers from an illness, the way I assumed all doctors did. After only a semester in medical school, I now pray that this boy’s death always bothers me, saddens me and drives me to compassion. Because we should feel these emotions. We should feel any time someone dies or is in pain. We should miss people we lose. It may be considered a weakness, it may increase risk for burnout, but if that is the price to maintain humanity, then let us pay it. Emotion tethers us to people - people now and the memories they leave us.
Without Borders Mikaela Miller Long School of Medicine, Class of 2021
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Still Life: Fresh Summer Figs Sammar Ghannam Long School of Medicine, Class of 2021
oil on canvas
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Essential Elizabeth Allen Public Relations Manager, University Health System
My skin divides my flesh from air That is its work The rest is judgment Same as clothes Same as house We change our skin The cells shift and slough We change our clothes hands pulling at fabric peeling off fabric piles of fabric on the floor We change our house Boxes to keep Boxes to leave So many things once meant so much
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Borders: Right Chest and Arm Maggie McGlothlin Long School of Medicine, Class of 2021
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Criminal Averi White Long School of Medicine, Class of 2020
I never really saw the patient, only glances here and there. Yet, between the sleeves of bright red scrubs, the artificial lung of the ECMO machine, and the flurry of white coats in the hallway, I knit together an image of the child in my mind: a little boy with dark curls laying silently in a crib. A large Border Patrol officer was always stationed outside of the patient’s room, perpetually bored, perpetually on his phone, gun holstered to his side. I imagined that the Pediatric Intensive Care Unit was not what he envisioned for his career. Surely, this tiny 2-year-old boy with angel curls, tubes and cannulas springing out of his body was not going anywhere. Surely, the child’s 16-year-old mother, who had walked nearly 1,500 miles from Honduras to the Texas-Mexico border with her son on her back, was not going anywhere. The mother was still a child herself, donated clothes hanging loosely on her 90pound frame. Yet, for nearly 1,500 miles she walked, using her dwindling energy to breastfeed along the way. This was not the better life she envisioned: arriving to a packed, germ-infested border camp; begging for medical attention as she watched the life drain from her son’s eyes; being initially ignored and then clinging to her baby boy in the back of a CareFlite helicopter; handing over her son - her everything - to strangers in white coats; and now being escorted by an armed security officer from her own hospital room to the room of her son, who was holding onto life by a thread; unable to shower without someone waiting outside the room. What kind of mother would walk 1,500 miles with her baby on her back only to abandon him? When did the American dream become a crime?
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Lilac-Breasted Roller Paula Lorena Perez Long School of Medicine, Class of 2023
oil paint on 4"x4" wood panel
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War At My Windowpane Edward Harris Long School of Medicine, Class of 2022
The sound waves at my window, from the quaking grenade, arouse my senses to a damp morning. Escaping the twilight zone, my curiosity guides me across the cold floor to the curtains. I pull them back. Seconds pass as I wait for the smoke to fade away. Once cleared, I see the battlegrounds have been serving their purpose. Bullets pierce flesh joining with the heart to make way for death to take lives from the young boys. Tanks crush and footsteps rush as the ballads of love, hate, and pride write the existence of tombstones for the innocent lives that are robbed. A moving object catches my eye. It takes no time to realize that it is a soldier, running, hoping to find the arms of safety. An outbreak disturbs his steps as he falls only a few paces from my window. Huge screams escape his small body. The screaming continues until blood mutes his agony and pain. Steadily, I watch, as the life from his drive escapes his body. I now know he is dying. The last few seconds, which seem like forever, allow him to look at me. His eyes lead me into the fire and emptiness that has been painted inside him. He blinks once more and dies with the flames open. This disturbs me in such a way, that it leaves me breathless, gasping for air. And like a child, I weep.
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Pen and Paper Chase Ballard Long School of Medicine, Class of 2022 When we have the opportunity to provide health care abroad, it is a transition for us – and also for those who invite us in. We may spend months preparing for the trip by attending classes, communicating with community partners and talking with people who have gone before us to help ease the transition. It is always easier said than done. I realized during my time with the Kisoboka Uganda team that rather than knowing everything about a community or culture, it is the simple things that allow us to break the international ice. Something as simple as a pen and paper can give patients knowledge of their medical histories or serve as a sketchpad for children so they can feel more comfortable with a stranger asking them random questions. I feel as though the simple things not only allow us to bridge the gap between cultures but also help us to provide better care.
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I Am. Emily Sherry Long School of Medicine, Class of 2022
am I worthless lint, Or do I have my own fingerprint? I am homeless. What does that mean? A description, state, condition, why’s homeless a definition? I’m in jail Lock lock, tick tock, tattle rattle— ‘cause it must be the homeless guy causing hail. I’m Mrs. Independent —rely on no other because no one gives a mint, not even one cent. We ain’t biologically related —right, cause I’m a drunk guess that’s why I’m dehydrated. Preach it, —I’m high as hell, hooked on crack, hyped on K2— well isn’t my buzz just lit.
is it the biological sod That determines one a child of God? is respect a circumstance, Why can’t you give me a chance? am I a criminal Or your geminal?
has the sun made me so tan You can’t see I’m a man? has a life of survival Made me undesirable? why is my background Reason for your battleground? your feet tread on my bed But are my dreams really dead? because I sleep on the street Do I not have a heartbeat?
But Look me in the eyes You’re in for a surprise
is God’s grace Not for all the human race? 59
Untitled watercolor no. 26 Corina Badillo Long School of Medicine, Class of 2023
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Tomorrow will be good Evan Saenger, MD PGY-2, Department of Medicine
A 36" x 48" x 1.5" original abstract expressionist painting done in acrylics.
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Brainy Weather Alissa Hall Long School of Medicine, Class of 2021
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A Jail Cell Reexamined Emily Sherry Long School of Medicine, Class of 2022
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Lighting the Way Forward Sujaan Lal Long School of Medicine, Class of 2023
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The Interchange of the Mighty Sarah Cox Long School of Medicine, Class of 2023
Photograph taken with a Canon 77D at Ngorongoro Conservation Area, Tanzania
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La Calavera Nichole Henkes Long School of Medicine, Class of 2023
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There is Always Something More Emily Sherry Long School of Medicine, Class of 2022
The visible trauma is not why patient hurts. Yesterday, he sits on the streets and watches him stab her. There’s no stir, no help, no justice. Perspective, circumstance, situation—a prison to some; others are privileged. Today, he shared, and I listened. Patient’s sutured wound becomes a scar, But what material to heal the hurting heart?
So He Fights Cameron Holmes Long School of Medicine, Class of 2021
“Sir, you’re dying of cancer.” He responds with a smile. He’s the sickest patient I have cared for And yet he’s the most joyful. Every morning I check on him And every morning he tells me, ”God still isn’t done with me. He will tell me when it’s time. It’s not time.” So he fights. 67
Untitled Elizabeth Stewart Long School of Medicine, Class of 2023
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Rio Grande Walls at the Santa Elena Canyon on the Border Richard Usatine, MD Professor, Department of Medicine
Our border with Mexico has natural towering walls that create the Santa Elena Canyon. Here we see the Rio Grande flowing through the canyon walls. The tallest cliffs reach 1,500 feet and form this beautiful natural canyon with Mexico on the left and the U.S. on the right. The fierce wind is whipping through the canyon and stirring the waters, while a barely visible lone kayaker paddles deeper into the canyon. Nikon D750 with Nikon wide-angle lens 14 – 24 mm f/2.8. May 2016.
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Beyond the Border Christian Jacobsen Long School of Medicine, Class of 2022 There’s a whole world out there. Go check it out!
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Untitled Kajal Dalal Long School of Medicine, Class of 2022
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Parrot Tulips Paula Lorena Perez Long School of Medicine, Class of 2023 oil paint on 8"x 8" wood panel
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Lived With Pain, Resting In Peace Zachary Kahlenberg Long School of Medicine, Class of 2021
I knew you were in pain, just never the full amount, Always shielding it from others, when others could have helped, So many lessons learned, and so many lessons shared, A lifelong learner who knew how it would turn out, Who is one to turn to when the healer is the one who needs help? Without diving into the personal relevance of this piece, this 55-word story was meant to highlight the struggle that many health care professionals experience when they transition from the role of a healer to that of someone who is in need of healing.
Appearances Can Be Deceiving Anonymous
Two young women One pregnant, a friend for support No English - recent arrivals A stethoscope and white coat walks into the room Nervous glances: ¿ Nos va a entender? He paused, as if to muster courage ¿Prefieren español? ¡Está bien! Smiles of relief, a peal of laughter Where once was a “barrier” A friendship had bloomed It’s never too late to learn! 73
Through creative expression and reflection, we nurture our collective humanity and cultivate meaningful connections among students, faculty, staff, patients and friends of UT Health San Antonio. We are
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