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UCF Arts in Medicine’s Literary Art Magazine Forward from Dean German Letter from the Editors Rx: Death Rx: Reflection On Perspective Angela DelPrete S Dead on Arrival Aryan Sarparast Watercolor piece by – Aryan Sarparast From Here Lauren Richter The Cattle are Lowing Michael Chambers Pathways of Life Michael Metzner Digital photography by – Xinwei Liu Acrylic piece by – Annabel Pino Toward Daylight Robert Humberstone Reflection in Blue Natasha Fortune Digital photography by – Xinwei Liu Heart and Eye Romela Petrosyan Color pencil piece by – Shimoni Kacheria Fragments Angela DelPrete Modern Reality Puxiao Cen, MD Digital photography by – Lourdez Ramirez Working with Death Farah Dosani Epiphany Pedro Vianna Reproduction of Red Romela Petrosyan Vineyard in Arles Acrylic piece by – Farah Dosani Looking Beyond the Body Chelsey McKinnon Rx: Humanity Uniting the Gap - The Heart Michael Metzner This Book Aryan Sarparast The Resurrection of Death Romela Petrosyna Night Malgorzata Krzyszczak Desert Landscape Maha Bano Vulnerability in an Michael Metzner “Invulnerable” Field Sculpture by – Amber Hoang Rx: Time A Mumbai Alley, Monsoon Ashton Lee Season Life is a Song Michael Metzner Digital photography by – Paul D. Schumacher, MD My First Month in Richa Vijayvargiya A Traveler Kyle Kemmerling Medical School Digital photography by – Paul D. Schumacher, MD Perception in Yellow Natasha Fortune What Time Takes Ashton Lee Digital photography by – Lourdez Ramirez Emotions Malgorzata Krzyszczak Digital photography by – Lourdez Ramirez CONTENT Still Here Diane Brackett Uniting the Gap - The Brain Michael Metzner A Message from UCF Webs of Earth Pedro Vianna Arts in Medicine Flow Pedro Vianna Acrylic piece by – Annabel Pino 234 Shaun Ajinkya Cover art by Simon Ho Digital Painting Foreword by the Dean Letter from the editors rt is a fundamental part of life that we all ex- perience. We go through life surrounded by et us take a moment to peek beneath the white the beauty of nature and physical art, music coat. Under the weighted stethoscope and andA the written word, often unaware of its power or deep under the rough hand-sanitized hands of Lthe clinician, there is emotion. As the editors, we impact. Some of us are more aware of the art that is fundamental to our lives. Some celebrate, appreci- have been moved by the emotion embedded among ate, study and actively participate in all forms of art. the pieces we’ve included in this historic first edition They are the most fortunate whose lives are enriched of The Script. Among these feelings, we have noticed through the power of the arts. four omnipresent themes: Death, Time, Reflection, and Humanity. Art celebrates the healthy spirit that lives in us all and adds to our health and wellness. Art can help In this year’s magazine, we have discussed anatomy us make sense of pain and loss. It can inspire us to and the dissection of donated bodies. This is the cli- look at people, circumstances and challenges in new nician’s first confrontation. Do we choose to stifle ways. And just as individual brush strokes, musical empathy and maintain composure in front of our notes and words must work together to make a beau- first patient, the cadaver? Or do we gamble it all, and tiful piece, art shows us how collaboration makes us sacrifice a bit of ourselves along the way? This is a di- stronger than we can ever be alone. lemma every medical student must face, it is the first lesson in death and the transiency of life. As physicians, we spend most of our lives in the world of science. The world of art enriches what we We have also seen pieces on reflection. Our au- do and allows us to better communicate. Art can be thors have let us peer through their eyes and into a bridge connecting our hearts and minds. At its very their minds. It is no wonder that threaded through core, art is communication. our submissions were several depictions of the hu- man eye by entirely separate authors. These uncanny Each year, as first-year medical students receive their similarities and commonalities among submissions white coats, I ask them to describe the attributes of have shaken us to the core. It has shown that though “The Good Doctor,” the physician they want caring our path so often feels lonesome, we are united in for their loved ones. The Good Doctor has become a thought. UCF tradition and each year, the students’ list of attributes is similar. It includes words like compassion- ate, empathetic, sincere, innovative and courageous. Communication is at the core of all those traits. To The theme of humanity is an interesting one we choose to include in The Script. We noticed that many of be a good doctor, you must be a good communicator. That’s why as physicians, we are stronger personally our submissions questioned what it means to be ‘human’. What was most curious was the consistency of and professionally if we engage in and appreciate the arts. They emphasize—as good doctors should—the anthropomorphism in these pieces. Elephants, felines, snakes, and even books were used to describe the needs of the other before the needs of the self. self. How complex the self must be that we may create such powerful metaphors. I hope you will enjoy this first edition of The Script. I anticipated that a literary magazine would emerge ThroughThe Script, we have achieved our goal: to peel back the layer of professionalism that we all see on at our new medical school and that it would come from the students, faculty and staff. I’m delighted that the outside and peer into the existential. We truly hope that The Script has empowered you, the reader, to its time is now. express yourself and that you have found solidarity among others who have endured similar emotions. It’s been quite the ride. See you next year. Dr. Deborah C. German, M.D. The Editors UCF College of Medicine Dean Vice President for Medical Affairs Simon Ho Aryan Sarparast AIM President 2014-2015 AIM Creative Director AIM Literary Chair 2014-2015 UCF College of Medicine The Script | 2014 Dead On Arrival Aryan Sarparast, MS-1 Medical Student stood by his side, as In the pale shadow of death, I was a child. hot. Blood pooled around the doctor ordered the back of my neck, and When I was much smaller, I was afraid of the them to continue. my eyes welled with fear. I’m dark. My father loved to play games and would II hid behind the tail of his weak and I can’t watch him close me into the bathroom with the lights off. streaming white coat; I d--. The room was busy with I cried and cried and cried as my tiny fingers ran wanted to clutch it like a animate bodies moving in along the walls like blind spiders, feeling for the child’s blanket. A large nurse every which way. But he and switch. I banged and kicked the door too, and left eclipsed the small frame of a I were motionless. I sucked marks on them. I pleaded my sweet father to let boy that couldn’t have been in my breath, and held it. past twenty years old, not The busy bodies in the much older than myself at room died down. The si- the time. A behemoth of a lence made me uneasy. A nurse slammed his hands physician cleared his throat, into the boy’s chest repeat- and the gesture cut deeply edly. Over and over, his through the medical team at meaty hands would crack the bedside. The huge nurse something new. His hands looked up from the boy’s pushed in deeper now than lifeless body, the lines of his before, and I swore I heard lips pursed stiffly, quivering. a sickly crunch. I still can’t The nurse took his hands off twist my shoes into gravel the boy’s milky white chest, without thinking of that and let his arms slide limply sound. The force of each to his sides. heave shook the bed frame, the vibration leaving the “Let’s call it,” the physician body of the boy and rat- said. tling in each and every single one of the ribs inside A lump lodged itself in me. I can’t--. The sound of my throat and I couldn’t my heart beat a deep drum breathe. I looked at the doc- somewhere in my ears. tor, and the patient. Back and forth, my eyes darted gphunk me out. I didn’t know what demon lay in the sink, about the room in confu- gphunk what Satan sat up in the tub. I would always find sion. gphUNK the switch in no more than a minute, but I kept I hurried to the bathroom. I How I wish that drummer my eyes closed. I didn’t want to see if something turned off the lights. I cried was still drumming in that scary was in the mirror. When I did open them and cried and cried. I turned boy’s body. Like an infant, eventually, always looking back at me was a snotty on the lights. I kept my eyes I held the logic that I could and red-eyed child. closed. My chest was swell- have enough heart for the gfffkhhhhhhhing in and out, as I gasped both of us and push him gfffkhhhh for air, and I opened my through. Irrational hope gffkhhhUUUU eyes. When I looked at the and desire overwhelms the mirror, looking back at me logical mind, and all that is The disgusting choking sound of air forced out of was a snotty and red-eyed real is the possibility of what the boy’s throat made me queasy.

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