TABLE of CONTENTS That Answer.” SHIPWRECK at FT

Editor’s Note

Zora Neale Hurston once said “There are years that ask questions, and years TABLE OF CONTENTS that answer.” SHIPWRECK AT FT. WILLIAM, SCOTLAND ·································· 6 2020 was a year that came with its own set of questions. A year that took loved ones, celebrations, and opportunities from us. A year that taught us racism is SEASON CHANGE ······································································ 7 still evident and the importance of unity in fighting this injustice. A year that tested our patience, resilience, and adaptability. A year that we may never forget. A COVID YEAR: A WORLD IN FEAR ··········································· 8 Though the year brought many questions, we brought our answers whether through artwork, prose, or poetry. CRINKLED LOVE ········································································ 10

Welcome to Scope, the literary journal for SIU School of Medicine! Often, sci- CALM LAKE WITH LILY PADS ···················································· 11 ence and art are seen as two different entities. Science is thought of as a left brain dominant task and art as a right brain dominant task. We at Scope believe DREAMSCAPES ········································································· 12 no one is limited to just one skill. We find that medicine is where both science STRANGER THINGS ···································································· 13 and art converge. GUITAR ······················································································· 14 Thanks to the unconditional support of Mr. Roger Robinson, we were able to establish Scope in 1993, giving our medical community a concrete space where BARRIERS···················································································· 15 science and art could be explored and celebrated. 28 years later, Scope contin- ues to serve as an important outlet for our community, arguably more so this CHANGING SEASONS ······························································ 16 past year than any other year before. I believe Mr. Robinson would be proud to see what Scope has become to our community. We at Scope are grateful for all FULL BLOOM ·············································································· 17 his hard work and dedication to the establishment of this magazine. IDENTITY MAP ············································································ 18 I would like to thank everyone that contributed to our 2021 edition. Thank you to TWO TRAINS PASSING ······························································ 20 our many talented artists for sharing some of their most vulnerable works with us. Thank you to my colleagues who worked hard to help amplify the visions of FIELD AT SUNSET ········································································ 22 our artists. Finally, thank you to our readers for being present. We hope you enjoy! TURNING TIDES ·········································································· 23

To 2021, a year of more answers. MICROAGGRESSIONS ······························································ 24

Bukky Tabiti, MSIII STATE OF REPAIR ······································································· 26

ONCE IN A THOUSAND LIFETIMES ··········································· 27

Editor-in-Chief Bukky Tabiti A 2020 WISH ·············································································· 28

Faculty Advisors Christine Todd, MD and Kathleen Jones, PhD THE CHING CHONG SONG ····················································· 29 Review Staff Ashay Vaidya, Catherine Greene, Gregory Harpring, UNTITLED ···················································································· 30 Logan Grubb, Stephanie Short, Janet Martin Staff Advisors Steve Sandstrom, Kristie Parkins, Jordan Hammer JAMAICA’S PEACOCK····························································· 31

1 2 VIRTUAL INTERVIEW/COSTUME CHANGE ······························· 33

ASTONISHED ············································································· 34

BARN AT SUNSET ······································································· 37

THE TOUCH OF A LETTER ·························································· 38

GLIMPSES OF GRANDMA ························································ 44

VISION ······················································································· 45

BLEEDING HEART ······································································ 46

NICU ADIEU ··············································································· 47

LIFE FLUORESCENT ···································································· 48

TRAILER TRASH ·········································································· 49

PIKKU HALSSI RETREAT ······························································ 50

WHEN THIS IS OVER, WHEN ······················································ 51

LINCOLN PARK ········································································· 52

FRENCH TOAST ········································································· 53

BAD THINGS HAPPEN ······························································· 54

MENACING GAZE/A VERY BERRY BREAKFAST ······················· 60 Roger Robinson 1934-2020

PRIORITIES·················································································· 61

23, 24, 25 ··················································································· 62 SCOPE dedicates this issue to Roger Robinson, the Assistant Dean of Students in Carbondale for SIUSOM until his retirement in 1994. Roger SOULREST ·················································································· 63 supported, encouraged and mentored scores of medical students during his career, and SCOPE would not have existed without his ICY LEAF ···················································································· 64 guidance and backing. SCOPE is proud to continue the community SLOW REFLECTIONS ON RAPID CHANGE ······························ 65 discussion that Roger began over 25 years ago.

HIDING IN PLAIN SIGHT ···························································· 66

3 4 Roger Robinson Shipwreck at Fort William, Scotland A Remembrance by J. Kevin Dorsey, MD, PhD Digital Photography

In the summer of 1973 members of the charter class and I, a newly hired biochemistry faculty, arrived in Carbondale to begin an innovative experiment in medical education. Dick Moy, MD, the founding dean, was determined to create something better than the education he had been “subjected to.” There would be integrated organ system instruction in the basic sciences, early clinical skills training, no grades and the concept of mastery learning: do it/test it until you get it right. With the three-year, round-the-calendar curriculum starting in Carbondale, one of Dr. Moy’s wisest moves was to recruit a few education specialists to help launch his untested model. Roger Robinson was the quiet leader of those pioneers in medical education.

Joining them was a small cadre of basic scientists willing to try something unique. Both faculty and students were thrust into this new curriculum that was literally being created on the fly, just a few steps ahead of the students. From my perspective, Roger always seemed to be the man in the middle. He could make the pedagogy rational to both the science content module authors as well as to the learners on the receiving end. He was calm and reassuring at a time when metaphors such as “drinking from a firehose” were used to describe student life.

A few years later when I changed careers and became a medical student, Roger again emerged as a steady hand, almost like an older brother who had been in your shoes and knew you could handle the problem. Forty-five years later I can still remember his feedback to me By Ian Pollock, Staff—Library after observing a simulated patient interview that took a turn and was no longer simulated. He helped beginners acquire confidence.

SIU School of Medicine has educational innovation in its DNA, and this has been sustained thanks to the foundation created in those early days in Carbondale when faculty and students who were willing to take risks listened to each other and were gently guided by Roger Robinson.

5 6 Season Change A Covid Year: A World in Fear By Cynda Strong, Community Member By Kathryn Waldyke, MD Faculty—PA Program, FCM Carbondale

Naked branches moan Times never seen Half faces smile Wind whipped hair and runny nose By living men Safe under mask Winter’s entrance looms What does it mean? More lawsuits filed When will it end? Take rules to task

Less getting sleep Keep healthy kid More anxious mind In schooling pod Close contacts keep Zoom classes did New havens find Feel rather odd

More washing hands More baking bread More biting nails Less eating out Hair in long strands More stories read Home haircut fails Still people pout

Watch savings sink Less busy gym Safe margins thin More eating sweets Some people drink Clothes options slim When stim-check’s in Hard looking neat

More people quit But WebEx wear Lose psychic fight Fits loosely—see? Drug ODs hit Let cam’ra stare New record height At cat, not me

More data seen More doggy time Who’s keeping track? Glad wagging tails Keep research clean Less worry grime Take errors back Clean floor assails

Grim nurse’s face Less dusting too Sees doctors cry Why neaten up? New vaccine race No houseguests through As patients die To raise a cup

7 8

Get furlough days Crinkled Love First Place Poetry Could travel, yet-- By Catherine Greene, Student—Class of 2023 Most transit stays Too risky bet

It was love, this she knew. Need t.p. more There could be no other explanation for such passion. Still finding less Each time they met, there was a newness. How long’s it for? A fresh touch, a perfect match. I daren’t guess… He always left her wanting more,

“One bite is never enough,” her friends would joke. Times never seen By living men What does it mean? Oh, they had no idea. When will it end? When everyone else had given up on her, she never let go of the possibility Of the wonder, of the lose-it-all, dive-in-head-first mystery of love. And oh, what a mystery it was.

He was gone.

Her perfect match had left her matchless and her taste buds as puzzled as her stomach, which was now ready to commit treason against her body if there ever were such a thing. As she stood in the center of aisle 16 staring at the empty shelves that once held her one true love, she wondered.

“Of all the things that have disappeared in this darn quarantine, black pepper crinkled lays are gone?!” And so was the ending of a love that once was, and also the beginning of a new mouth-watering romance.

“Hello there,” flirted the Doritos bag.

9 10 Calm Lake with Lily Pads Dreamscapes Pastel By Catherine Greene, Student—Class of 2023

To run from reality and chase a dream is of utmost comfort. Rest easy. The thoughts are more ravaging than the world itself. Tomorrow will come but rest for now. Eyes closed, mind open and free. Head lay to pillow as mind lays to rest the worries of the day. Sleep. Dream. Wonder of peace. Of a world without disease. Or chaos, or lies. Of rest. May your dreams carry you farther than your reality. And may you remember that dream when you wake so you can return again and again.

When the day is young and the pain is new, rest. When the week is long and misery ensues, rest. As these weeks turn to months, And the children grow up, And the loss is great, And the tears are many while the smiles are few, When the reality of the end is too much, By Mary Corrigan Stjern, Community Member And the thoughts are more ravaging than the world itself, When joy hides from morning, and bitterness stirs the night, May you escape into that dream and rest

11 12 Stranger Things 2nd Place Art Guitar Dean’s Choice Digital Photography Cardboard

By Amit Sapra, MD, Faculty—FCM Springfield

By Thomas Hingle, Community Member

13 14 Barriers Changing Seasons Acrylic on Canvas Pastel

By Mary Corrigan Stjern—Community Member

By Glen Aylward, PhD, Faculty—Pediatrics

15 16 Full Bloom Identity Map By Tyra Jones, Staff—External Relations By Megan Freeman, Community Member

When in love I’m like a flower in bloom. Born on July 5 – a Cancer Once you open me up, I’m open all the way. Like PT Barnum and Huey Lewis There have been plenty of men who have stepped on my petals. In 1983. white. Female. Birthed in Springfield the day after the Beach Boys played a show in And even some who have left me for dead. Atlantic City - There have been some who claimed that they wanted to nurture me Sandwiched between sea and boardwalk. But did not water me so I dried up and eventually died Seven years later, those boys brought sun and surf to the Illinois State Then one day as I was out in the heat the Lord restored me Fair – My petals came back, First concert. My color came back, Parents- Middle class. Union. My strength came back High school sweethearts raised by tiny, Illinois towns My life came back Had a code – like Omar As I started to grow I could see the ones that left me for dead started to Stop. Help. Lift. return They cared and provided and drove to places and practices. They looked different but the agenda was the same Stand-up comedy and music. But this time instead of thirsting for the water they had There was always music – Whitney Houston, Bob Dylan, The Eagles, My roots were anchored in something better John Prine, Eric Bibb, Living water BB King The words were few, though, So now what they offer doesn’t quench And waste baskets filled with beer cans. The thirst I now have Something happens to a child exposed to so much aluminum. It’s good to know that one day there will be someone who will notice Sensitive and anxious - an exposed nerve - this flower Feeling his slur, her cancer, his disappearance He will want to know what’s in my soul Wouldn’t it be nice if we were older? Where my roots lie First pretending – He will be careful to nurture this flower Old enough to smoke, sip He will water me From pen and paper to Clarisworks and AOL And I will grow taller I totaled my first car on 9/11 and I went. 6 Chicago, 2 Seattle He will love me and I will remain his forever South Loop He will take care of me and I will flourish Lincoln Square Boystown

17 18 Two Trains Passing Third Place Poetry Central District Wallingford By Tyler Natof Student—Class of 2024 Little Village Andersonville Our first date: Rogers Park you were late and confessed And we’ll have fun, fun, fun to wanting to skip it Where President Obama’s kids went to school and Aaron’s older Fate? brother was shot. Let theologians decide; Where I painted bodies at Pride and Ms. Angie’s son stabbed his I was just happy you had joined me brother on the front step. to share an unknown ride Where I told jokes at the Hideout and was threatened on the picket line. Our lives intersected, so carefree: The sky opened with story and poem. “Whatever happens happens,” An American we’d just let it be Whose sexuality resides in the gray and I never would have known Whose childhood church wanted to pave that paradise to put up a how much that statement parking lot was laden with irony: An American Who walks white In what felt like an instant While my friends are trapped (but was really a year) Moving the blinds to the side we became inseparable— to peek the corner. so I foolishly thought I get around. I see the 11th street line and the blue lives matter signs But tragedy has a whimsical way And dig around in my bag for compassion – control – intelligence of ripping lives apart: Finding only chapstick and tampons 15 in 100,000 who die by suicide, I now sit here You became a statistic to the CDC: With you. but to me you’ll always be In hope. one in a million, And God only knows. the only one I’d ever want by my side

Ashes to ashes, dust to dust, the kindly priest pronounced But this prayer misses everything in the middle, and was no solace to me as I saw your closed casket, holding a corpse only twenty-three

19 20 Field at Sunset In that intervening time between ashes and ashes, Digital Photography fleeting yet vital, you were a catalyst constantly converting monotony to magic

Though the casket was closed, My mind saw you clearly— through our love and friendship we had x-ray vision into each other’s soul

Effortlessly, our lives intersected, so too would they speed away like two trains passing, just long enough for us to wave

By Karen Shear, Staff—FCM Quincy

21 22 Turning Tides Microagressions Third Place Prose (Tie) Acrylic on Canvas By Susan Hingle, MD Faculty—cHOP & Internal Medicine

Others “Yes, what are you Sue? Aren’t you the princess of the ACP?” “We’re sorry but you don’t have enough gravitas to serve in such a high profile position.” “You should wear more feminine clothes.” “You shouldn’t report the sexual assault; no one will believe you. He has an outstanding reputation. They may even blame you because you wore a skirt showing your sexy legs.” “You only got the position because you are an attractive white women with blonde hair and beautiful eyes.” “You are not well educated enough to deserve the position.” “When you talk, I cringe.” “You wouldn’t understand, you’ve never been pregnant.” “I bet you feel guilty working so much. Children need their mothers.” “You are too nice to be an effective leader.” “You only got the position because they needed a woman.” “You voice is too high pitched. It is really annoying. You should get vo- cal coaching.” “You used to be beautiful Dr. Hingle.” By Sophia Matos, Student, Class of 2021 “We gave you the award because you are so nice.” “They don’t ignore you because you are woman, they ignore you because you aren’t smart enough.” “Be careful, nice people don’t get ahead.” “We don’t really want a woman because you are so fragile.” “You’re white, you wouldn’t understand.” “That was a great presentation honey.” “You tired of your husband yet? Or more likely is he tired of you yet?

23 24 (Wink, wink)” State of Repair “What is your role? Oh, you are responsible for the soft stuff. The By Logan Grubb, Student—Class of 2022 touchy feely stuff. Do you miss having a challenge?”

“It’s so strange, your reputation outside of SIU is so much better than within SIU.”

I hear you in the streets screaming that your lives matter, Me Imagining what has happened to make you feel that that’s something “You’re not good enough.” you even need to state. “You’re not good enough.” Police running, sirens loud, protesters scatter, “You’re not good enough.” Buildings torn up, burning, innocent lives meet their untimely fate. “You’re not good enough.”

“You’re not good enough.” Now I want to reach out to you and show you that I care, “You’re not good enough.” I want to let you know that I hear you, that WE hear you, “You’re not good enough.” What’s happened to you here isn’t even close to fair, “You’re not good enough.” Let’s put this issue to rest, for the last time, unlike our forefathers, let’s “You’re not good enough.” see it through. “You’re not good enough.”

“You’re not good enough.” Now how do you fix a country so poignantly divided? “You’re not good enough.” How do you remedy scars that are so many centuries old? “You’re not good enough.” When the fires are put out and everything has subsided, “You’re not good enough.” How do we rebuild what has turned cold? “You’re not good enough.” But do not despair my dear friends, “You’re not good enough.” For as hopeless as our situation seems, it is wise to remember love “You’re not good enough.” makes all amends. “You’re not good enough.” “You’re not good enough.” “You’re not good enough.” “You’re not good enough.” “You’re not good enough.” “You’re not good enough.”

25 26 Once in a Thousand Lifetimes—Neowise A 2020 Wish Comet By Jimmy Coyle Staff—Neuroscience Institute Digital Photograph

To reach out and touch you That is all I ask To hug you or to hold you Or to even shake your hand Speaking on the phone just isn’t enough Nor is talking through a window

Your touch is what I miss most It is what my soul yearns for Your strong embrace Which brings calm and peace Will that ever be felt again? I am not quite sure

But I hope and long For just one more time Before it is too late Just once to squeeze you tight One last Bear Hug Dad that is my only wish…

By Sara Way, Staff—Marketing & Communications

27 28 The Ching Chong Song Untitled By Ayame Takahashi, MD, Faculty—Psychiatry Acrylic on Canvas

Ching Chong, Ching Chong, let’s all sing along with the Ching Chong Song. Ah soo, Ah soo, I stubbed my toe… Let’s all sing along with the Ching Chong Song

Suzie Wong and Long Duk Dong You look just like Ken Jeong! Come on play along with the Ching Chong Song!

We’re fond of blonde, (I’m not brunette, or blonde) Black (Hair) is whack, Why don’t you go back? Back where you belong.

Your face is flat, your eyes are slits… Nose so small, can you breathe at all? Chinese, Japanese, dirty knees, look at these… Go back to where you’re from.

Chink, Nip or Jap which is your cap? Or gook by fluke, we dropped a nuke You bombed our land, you understand? Go on back to China Town

Oriental, sallow, yellow If black is black and white is white, Then where do I belong? (I pretend not to hear the Ching Chong Song)

By Laurie Rollet, Staff—Capital Planning & Service

29 30 Jamaica’s Peacock (Continued from page 31)

By Yasmin El-Amin, Community Member A frightened mother holding a baby crying in tears. The mother was screaming “mi amor.” I now know that means, my love. They got the breathless man out the water. He was not going to be a We had just flown like seagulls into the paradise of Ochos Rios, father anymore. Jamaica. Everyone was kneeling on the ground, my mom giving the man CPR. I felt the warm gentle breeze against my brown skin, the sun kiss my My sisters and I were praying and crying while my mom yelled, “get the face goodbye as it was setting. kids out.” I smelled the salty water at the beach and heard the tall waves crashing into the shore. It was a crazy night, I had never seen such a tragic event. I was thinking this was the best way to start our vacation. Minutes later we went to my aunt's hotel room in tears. We walked in crying, tears streaming down our faces. Nothing could change how I felt about this day. At that moment my mom made me realize how blessed I am. These thoughts were spoken too soon. It was a life lost and life saved. We decided to go to our hotel room first. There might not have been a peacock, but there was an angel watching We were going to get a fresh Jamaican dinner after we settled into our over my mom new home for the week. The week before our vacation my mother was in another water getting As we were walking, we heard an interesting sound. baptized We think this is what spared her life. We heard the shrill of a peacock, at least we thought it was an animal. My mom is not just a mom. My mother sped past us like lightning. When we caught up my mother She is a doctormom, mi amor. had jumped in the pool. So many things were happening, the air was filled with yelling, crying, and sadness. I wasn’t completely sure about what was going on at the moment. My mind was racing.

I could see my mother in pain in the water. I didn’t know why I saw my aunt jump in terrified and pulled back my mother. I heard someone scream, ”get out the water it's electricity”. I had put together the pieces of this puzzle and realized what had happened.

I saw a man in the water. He looked unconscious, he was purple and blue.

(Continued on page 32)

31 32 Costume Change (top) Astonished Second Place Prose Virtual Interview (bottom) By Juliet Bradley, MD, Alumni—Class of 1997 Ink on Paper “Am I no longer young, and still half-perfect? Let me keep my mind on what matters, which is my work, which is mostly standing still and learning to be astonished.”

--Mary Oliver, “Messenger”

Olga’s Huntington’s disease was getting worse, and I was running behind in clinic. It was almost two o’clock; I had not yet finished my morning session and had not had time for a bite to eat.

I read somewhere that it can be helpful to take a deep, centering breath before knocking on the door of an exam room. It’s supposed to help you be more present. I looked at my schedule and took a deep breath. It was never a quick visit with Francisco and Olga.

Two years ago, I’d been the one to diagnose her. At her first visit with me, I’d asked the usual questions about what brought her to the clinic. Typing into the EMR, I did not notice the sudden, involuntary jerking movements. Her husband, Jose, answered the questions I asked Olga. I’d looked sharply at Francisco, wondering if he was one of those domineering partners who doesn’t let his wife have a voice. “She has these twitching movements that she can’t control. She has problems with balance. Speech is becoming more difficult. Her mother had something very similar when she died in her fifties.”

In that moment, my mind seared into laser focus, and I discarded my suspicions about Jose. Huntington’s chorea? I had met patients with Huntington’s disease when I did my neurology rotation as a medical student, but as a family doc, I'd never been the one to diagnose it. Francisco and Olga, raised in a village in Mexico, had no name for this tragic, degenerative illness, this aberrant gene that had taken her By Alexandria Wellman, Student—Class of 2021 mother and afflicted her older sister. I labeled it, this incurable curse that would take her speech and her independence, but I would not be

33 34 able to do much more. (Continued from page 35)

And now it’s two years later. A neurologist has confirmed the My eyes welled up. I looked at Francisco and Olga, and ran the mental diagnosis. There has been an aspiration pneumonia and a feeding time-lapse imagery in reverse. I saw them, young and laughing and in tube, and a progressive loss of function. A charitable organization has love. I thought about how it required two buses for Francisco to bring provided a wheelchair. Our social worker has gone to great lengths to Olga to our clinic, in her wheelchair. Two different buses and a train to get coupons for diabetic feeding tube supplements, bus passes for get to the specialist, who could only prescribe Prozac and muscle clinic visits, and warm blankets for the days that the heating goes out in relaxants. I thought about how Francisco brought Olga’s younger their basement apartment. Olga’s speech has become unintelligible, but sister, and their daughters, to my clinic, but that none of them wanted to her personality sparkles through. She smiles when I compliment her get tested for Huntington’s. None of them wanted to see the future. new hair color, and rolls her eyes when Francisco reports on her depression. Francisco asks me about my son, and Olga exclaims with I wrote the prescription for Viagra. I gave Francisco and Olga each a approving nods of her head at the most recent picture on my phone. new dose of insulin and made them new appointments for ophthalmology. As he trundled her off in the wheelchair, I wondered Francisco has problems of his own; he’d become my patient as well. A whether someday, if I have a feeding tube and need a wheelchair, my genteel man with an easy smile and only a few remaining teeth, he’d partner might ask his doctor for Viagra to be with me. undergone quadruple bypass surgery a few years back and survived two bouts of pancreatitis. The warmth of his brown eyes belied the severity of his retinopathy.

Our visit followed its usual format: labs, medicines, transportation difficulties, rescheduling missed appointments. Some of the specialists at my hospital used to rotate with me as med students; sometimes I call them up and ask them if they can squeeze someone in, a special case, someone who really needs help. At the end of the visit, Jose took me aside.

“Me puede recetar un poco de Viagra?”

The lift of my eyebrow must have been more perceptible than I’d hoped. Francisco hurried to explain. “You might be surprised that we are having sex, or maybe you think it’s wrong, in her condition.” I looked at him quizzically, waiting for more. “But Olga is the love of my life, my childhood sweetheart, the mother of my daughters. When we are together in that way, and hold each other closely, in those moments our age and our medical problems melt away, and she is still beautiful young woman who captured my heart.”

(Continued on page 36)

35 36 Barn at Sunset The Touch of a Letter First Place Prose Digital Photograph By Ashay Vaidya, Student—Class of 2021

As I awoke with a splitting headache, I could hear the car’s metal roof strain against the weight of the underside. I was strapped into my seat, upside down, with the seatbelt taut against my chest and hips. The deployed airbags surrounded me, covered in glass and blood. “D… dad?” I croaked, looking to my right. He hung beside me in his seat, with his body limp and motionless. As I pressed the red release button on my seatbelt buckle, its familiar click was accompanied by a loud thump as I crumpled down onto the roof. Freeing my father from his seat, I dragged us out of the destroyed sedan and onto the muddy grass of the ditch. Blood seeped out of a gash on my forehead, and as I laid there in the muck, I took one final look at my father as my vision slowly faded into the darkness of the night.

Looking back, maybe I should have been more careful. Maybe I should have had my high beams on. Maybe I should have driven slower. But the small winding country road was a deeply familiar one, with a small forest preserve on one side and a corn field on the other. Dad and I had driven on this road countless times in my childhood to get to the lake for our weekly fishing trips. He was a quiet man who had lost his wife, Margaret, during childbirth. Soon after, he had lost his baby daughter, Aurora, to devastating cystic fibrosis. Against all odds, he had found enough love to overcome the pain in his heart and generously bring me By Karen Shear, Staff—FCM Quincy into his home and his life. “Adopting you was the best decision I ever made, Liam. I don’t know if you know it, but you honestly saved me from myself,” he had once quietly said with melancholy eyes. However, when we would be on the lake together, his voice would lift up as he taught me about different knots, casting, or assembling a rod. In these brief moments, his eyes would light up and he would crack a rare smile.

As I had grown older and transitioned into high school, our weekly trips had gradually turned into monthly trips. 4 years of college had further distanced us, making the trips yearly. One day, as I was slogging away in medical school, I realized that I couldn’t even recall the last time that we had been out on the water. An ocean of guilt washed over me. My

37 38 father had taken me into his home, loved me boundlessly, cared for me, (Continued from page 39) and shaped me into the man I was today. What kind of son was I to let our relationship slip away like this? How could I have let this happen in the counselor’s business card. As I reached to grab the card, my the first place? This realization had immediately led me to call dad and fingers touched the edges. I gasped as flashes of emotions jolted my ask if he could spare time for a fishing trip this weekend. Through the mind: phone, I could feel him quietly smile on the other end. Worry that my patient was feeling this way. On that chill October night in 2019, a white-tailed deer had leapt in front Regret that my daughter had felt some of the same of us, making me jerk my steering wheel to avoid it and causing the car symptoms, and that I hadn’t recognized her depression soon enough to spin and flip over in a chaotic ballet of metal and glass. The as a parent. Emergency Department nurses told me that my father and I were soon Fear as I dreaded the thought of this patient spiraling downward like my found by another driver. She had called 911, setting in motion a chain daughter had. of events that had ultimately saved my life – a trip to the Emergency Department, a neurosurgery to stop an epidural hematoma, and a 1- I dropped the business card in shock and staggered backwards, week recovery on the inpatient floor. When I had finally regained full looking up at my neurosurgeon in shock. I didn’t have any patients. I consciousness, I had turned to a nurse and said, “Where’s my dad? didn’t have a daughter. Worry, regret, and fear – these weren’t my He…is he okay?” Her hesitant and devastating silence was enough of emotions. These were her emotions. an answer. The next day, I arranged for his cremation and memorial service. I explained what I had just experienced to Dr. Rose. She was initially

skeptical, but as I described her own thoughts and emotions in detail, At the service, our friends and family gathered to pay tribute to my her eyes widened. She asked me to be part of a collaborative study father. Beautiful eulogies detailed the life of a man who had overcome with other fellow neurosurgeons and neurologists, and I obliged. They ravaging pain in order to brighten the lives of everybody around him. As conducted a variety of tests over the next few months, and their fMRI everyone wept in remembrance, there was one person who remained scans found low levels of activity in the limbic system – areas of the emotionless – me. I looked around, puzzled at my own ambivalence, as brain responsible for emotion. These same areas fired up only when I if I had just missed the emotional train that everyone else was riding on. touched an object previously held by someone else – a piece of paper, As the weeks went on and things slowly settled down, I felt increasingly a pencil, anything. I could immediately feel the giver’s most recent cold and hollowed out. One day, I caught myself looking in the emotions. While they vaguely mentioned that my condition could be bathroom mirror. An empty husk disguised in flesh and blood stared resulting from “neuropsychological impairment” from the accident, the back at me. researchers could never pinpoint a solid explanation for this phenomenon. I finally decided to talk to the neurosurgeon, Dr. Rose, about this during my follow-up appointment. As we sat together in Dr. Rose’s office, she As the pandemic took off in March of 2020, social distancing protocols heard about my unrelenting indifference. “What you’re going through stopped the research study and kept me at home. I missed meeting Dr. could just be part of the natural process of grieving,” she stated with a Rose and the researchers – they were my only opportunity to feel worried look across her face. “It’s not uncommon after the loss of a anything. As I began to feel like an empty shell again, an idea struck – I parent. However, we have got a really great in-house counselor that called my friend, who worked at the local newspaper. We worked might be able to help you and guide you through what you’re together to set up and advertise a “venting” mailbox where people experiencing,” she said. She opened a drawer in her desk and took out could mail their experiences during this unique year. This way, people (Continued on page 40)

39 40 could have an outlet for their emotions during the pandemic, while also (Continued from page 41) making me feel human again by experiencing their emotions through their messages. Several days later, the first letter came in. working from home now allowed him to spend more time with his children and rekindle his marriage. People were not simply surviving – “I don’t even know why I’m writing this letter. I don’t even know if I’ll they were adapting and learning to thrive. Their letters slashed through send it. I guess that I just need to get it off my shoulders. I lost my job the pain of 2020, replacing it with a rejuvenating hope. today. I’ve been working for the company for over 30 years, and they just called me over the phone and fired me. Over the damn phone. I’ve A few months after starting the mailbox, I received a phone call from an got 2 kids at home and a baby on the way. My wife keeps saying that unknown number. “Good afternoon! My name is Mr. Bancroft. I am it’s going to be okay, but I just heard her quietly crying in the bathroom. contacting you to talk about your father’s inheritance.” I don’t know what to do. I just don’t know.” - Jake “His…inheritance?” I asked. I choked back tears and my hands shook as I placed the letter back in the envelope. The emotions of fear, frustration, anger, and confusion “Yes, and I do sincerely apologize for the delay,” he stated. “Due to the were overwhelming, seemingly threatening to burst out of my chest. But sudden nature of your father’s death and our office being quite they were something, and I was deeply grateful for them. As the months understaffed this year, it took me some extra time to get your father’s went on, letters began pouring in and I eventually had to replace my affairs in order as he had wanted. However, everything is appropriately small mailbox with a larger drop box to accommodate them. The letters in place now. Would you be available to meet in person?” described the loneliness of social distancing and the newfound anxiety of being around unmasked people. Some expressed rage about mask I timidly walked into Mr. Bancroft’s office the next day. He briefly mandates, while others expressed anger about people who didn’t wear expressed his condolences before opening my father’s will and getting masks. Many felt like John – helpless and uncertain after suddenly right to business. My childhood home, a few antiques, stocks, bonds, losing their jobs. Unease, apprehension, fear, and disquiet became a and my father’s beloved 1967 Corvette would go to me. The rest of his daily familiarity as I read letter after letter. One day, a new letter came financial assets would be donated to the Cystic Fibrosis Foundation in in the mail – a pink envelope, with a bright yellow letter inside. Scrawled memory of his late daughter – even in death, he had a heart of gold. in red crayon, it said: “Oh, and your father also wanted you to have everything in his safe de-

posit box. He listed you as a co-owner,” said Mr. Bancroft, sliding the “Mommy got me a new mask. It has Spiderman all over it! She said key to me across the desk. “What’s in his safe deposit box?” I inquired. that if I wear it, Spiderman will fight the virus for me!!!”

“Honestly, I really have no idea,” he stated with a shrug. Pure and unadulterated joy rushed through me, coursing through my fingertips to my brain, washing out the muck of despair that I had I walked into the bank the next morning. The friendly teller walked back, become so familiar with. For the first time in months, I smiled brightly. we turned both of our keys together, pulled out the flat steel box, and I More and more letters gradually streamed in, detailing the happiness was led to a secure private room. that people were finding despite the challenges of 2020. People talked about the joys of small weddings and birthday celebrations over Zoom. I gently slid open the box to find a loose pile of documents in front of Grocery store owners spoke of increased business as more families me. There were the mortgage documents for my father’s home, began eating at home. A college student described how she had taken property deeds, the title for the 67 Corvette, old paper bonds, some up breadmaking as her new “COVID hobby.” A husband described how family heirlooms, and….a brown unmarked envelope. I broke the (Continued on page 42)

41 42 envelope’s seal, curiously pulling out a small handwritten letter. Glimpses of Grandma

My dear Liam, By Kari Williams, Staff—FCM Decatur If you are reading this letter, then I know that something unfortunate has occurred to me. I can’t imagine how hard all of this has been for you. I can only hope that this letter provides some respite from the challenging times that you have had since my passing, like how you provided me respite from some of my darkest moments. When Margaret had died so suddenly, the Aging neural synapses only thing that carried me forward was the prospect of raising and loving Aurora. When God took her too, I was at a complete loss. Act like clouds hiding the There were moments when swallowing the barrel of the .38 Spe- Radiant energy of an old soul. cial Colt revolver in my nightstand was more tempting than living Every now and then, another day alone. All of that misery finally began to go away The clouds part and when I met you. You taught me how to love again, how to see light in the world Brilliant rays of light again, and how to finally release myself from the crushing guilt Shine through. that I carried for what happened to Margaret and Aurora. Our fishing trips are some of my favorite memories of us. On the lake with you, with nothing but the creaking boat and the water beneath us, all of my worries drifted away. I love you, Liam. I always will. I loved you when I was alive, and I love you now as I lie in God’s arms. Remember me in my brightest moments. Remember me as I was on the lake.

Love,

Your father John

His thoughts and emotions flooded my mind and filled my heart with happiness. I felt as he had when he was writing this letter. Tears streamed down my cheeks and spattered the paper. I shut my eyes, feeling his warm embrace around me. Then, a serene happiness began coursing through me. It didn’t come from the letter though – the happiness came from me. For the first time since the accident, I smiled from within my own heart, content with some semblance of closure. I would always remember him as he desired – my father on the boat, floating on the calm water of the lake, a peaceful light in behind his eyes, and a serene smile on his face.

43 44 Vision Bleeding Heart Colored Pencil on Paper Acrylic on Canvas

By Ciaran Wall, Community Member

By Beth Nielsen, MD, Fellow—Pulmonary/Critical Care

45 46 NICU Adieu Life Fluorescent By Kari Williams, Staff—FCM Decatur By Catherine Greene, Student—Class of 2023

I In light of life, Look through the windows of my eyes In the midst of strife Into your world, Don’t forget to dream. Which, for a moment in time, Don’t forget to sing. Life is fluorescent with both good and bad things, Has come to rest in the palm of my hand. So be your own hero, And, as I stand here mesmerized Listen to your heart’s plea. By the wonders I see, Be bold, unapologetic and yet timelessly serene. I am aware all too soon Forge your own journey, Your existence Be at peace with the war, Will disappear from the face of my reality. Keep pressing forward, For you are like the sands of time You never know what is in store. That all too quickly slip between my fingers, But when you forget the good memories, Leaving me with an empty hand And are overwhelmed with fear, And a memory that through the cracks of my heart Remind yourself this simple truth: Forever faintly lingers. You are still here.

47 48 Trailer Trash Third Place Art Pikku Halssi Retreat Giclée Giclée

By Peter Somers, PhD, MD, Alumni—Class of 2000

49 50 When This is Over, When Lincoln Park By Christine Todd, MD, Alumni and Faculty—Medical Digital Photography Humanities

I want it to be a beautiful crisp fall day. I want to fix my hair, and put a little make up on, and wear real clothes. I want to meet you for lunch at one of those ladies-who-lunch places with the white linen tablecloths. I'm having a gin and tonic and poached salmon with béarnaise and tarte au citron. Vivaldi plays. We discuss astrophysics. We finish with espressos.

I want it to be a downpour. I want to wear the t shirt that makes men back up a few paces and my Doc Martens. I want to meet you in a feminist bookstore's cafe where we pile the table between us with stacks of books with rebellious titles. We drink black coffee and plot until the sun comes back out.

I want it to be your mother’s house. We sit on the plaid couch and eat Fritos with a soap opera on. We skip school because we don’t need school. We have plans to take over the world and do it better. We are just waiting to borrow the car keys and for the right song to come on the radio.

I want it to be the ocean. I want to be chest deep in the water, riding the waves. The sun shines on the water and glitters with ancient light as it moves. When I dive down, all I can see is endless blue. When I come By Ian Pollock, Staff—Library back up I can see you on the beach with your sunglasses that reflect the horizon behind us. We are safe in the midst of infinity.

51 52 French Toast Second Place Poetry Bad Things Happen Third Place Prose (Tie) By Vamsi Naidu, Student—Class of 2022 By Kathryn Waldyke, MD, Faculty—PA Program, FCM Carbondale

Sunlight spills through the kitchen window, Bad things happen to people all the time, sometimes one thing, Decorating the room with an orange glow. sometimes a bunch series, Beth began the article. Being a freelance Hungry, bright red flames writer meant she often had to learn about completely new things, which Dance on the stove, heating the pan. was actually one of the aspects she really enjoyed, but this time she already knew some about the subject. She had experiences with My grandma moves, like a gentle breeze, suicide before researching it. These days it seemed like everyone she Towards golden loaves of bread. knew had had experience with a suicide attempt or completion (she I jump with excitement reminded herself: not “committing suicide”--like a crime--or “successful She sees me and laughs. suicide,” now there’s an oxymoron) by someone they knew and often had loved or admired.

I watch her gentle, arthritic hands She went on, So why do some people seem to take strength from Slice, season, move through the air surviving the hard times while others run out of energy trying to stay Like a wizard crafting a spell. afloat? And some people go beyond giving up to in fact ending their I’m glued to the scent of sugar and cinnamon, struggles by ending their lives—but others don’t. They can fight on. The number and severity of stressors is a factor in that fatal decision Its hypnotic, like a siren’s song. but hardly the deciding factor. Other elements factor in to varying And finally, the bread meets the pan. degrees: current and prior social supports, self-care, coping skills I grow more and more impatient. learned from parents, peers, and others, probably genetic influences, use of drugs that may alter serotonin balance and/or reduce inhibitions, perceived future prospects—now there’s a tough one, since It’s done! perceptions are usually quite distorted by pain, physical or psychic or French toast as soft as a pillow, both. Beth knew this too. She had survived the hopelessness once, like Sweet and warm like a hug. being in the bottom of a well, she felt. Way up above she could see It doesn’t stand a chance against my appetite, some sunshine, a cruelty not a hope when none of it was filtering all the way down to her. She could see it but not feel it. And the more she tried Within seconds, it’s gone. to claw her way out, the more dirt fell on her. No way out, no sign of rescue—that’s how it had felt to her. People who have never But now you are too. experienced suicidal ideas or feelings can be completely flummoxed. [Beth really liked the word ‘flummoxed,’ but too many people would be flummoxed if she used it. Fine…] perplexed. How can a person ever think that there is no way out but dying/no solution to their problems? Anything but death can possibly be ameliorated fixed, right? Maybe,

53 54 maybe not--but it surely does not feel that way sometimes. Beth knew. (Continued from page 55) And knowing can be powerful: having lived through suicidal ideas to rewarding times again sometimes helped give people strength for riding giving me more guilt instead of alternatives. NOT HELPING. out the next low time. This writer was glad she had started journaling in junior high, she reminded herself, when it was a hated assignment We seem to know who is completing suicide, so can’t we translate that initially but came to be a safe confidant at a tough time and a learning into deciding who is highest risk, and just screen them, not everyone? tool later. Can’t doctors and nurses trust their instincts on who seems vulnerable? Nope, no magical powers there… Beth had been frustrated at every So older people should have an advantage, but that didn’t always play turn with her research into this aspect. out, either. Suicide rates among young people ages 15-24 have risen in recent years, but the highest rates in the US are seen among elderly Maybe the thing to do was leave the article for a bit and walk off some men, especially those suffering terminal and/or painful conditions, and of the frustration. She took the stairs down to the apartment lobby and those with access to firearms. Firearms. Now there’s a minefield Beth headed out. Beth walked quickly to the park by the river while there had no interest in writing about. Emotions ran way too high. “More heat was still some sunlight; the pretty park became a rather creepy place in than light there!” her mother would have warned about discussing that the dark, sadly. Over the bridge, though, was a lighted path for bikers topic. But access to firearms had an undeniable role in completed and walkers, along the river, with a view of trees in the daytime and suicides, she had found. God help the veterans. Wartime, PTSD, sparkling city lights on the water at night—one of her favorite places in alcohol, access to firearms…the perfect storm… the city.

More than half of people see a health care provider in the month before Her thoughts on the path ahead and the article behind, Beth was they attempt suicide. So the answer many propose is regular screening startled to see someone move just a foot or two away from her on the for suicidality. But the providers scream back protest that there is not bridge in the half-light of the gloaming twilight. The waist-high railing time to do all the things that must be done already, so adding more separated them. tasks is simply not possible. And they want solid evidence that the screening will work, will actually save lives. Some propose that as much She gasped and blurted out, “What are you doing?” as not having time, these providers do not have the training to respond to a ‘positive screen’ (suicidal patient). While most now realize that “What do you think?” he snarled back. “Keep walking, lady.” He tried to broaching the subject of suicide with a person will not ‘give them the sound fierce and commanding, but Beth could hear resignation, idea’, many are still uncertain how to word the questions and where to sadness, fatigue, despair in those few words. Even if she had wanted turn when a patient admits to ideas of suicide. Ain’t that the truth, Beth to keep walking, she was now stalled in disbelief. thought wryly, remembering being relieved when one medical person asked her and she was able to express her own fears about hurting herself, only to be scolded. “Don’t you see that all this is temporary but Not knowing why she would ask it, she blurted out, “Can you swim?” death is permanent?”—pretty obvious, yes, I see…”And what about your family? How could you do that to your family?” Well, friend, let me “Doesn’t matter. We’re up high enough the water will knock me out. I’ve tell you why these questions won’t help me. Either my dysfunctional figured this out. KEEP WALKING.” family is a part of the problem, how I got to this state in the first place, or trust me, I’ve already guilted about this A LOT, and now you are Beth wanted to reach out and touch his hand, to reassure him with human touch, or to grab his hand, to pull him away from the edge. With (Continued on page 56) no real time to think through the implications, she just had to trust the

55 56 feeling he did not want touch now, from her, and would pull away, Beth held out her hand: “Hold my hand. We can do it together.” closer to the edge and to the fall into the dark and the water. “You’re nuts. And you holding my hand is not going to give me hope,” She walked a few steps further then came back and asked, “May I help he said sarcastically, and continued, ”or be strong enough to hold me you?” up, in case you were wondering.”

“I don’t want anyone’s help, thank you,” he growled. “’Your holding,’” she could not stop in time correcting the grammar but immediately regretted it. She hit his hand on the railing just hard enough to seem like a serious attempt, then she pushed at his chest. “What?”

“What the hell--???” he stuttered. “Never mind that. It’s not important,” she lied. Well, not important right now, she thought. “I assume you want to jump off, or you wouldn’t be on that side of the railing. But there you are, not jumping. I can help you get over the last “So what is important?” he asked sardonically. hurdle.” “You are.” “Are you nuts, lady?” he yelled, grabbing the rail more tightly. “I am?” She walked a few steps then threw her leg over the railing. “Stop, you stupid broad!” he yelled. She hoped someone else on the bridge would “Well, you are important to me right now. Surely I’m not the only one--?” hear his shout and come to help or at least call 911 on a cell phone and not just stop to film them with it. She would really like some back-up “Yeah, maybe you are.” about now. This was not in her job training—or was it? The irony of facing the situation so soon after writing calmly about it earlier was not lost “I’m not enough, then? I think I’ll jump too.” on Beth.

“Don’t make fun of me, lady.” The words sounded so sad she wondered “Why? Why am I stupid to do it too? Are you being stupid?” if he would cry.

“No, I’m not,” he huffed defensively. “I’ve thought this through. You “I won’t. May I know why you came here, so I can decide whether to try haven’t.” to talk you out of it or not?”

“Oh, so that is what makes me stupid?” she asked, hoping to buy some “Why should I live? Every day I want to do this, to finish this, but today I time for an actual plan by drawing him into conversation. “How can you finally decided to do it.” His voice strengthened. “I can’t keep putting this know I have not been thinking about this too?” off.”

“You haven’t. You’re just being stupid. Go back over and keep walking, “Actually, you can.” She hesitated. “Can you trust yourself just enough like I told you.” to give yourself another chance to answer this question again (Continued on page 58) tomorrow?” 57 58 “And every day after that? No. It’s getting too old. I’m too tired.” By now their conversation had drawn the attention of two fellow The Menacing Gaze (Top) walkers, who hesitated several feet from them. They seemed frozen, A Very Berry Breakfast (Bottom) unclear what one should do in these odd, scary circumstances, only able to watch, too stunned to participate. Digital Photography

Beth gestured toward the onlookers. “I guess they’ll see our names in the news tomorrow, feel sorry for us.”

“Not us, lady. Look, I’m going to walk you off the stupid bridge so I can do this in peace.”

“OK.” Beth waited what seemed like an eternity for him to put his leg over the railing before she also pulled her leg back onto the sidewalk. True to his word, he slumped silently toward the lighted walkway. She walked silently beside him. At the end of the bridge, he asked, “Which way are you going?” She hesitated then gestured to the left. “I’m going that way.” He pointed right. “Don’t follow me. And,” he hesitated, “thanks for caring, anyway. I guess I’ll be back later tonight, or tomorrow. I hope you won’t. You’d screw it up for me again. But… thanks. I guess.” He stood facing up the river, not back onto the bridge, while she hesitated. Beth was yet again not sure what was right but decided to do as he asked. She glanced at his stationary, shadowy figure then turned the other direction and walked by the river, looking at the blurred reflections of lights and crying as she dared not look behind her.

By Amit Sapra, MD, Faculty—FCM Springfield

59 60 Priorities 23, 24, 25 By Kathryn Waldyke, MD, Faculty—PA Program, FCM By Catherine Greene Student—Class of 2023 Carbondale

I lay silently next to my sleeping husband, eyes glued to the ceiling simply breathing. I took my time with each breath, internally counting A blank pad of paper every inhale and exhale. Each breath given was smothered in just begs to be filled. whispered thankfulness as it passed from my lips, a ritual I had started A pen in my right hand: since the onset of this thing. prepare to be thrilled I slowly turned to face the clock that read 4:55 a.m. Turning my 5 a.m. or saddened or angry— alarm off, I gently rose from the warmth and familiarity of our bed and changed somehow, I hope. stepped into the day at hand. I stood there, bare feet to floor with my If my words don’t move you eyes closed, allowing my aching muscles to get adjusted to their new I feel like a dope upright position. Taking in another deep breath, I opened my eyes and for wasting the paper, looked over at my sleeping husband. the ink and the day; both your life and my life Yesterday, this would have been an ordinary day for me, for us. But have less time to play today was different. I was no longer just a wife, a mother of two small or sleep or grow flowers, children, or a nurse. earn money or say, “I love you forever; No, life was different now. I was a front-liner. please don’t go away.” So put this page down and And being a front-liner makes you look at your life differently. You go do those things now, appreciate your spouse more, love your children harder, and make as “Actions speak louder every breath count. Yesterday, I was just a nurse counting minutes than words,” anyhow. until the end of my shift at a NYC hospital.

Today, I was a front-liner counting my God-given breaths as I prepared to leave the warmth of family and home, and head into the cold unknown and rising uncertainty.

61 62 Soul Rest Icy Oak Leaf Digital Photography Digital Photography

By Yvette Schroeder, Staff—Surgery Clinic By Tom Ala, MD, Faculty—Neurology

63 64 Slow Reflections on Rapid Changes Hiding in Plain Sight By Catherine Greene, Student—Class of 2023 Digital Photography

Still I smile at the thought of late, fast-paced Friday nights. There is a certain amount of normalcy there that just breathes fun. I still lazily lounge in bed on Saturday mornings, Some things will never change. And yes, I will still worship God on Sunday mornings and every morning. No quarantine will ever lessen my faith. What I do not do anymore, however, is the true essence. Stress, rush, or worry. As the world has slowed, so have I. The pace of life is different now. May we all take at least one good thing from this period of uncertainty when our world returns to that rapid Friday night "normalcy".

By Anastasia Dufner, MD, Resident—Internal Medicine

65 66 SCOPE is the property of Southern Illinois University School of Medicine. Copyright reverts to the authors upon publication.

The views expressed herein don’t necessarily reflect those of SIU School of Medicine.

Funding for SCOPE was generously provided through the SIU Foundation.

Browse past editions of SCOPE and review guidelines for submission at siumed.edu/scope or contact SIU’s Office of Medical Humanities:

913 N. Rutledge St. PO Box 19603 Springfield, IL 62794 217-545-4261 [email protected]

Submissions for the 2022 edition of SCOPE will be accepted from October 2021 to January 2022.

67 68