Ting Guo’s poem “Vanishing Point” published in Fall 2016 was one of the first works I read on Intima and I’ve re-read it every few months since then. She is a lovely writer. We move with the narrator trying to make the best of a hum-drum cruise with family, flowing into imagery of water and desert to small, prickly wellsprings of cacti.The narrator’s reflection comes while staring over an unending ocean. When we extract ourselves from work, often hard to do in the medical field, we have a chance to reflect. Guo relates “the love of anything is deepened / by taking a step back, / how on vacation you can even come to love / the lies of a patient”.
She writes when in the thick of it all, trapped on the expanse of an ocean, one might dream of a desert, finding life where succulents rely on just enough nourishment to live in this harshness. The field of medicine can be brutal and chaotic, like deserts and oceans, for patients and healthcare workers. I reflect on many people I meet during my work days. The personal histories from my patients, not necessarily the medical histories that brought them to me, are what I crave and remember. These pieces, sometimes lies, give each person depth and personality. I take a step back to find these tiny oases of beautiful cacti.
Elisabeth Preston-Hsu is a Physical Medicine and Rehabilitation physician in clinical practice in Atlanta, Georgia. She has had work appear in Glassworks Magazine, Hektoen International, and received an Honorable Mention in Glimmer Train's Short Story Awards for New Writers in March/April 2019.Her photograph "Gordian Knot" happened organically: a busy clinic day and a stethoscope thrown onto her desk. A glance at its twisted knot of tubing reminded her how difficult it can be for patients, caregivers, and health care workers alike to navigate, be cared for, and work in the American health care system.
©2020 Intima: A Journal of Narrative Medicine