Panacea Vol 55 Issue 2

PANACEA
FILTERED
VOLUME 55 | ISSUE 2

EDITOR-IN-CHIEF
Terra Sudarmana (GriffithU)
PUBLICATIONS TEAM
Aditi Kamath, Digital Artist (UAdelaide)
Dalyia Abu-Ghazaleh, Writer (GriffithU)
Dhruvi Lathigara, Editor (Western SydneyU)
Wendy Fang, Editor MonashU)
FRONT COVER
Aditi Kamath (UAdelaide)
AN UNSENT
LETTER
FROM MY
MOTHER
SHAPE OF
WATER
KOI
TROUBLE
TO THE
MOUNTAINS
HUMANITY’S
BLEEDING
HEART
BIRTH
AND SNOW
GLOBES
Filters change the way we see the world. They direct
our focus, alter our perspective. Each page brings
a new author, a new masterpiece, a new filter. In
this editition of Panacea, we invite you to see it
through the filters.
BURNOUT:
WHAT LIES
BENEATH
GP
PLACEMENT
BLUES
QUARANTINE
DIARIES
I CANNOT HELP
ALL
QUARANTINE:
THE
ANTIDOTE TO
MY IMPOSTER
SYNDROME
PERSPECTIVE

i. fertilisation and zygotę formation
my dear child, a kiss of his serene sperm on the rosy cheeks
of my opalescent ovum birthed you as a little cell in my
utopian uterus. his double helix fertilised true love in my
double helix and through chiasmic formations we together
created the blueprint of your existence.
ii. blastocyst formation
you, a unicellular ‘bindi’, multiplied my bliss into a
multicellular ‘mandala’ in no time. i let your cellular and
genetic memory play with my creative forces, and our misty
mitotic foreplay put a show that a thousand cells watched
from the enchanting endometrial skies.
iii. blastocyst division to embryonic implantation
eight dynamic divisions later, i held you as a magnificent
morula, rolling alongst the fallopian fabric of my womb. i let
you implant as a blossoming blastocyst and nourished you in
my ~blood~ elixir, ~O2~ aura, and ~nutrients~ love.
iv. placenta formation
your mere presence within me wasn’t enough. to deeply
connect with you, i dug lacunar lakes and created a channel
of ~circulation~ communication from your umbilicus to my
uterus, whilst knitting a soft amniotic blanket for you to float
safe within our inner world.
v. ontogeny recapitulates phylogeny
mischievously exploring your identity, you grew fish fins
and monkey tails, chicken wings and bird beaks, until i sang
lullabies to your genome to help you find your true identity
as a human embryo.
4 5

KOI TROUBLE
KOI BY MIKAYLA LI
vi. organ development in a time-lapse
in paralysing awe, i witnessed your miraculous
transformation from a trilaminar disc to a sophisticated
organism, admiring your organs morph and fold up-down
side-to-side like origami.
sculpting my finest artistic impressions on your brain (gyri
and sulci) and nurturing it in celestial cerebrospinal fluid,
i sutured the pieces of your skull to provide shelter to your
limitless imaginations, nascent thoughts and exordial
emotions.
calming the arrhythmic murmurs of your past lives, i etched
healing poetry on your heart, whilst sewing the disintegrated
pieces of your veins and arteries.
chiseling microscopic details on your eyes, nose, ears, and
lips made me feel nothing less than the reincarnation of
Michelangelo.
vi. labour
and then, it was your time. a burst in the amniotic sac, a
sudden gush of hormones, ecstatic neural firings, rigorously
contracting uterine muscles, and turbulent blood flow. I was
rushed to the theatre, plugged onto intravenous injections in
intolerable pain, amidst startling noises and blinding lights.
in a race against time, i swinged between life and death like a
pendulum. whilst you mistook home for a prison and burst
in rebellion against the walls i had protected you in for nine
months.
first popped your head, then heart, then trunk, and finally
wiggling toes. all draped in blood and robed in mucous, you
cried in joy. as your lungs bloomed with the first breath,
mine gasped and choked for my last breath. you opened
your eyes, at the very moment when I shut mine.
leaving you this unwritten unsent letter, my sins were settled.
a life for a life.
6 7

Watching the cruelty suck away your breath
I let your hand fall into mine
and although it’s unclear whose pulse I’m feeling
each beat reminds me of time I’m stealing.
They say do not befriend our patients
like factory workers making goods
filing through on an assembly line
souls to be inserted at a later time.
They say be truthful and share only the facts
stating it’s not our grief that counts
but then it’s time they decide to ration
and wonder why there’s a lack of compassion.
I cannot oblige or follow those rules
despite it being me who’ll pay
my promise to you was that I’d care
even when the pain strips me bare.
Eight years ago you knocked on my door
years of delight watching you grow
busting the expectations we’d set
you made it clear you weren’t fond of regret.
As the words escape my lips, I listen,
in shock I feel I’m ill-equipped
whilst I have before shared news of the end
this time it feels like I’m losing a friend.
I know before long you’ll leave your chair
parting this room once and for all
and I am expected to just proceed
since no one can see my heart that bleeds.
I know there are others who deserve my time
but let me make just one request:
for a moment I want Tuesday mornings
vacant before time resumes its scorning.
From time to time I walk past your grave
always wearing the socks you loved
they’re not as bright and they no longer glow
but they remind me of you, never saying no.
8 9

R
U
R
A
L
A
D
V
E
N
T
U
R
E
S
Shape of Water
BY ELIZABETH HU
10 11
N
E
W
B
E
G
I
N
N
I
N
G
S
L
I
M
I
T
L
E
S
S

TO THE
MOUNTAINS
12 13
By Sam Flesfader

I had been
telling people for years
that I was sure that I would
cry at my first birth. To be fair, I had
good precedence for this assumption;
more tears than I care to count have been
shed over the many television births I have
seen on Call the Midwife and Offspring. I knew
that my first birth would be a momentous and
joyous occasion, with lots of smiles and
tears of happiness.
In my first two rotations of third
year I finally witnessed my first
births. Did I cry? No – I was too
busy being horrified. I was
not prepared for the blood. I
had not expected meconium
dripping onto a midwife’s
unprotected arms as she
delivered a baby. I had no
idea that a whole hand and
forearm could fit inside a
woman and turn her baby
around. I winced through
episiotomies and shuddered
through contractions. I stood
terrified, sure that the force
with which the obstetrician
pulled on the forceps would
snap the baby’s tiny neck.
I was also amazed by the
strength of the women, their
determination, and their
power. Television tries but fails
to capture the joy that follows
a birth; holding a newborn
baby just minutes old is
one of the purest, most
intense feelings of
joy that I have ever
experienced. Tiny
eyes, tiny toes,
tiny ears. Tiny,
perfect,
new.
By Serena Moon
I did cry
eventually, in the last
birth I attended. It was a
twin caesarean section, planned
and calm. Twin one was delivered
safely, and then it was twin two’s turn. I
looked over and saw something that I had
never expected to see: an intact amniotic sac
protruding from the mother’s belly, a tiny head
floating inside. Joining the world, but
still protected for a moment longer. It
looked almost like a snow globe; a
blue, iridescent orb poised on the
brink of delivering its precious
cargo. I smiled one of the biggest
smiles of my life and felt tears in
my eyes as the sac burst and
the baby was delivered, sure
that I had just witnessed a
miracle that few get to see.
It is hard to reconcile my
feelings from my women’s
rotation; pain juxtaposed
with joy, vulnerability with
strength, and madness with
magic. What I do know is
that I am so privileged to
have shared these incredible
moments with families. I was
there, a stranger, while Covid
restrictions meant that their
own family and friends could
not be there for them. I am
inspired by their generosity
and their strength, and I know
that I will remember each of
those tiny babies for a long
time to come.
14 15

BURNOUT:
WHAT LIES BENEATH
“Burnout” is a term frequently used amongst
physicians and medical students alike, however,
there is a distinct lack in any discussion beyond
the superficial. It is a well-recognised norm
that has become a rite of passage in the
medical career. A barrier that students must
hurdle. This normalisation of pushing through
excessive stress and overwhelming exhaustion
is an aspect of medicine that has frustrated me
in my short journey as a medical student.
Burnout is classified as an occupational
phenomenon in WHO’s International
Classification of Diseases (ICD-11) and is a
“syndrome...resulting from chronic workplace
stress that has not been managed[1].” Beyond
Blue in their National Mental Health Survey
of Doctors and Medical Students found that
47.5% of 18-30 year old’s reported emotional
exhaustion [2]. A disheartening systematic
review established that burnout may continue
beyond medical school and can lead to suicidal
ideation and psychiatric disorders [3].
My personal experiences with burnout have
been the catalyst for writing this article.
There is a growing sentiment among my
peers that in order to succeed as a medical
student, the prioritisation of studying over
all else is essential. This has then developed
into a damaging romanticisation of relentless
productivity resulting in a diminishing worklife
balance. I have fallen victim to this cycle as
have many other students and a major concern
of mine is the underestimation of this issue by
both students and the university.
The conversation around mental health
has been growing and is slowly being destigmatised
but this is not enough. While
students, professors and doctors all entertain
the idea that long-term stress and fatigue is
a constituent of being a doctor, the impact
of a healthy conversation around burnout is
diminished. The detrimental influence of this
culture that has cultivated over the years has
been evidenced by the routine undervaluing of
our wellbeing.
Andrew Tabner describes this perfectly when
talking about physician suicide: “we aren’t
just implicated as a profession through passive
inaction; we have contributed...through the
perpetuation of unhealthy attitudes, impossible
expectations and a tyranny of perfection.”[4].
While there is still scope to grow, there have
been strides in the space of mental health. The
initiatives undertaken by both student groups
and universities, while still underdeveloped,
form the backbone for the establishment of key
strategies in the future. Conversations around
burnout are being held more than ever before.
Self-awareness of damaging work practices
is increasing. Recognition of the need for
sustainable goals is growing.
Despite what I’ve written above, there will
probably always be elements of burnout in
medicine. But what we can change is our
attitude, expectations and response to it.
BY RAHIL AJMERA
[1] Burn-out an “occupational phenomenon”: International Classification of Diseases [Internet]. Who.int. 2019
[cited 4 April 2021]. Available from: https://www.who.int/news/item/28-05-2019-burn-out-an-occupational-phenomenon-international-classification-of-diseases#:~:text=%E2%80%9CBurn%2Dout%20is%20a%20syndrome,related%20to%20one’s%20job%3B%20and
[2] Beyond Blue. National Mental Health Survey of Doctors and Medical Students [Internet]. 2019. Available from:
https://www.beyondblue.org.au/docs/default-source/research-project-files/bl1132-report---nmhdmss-full-report_
web
[3] Ishak W, Nikravesh R, Lederer S, Perry R, Ogunyemi D, Bernstein C. Burnout in medical students: a systematic
review. The Clinical Teacher [Internet]. 2013 [cited 4 April 2021];10(4):242-245. Available from: https://pubmed.
ncbi.nlm.nih.gov/23834570/
[4] Tabner A. Physician Suicide • LITFL • SMILE2 [Internet]. Life in the Fast Lane. 2020 [cited 4 April 2021].
Available from: https://litfl.com/physician-suicide/
16 17

GP PLACEMENT
In the corner of the humid consultation
room, I am perched on a bar stool, hauled
myself from the staff kitchenette, which is
so awkwardly, very, very, tall. It makes me
tower over both the man and the woman,
the only other people in the same room.
They are seated on normal chairs which are
much lower, and of acceptable height, and
my elevated position seems to amplify the
obtrusiveness of my presence as a medical
student on her GP placement. I feel like some
sort of ogling examination invigilator, or an
overgrown vine that needs to be sheared off.
From this height akin to a lighthouse, I have
witnessed buckets of tears, a plethora of
different skin conditions that always look the
exact same to me - a rash-, sullen babies who
yell at me in their own half-baked derivative
of language, patients planning to sue every
category of institution conceivable, and a
surprising number of people who demand
weed.
The GP stands up, reaching for the pen
torch in his pocket, and I become quite
disconcerted.
“What cranial nerve am I testing?” He
bellows at me.
With the torch, he performs some kind of
elaborate finger-tutting-light-projection
show ritual inches away from the patient’s
eyes, and indeed, this is surprisingly quite
familiar; I desperately try to grasp the elusive
tendrils of the “FUNCTIONAL ANATOMY
OF CRANIAL NERVES” lecture floating in
a dim corner of my brain, but the urgency
of his phalangeal movements make me
nervous, and it all vanishes away like a
mirage. Lesson learnt. Never ever fall behind
on your spaced repetition schedule. I am
surely getting punished, by Hippocrates
himself, for daring to indulge in any nonmedicine
related reveries in the 5th hour of
my sacred education.
BY ANONYMOUS
BLUES
The woman is a patient, and the man is
the general practitioner, and they are both
fervently trying to investigate the cause of
the patient’s recurrent headaches, while
I brood silently. Here in this voyeuristic
arrangement, I have the privilege to observe
not only the patient-doctor interactions but
also, in birds-eye-view, the clandestine bald
spot of the doctor, that slowly, but surely,
in the couple of weeks or so that I have
shadowed him, expands its territory each
day - And which I am not heartless enough
to divulge to him. I am currently attempting
to work out the net increase in the diameter
of the patch since last time.
“You said you’re in neuro block right now?”
The general practitioner breaks the fourth
wall and gazes up at me, the inanimate stage
lighting.
“Yes.” I reply, thinking that it must be around
2mm at least - and my stomach lurches -
wait, why is he asking me this -
“Optic nerve.” My tone cannot be any more
uncertain.
“Close. Abducens nerve.” He corrects me,
reassuringly, so kindly, when the answer
is not close at all, then smoothly plucks a
square of tissue from his desk.
The woman flashes me a sympathetic smile,
assuring me that we all make mistakes,
let alone “obviously very smart” medical
students, as she says.
The GP continues smoothly with the
procedure, like the OSCE video that my
University uploads, also very unlike it, for he
is not glitching and in 144P. With the tissue
he begins lightly feathering landmarks of
face, and he asks the woman if she can feel
it, every time he makes a stroke, and she
replies yes to all of them. Afterwards they
both look at me, both of them gleaming
with anticipation, hoping that I can get it
18 19

ight this time, that I can deem my worth as
a mini-doctor.
“Facial nerve.” I’m somewhat confident this
time, hearted by their encouraging remarks.
“No... Trigeminal nerve.”
He continues, with the remaining steps, and
I somehow manage to get all of them wrong.
All twelve of them. Obviously I am not a
maths major, but I think combination or
permutation will see that the chances of
being incorrect every single time, especially
when the doctor tells me the correct answer
afterwards and the pool of answer options
for the remaining steps becomes smaller
and smaller as the examination progresses,
would be rather low.
The patient’s sweet smile droops as quickly
as an Iceberg lettuce in the airfryer. Instead,
her eyebrows rises buoyantly, and I can
see she is imagining the bleak futurity of
healthcare, when medical students like I
exist, and mayhaps many more, shuttling
on the conveyor belt of Zoom university,
steadfastly on the trajectory towards
graduating as an MD who will hold the fate
of hundreds of people in my incompetent
hands.
After that disappointing performance,
I prop myself back onto the gargantuan
time-out chair in shame. I’ve got to make
up for this. I start intervening into their
conversation with Clinical Questions and
Scientific Suggestions to try to reassure both
of them that I do actually know (most of)
my stuff, to hint that it is only this lecture
that I tragically did not yet fully commit to
memory.
At the end of the consultation, the
investigation reveals that the woman has
misread the instruction label and kept on
taking three times the appropriate amount
of painkillers for her chronic headaches; the
final verdict being that she needs to stop.
“You need to cut down.” The doctor advises.
“You definitely need to cut down.” I echo
to the patient. “The panadol is bad for your
liver, too.”
“Yep.” He nods slowly.
“And that’s called a medication overuse
headache.” I jump in eagerly, and quite
unnecessarily.
“Yes, that’s right.” The doctor sighs audibly.
“Anyway, as we decided, we will see you
again for a follow-up.”
As she walks away, both of us murmuring
“thank you” to each other, her eyes are still
glazed; maybe still fixated on her horrifying
dystopian vision of my imminent career.
The door is shut. I stay in my towering
stool as the GP hacks away at his computer,
scrambling to type up every detail of this
consultation. Silence. The smooth mirror of
his cranium reflects back my sheepish face.
‘How can one become a gastroenterologist?’
I ask the doctor extra cheerily, attempting to
break the ice.
He cranes his neck upwards, meets my eyes,
and probes into them with a surprising
intensity, like an endoscope.
“First… You have to graduate.”
“Right.”
He has a point. I make a mental note to catch
up on all 900 and counting overdue ANKI
cards as soon as I get home. In any case, I
won’t be the first medical student in my
cohort to break a finger or two from jabbing
the spacebar too vigorously.
QUARANTINE DIARIES
I am currently on my 12th day of a hotel quarantine
in Australia. My room is quite small. I can see
nothing from my window except for a tree that
reflects on the glass building facing me. And I have
no access to fresh air. I have been reflecting a lot
on my now rather hefty experience with quarantines.
When I knew that I would be quarantining again for
14 days in a hotel room, I, like many others these
days, felt quite dreadful about travelling back.
“14 days will pass by so quickly”, “there’s a lot
that you can do in 14 days,”, “you could finish all
Netflix shows in 14 days” is all one hears when they
complain about a quarantine. And yes, I can do a lot
in 14 days. I can watch a dozen shows, read a couple
of books, and probably even write my own book. But
did I? Saying that we can accomplish a lot while
in quarantine diminishes our human experience to
simply doing rather than being. It accentuates the
extent to which we have become to think of ourselves
as working machines who simply need time to do.
I remember coming across the term “mechanization
in medicine” in one of my courses, which is when
doctors think of patients as mechanical systems,
made up of several parts, one of which needs fixing.
But I have come to realize that mechanization of
humans exists beyond surgical wards, and patient
consultations. We mechanize ourselves when we say
we can do a lot while we’re forced into rooms for
days. Because while there is a lot that can be
done, there is not much room to be. We cannot see
skies and sunsets. We cannot feel wind against our
skin. We cannot touch soil and sand and leaves.
We cannot walk aimlessly in our neighborhoods. We
cannot breathe in, breathe out fresh air. It only
makes sense why it makes me so calm when I hear
tweeting birds from my windows, why I’ve stared
at the tree in the glass for quite some time now,
and why I keep the AC turned on for a simulation
of fresh air. We cannot trap ourselves in rooms
and blame ourselves for not doing when the essence
of our existence is more so in the being. And so,
when you spend days in quarantine only watching
your breath, do not feel guilty, you are simply
attempting to be.
By Dalyia Abu-Ghazaleh
20 21

I cannot help all
By Dalyia Abu-Ghazaleh
I used to be so invested in the news
So into the tragedies other people are facing
I’d keep up with stories on abuse and trauma
and war
and exile
and racism
and everything horrible about the human experience
I’d pour my anger into writing
I’d swallow the fear through my screen
I’d mull on the stories for days and days
I used to believe that not keeping up with all these
stories was selfish
That the least I could do was to know them
That avoiding them because they are draining is selfish
If I can’t even listen to them then how do people who
experience them feel?
But I soon Got tired
And I stopped doing that
Or at least I am trying to
I learnt that I cannot carry the world’s tragedies on my
shoulders
I cannot wipe all tears
I cannot feel with all I cannot write for all
I cannot stand for all I cannot help all
As much as I want to
I cannot
And that there will be times where a child will be looking
for his mom amongst the rubble and I will be sitting in my
mom’s arms and I will not be able to do anything about it
And that I sometimes have to accept the fact that not only
is life unfair but that there is nothing that I can do to
fix that
And that my plate can fit only so much
And so I shall stand satisfied with what I can do
With what little I can offer to the world
And only hope that everyone else is doing the same
22 23

It was a hot June evening. I was at the American
Surgery Association conference to present my
graduate research work. The hotel ballroom
was packed tight, a sea of black and grey
designer suits donned by the accomplished
movers and shakers of the surgery world
gave the room an ambiance of power and
privilege. The din of the crowd was loud and
obnoxious– almost no one was silent, except
for the wait staff moving stealthily among us
with fancy appetisers and horderves. Amidst
the mix of chatter, laughter, and mingling
there were the graduate students clutched to
the buffet station and open bar. For a while, I
enjoyed myself– freely stuffing my plate with
gourmet meals that I could hardly pronounce
and knocking back drinks, happy to pass the
time.
However, everything came to a screeching halt,
when my lab colleague turned to me and said
“Abdi, there is Dr.Porter, go and see if he can
help get you off the waitlist?.” As faith would
have it, here in this ballroom was Dr.Porter,
a faculty member of the medical school I was
recently waitlisted at. This was my chance, my
one golden opportunity to plead my case as
to why I should be taken off the waitlist. Yet
there was something deeper and less definable
that frightened me at the idea of going up to
this doctor to plead my case. I just stood there,
dumbfounded by my lack of confidence and
chutzpah.
Why was I so terrified to seize this opportunity
to advocate for myself? Was it my dress code?
– sure I wasn’t wearing Gucci or Hugo Boss
like the surgeons, but the H&M pinstripe
suit I got off clearance helped me to blend in
nicely. Was it because I felt unaccomplished?
– No, at the time I held the Vanier Scholarship
($150K, Canada’s equivalent to the Rhodes
scholarship) at the top medical science
program in the country and even had a
few medical publications to my name. My
intellect was sufficient, and my extracurricular
activities were suitably interesting and wellrounded.
But yet, I said nothing. I did nothing
to seize that opportunity.
Later as I walked back to my hotel room, my
lack of action haunted me and lingered in
my mind. Did I just cause myself the biggest
opportunity of my life? Would the doctor have
even liked me enough to help me? I would
never know what could have been!
Growing up, I was taught that the path
to success was to put my head down and
work hard in silence. If my work and
accomplishments were great, it would speak
for itself and I would be rewarded. But merit
alone to the path of success is a myth. Whether
it is in the medical, business, and or the legal
profession, succeeding entails being versed in
skills like self-advocacy and self-promotion to
snatch those scarce opportunities.
Sadly, until recently, I operated as I was
raised, to excel, but to keep it hidden. Rather
than milk all the networking and doors the
Vanier scholarship was meant to open for me,
I retreated and almost operated as if I was
unworthy. It did not help that I was also in a
cutthroat research lab where I was targeted as
the new “superstar kid”, from dirty looks to
backhanded comments. I even had this one
student, who I will call “paparazzi Joe”, who
despite enjoying my company earlier during
a Saturday night at the lab, was unbeknownst
to me secretly photographing intimate photos
of me devouring my Tim Hortons donut
and coffee. I found out the next day, those
unflattering photos were sent by him to the
lab authorities to get me punished for eating
in the lab.
There was also our research lab equivalent
of a “Karen” who once said to me: “You’re
a lucky person to get Vanier, you know it is
all about luck.” Somehow insinuating the
only way someone like me could get this
scholarship was only through luck, completely
discounting my hard work, the endless nights
of studying, and soul-crushing battles at the
local, state, and national level I had to face to
make the final cut. I had received no special
treatment, nor had any luck played a role, but
that query planted the seed in my head that
24 25

I was an imposter, not accomplished enough
for this space. If one person was thinking this
and was brazen enough to share this with me,
I wondered what everyone else was thinking
― and from that day on I struggled to share
and celebrate my academic achievements.
While the other select Vanier scholars at my
school thrived and secured new opportunities
on the back of this title, I became stagnant in
my career development, and any mention of
this prestigious title quickly disappeared from
my identity, vocabulary, resume, and most
devastatingly quickly morphed into something
I feared rather than celebrated. Sadly, this
experience is not unique to me. Studies
have shown that people who experience
impostor syndrome are high achievers
unable to internalise and accept their success,
often attributing their accomplishments to
luck rather than to ability. For years I let
this imposter syndrome chip away at my
confidence and allowed it to almost destroy
my academic career.
The social isolation that came with COVID-19
has allowed me to realise that I need to be more
proactive in self-advocating for myself and
seizing opportunities as they come. Indeed, I
have for the first time embraced social media
platforms like Instagram and LinkedIn as a way
to share my accomplishments more widely and
network. I was hesitant at first, worried that I
might cross the fine line from self-advocacy
to bragging. But when I asked myself if I had
disapproved of seeing my other accomplished
colleagues sharing their publications, awards,
and achievements, the answer was “NO”.
Using my @double.doc.abdi (shameless plug)
Instagram handle, I now unapologetically
share that award, publication, and boldly send
friend requests to those same surgeons I was
afraid of two years ago.
PERSPECTIVE
I will not fake a smile
The gyms and bars are shut
So when you call my number
You’ll find me musing on my rut.
By Henry Kocatekin
I
t would be wrong to deny that the lockdowns in Australia, as a result of
COVID-19, have caused much hardship and distress. But for others in
Australia, it has resulted in disappointment. Those who have to attend
lessons online or can’t visit shops or parks or beaches like they once enjoyed,
have every right to be disappointed. Let’s just remember that for others in the
world, COVID-19 is not their greatest concern. For some, it’s when years of
struggles for rights and safety have seemingly been extinguished overnight.
I stare down at my meal
A sore throat lingers near
So in my car I rush
Sensing the rising fear.
Then 2020 and COVID-19 happened.
This might sound sappy, but the realities
of COVID-19, as well as the illnesses and
deaths of close family members, colleagues,
and role models, infused an urgency of selfexamination.
In the silence of the lockdown,
I immersed myself in honest accountability of
my privilege, purpose, and efforts in how far
I had come— from my early days as a refugee
with a bleak future to now a clinician-scientist
in training.
When the dust of COVID-19 settled,I came to
understand that I can’t achieve the ambitious
goals I have for myself or be rewarded for
my hard-earned accomplishments if I’m
invisible. This isn’t a radical idea, I know, but
COVID-19 was my personal “AHA moment”
and as an introvert, this realization was my
Mount Everest.
I moan for what’s not fair
For the crimes I did not commit
Imprisoned against my will
This punishment seems unfit.
I have youth and untouched desire
There’s a world I want to see
Beyond isolation and screens
The ones who stand by me.
I remember my social life,
No gratitude will leave my lips
So in my heated room
My tears could sink great ships.
I sit beside the nurse
Who asks me what I do
In awe I manage to splutter
“I hope to be like you”.
I wait for my results
When I fall upon the news
After weeks of self-concern
These stories brought the blues.
I see my untouched plate
From my eyes I remove the wool
It is perspective that fills my stomach
As I read the title, ‘Kabul’.
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