Elbow. Apple. Carpet. Saddle. Bubble.
The sequence of words I am to listen to and repeat back to the athletic trainer that evaluates me. Daily. Bernard is his name. I’m to repeat the five words back, in any order. As best my memory allows.
But my memory does not serve me. My brain has a new master.
I don’t hear the words. I hear the sounds. The way apple, saddle, and bubble all sound the same at the end, listening with my eyes as Bernard’s mouth moves around each syllable.
Elbow. Apple. Carpet. Saddle. Bubble.
But listening and watching and thinking ignites the pain behind my eyes, the diagonal slash pulsing across my temple and face. It suspends me into the whirlpool of confusion that threatens to swallow me each moment I am awake.
So I sleep. The body aches to move, but the mind resists, favoring dormancy and stillness. Gluttonously.
Sick. So sick. I can’t decide how sick or how much it hurts on a scale of 0-10. Or how my symptoms have changed since yesterday’s SCAT5. I’m not supposed to think, but if I was allowed, I still don’t think I could sift through a fog this thick.
Some of this pain must stem from all the pent up thoughts I’m not allowed to think, lest I stress this injured brain. But even the wounded mind doesn’t cease to think and those thoughts pile in unbidden, creating the pressure in my skull, the ropes in my neck. I’ve been here before.
Confused. Stagnant. Isolated. Bored. Concussed.
Funny, isn’t it, that the sickness is all in my head. A bruised brain and a sickly mind. The rest of me is sick now too, all because the thing that controls me is injured. My brain has a new master. Really, it’s quite unfair.
Funny, too, how I am caged from within. Confined to my room, bound to my bed by invisible bonds. Imprisoned by my head on the inside, with nothing restricting me on the outside. Day by day I recline upon pillows in soft darkness, the sun seeping through the shades as the only light. On good days, I peek at the people outside walking by, watching without seeing. My body wants to be out there, the “me” inside desires it, but my head shuts me down, down, down. So the limbs don’t move and I am not my own master anymore. I am the solemn patient, sad and lonely and still. So still I barely have to breathe.
And I don’t know the date or day of the week. Each day is the same. The schedule is empty. Empty, yet every day is the SCAT5.
Anchor. Carpet. Rattle. Saddle. Bottle.
Name: Mackenzie E. Fox (she/her)
Cohort: 2022
Hometown: Charlestown, RI
Brief description/explanation of the work: The inspiration for this piece lies in a journal entry I wrote during my freshman year of college after sustaining my second concussion. It had been a year and three days since I suffered my first concussion, which took nearly nine months to return to sport. I was devastated. I shouldn’t have been writing at the time, but I couldn’t ignore the itch to pick up a pen and release the pressure pounding in my head, if only emotionally. That first concussion began a six-year journey filled with doctors, physical therapists, and sports psychologists who helped me and continue to help me heal.
Bio: Mackenzie is a second-year medical student at HMSOM, born and raised in beautiful Rhode Island on a small family farm. She attended Providence College, where she flipped for the Friars on the cheerleading team amidst her studies in Biology and English. As a medical student, Mackenzie has sought ways to keep her passions for literature and exercise aflame.
There's a time to pause
There's a time to stop
There's a time to see
You've grown a lot!!!
There's a time to laugh
There's a time to cry
There's a time to let
the old tears dry
There's a time to breathe
There's a time for hugs
There's a time to know
that you're ENOUGH
There's a time to let
the light shine through
And realize the brokenness
isn't all of you
There's a time to curl your hair
There's a time for a red lip
There's a time for some dancing
After your whole world has flipped
There's a time for some joy
And the time is right now!
We stand up, we love again, and
we start again somehow
~The Show Must Go On
Name: Olivia Summer Hutcherson
Bio: Olivia is a 3X survivor, thriver, artist and lover of life. Her roots stem in the professional dance field but she has transitioned quite effortlessly into the the arena of poetry, music and most recently film. Olivia published her first poetry book The Show Must Go On in 2019. Since then she has released Volumes 1-3 of her Audio Music Book of her poetry here on her website. She is currently writing a film about her life and is also available for workshops, shows, interviews and speaking engagements.
Underneath baggy jeans Reliable appendage no more Ongoing struggles to urinate Limp member struggles Offers an opportunity Growth and controlled flow Yearning to be free
Name: Hunter Hasley
Cohort: 2020
Hometown: Houston, TX
Brief description/explanation of the work: The urinary and reproductive tracts represent an intimate aspect of human anatomy and play important roles in our daily lives.
Bio: Hunter Hasley is an M4 at HMSOM from Houston, TX interested in Urology. He is an avid reader and creative personality excited to contribute to Ripple along with fellow peers. He is a former Columbia University Track & Field athlete who regularly works out and enjoys cooking.
My first patient Was a summer warbler Black beaked More bone than breast As though fresh hatched, Cried when I interrupted Discussion of chemo’s restart To make sure she understood Her choices now: Cut or drug, Bleed or bleed?
Name: Maya J. Sorini (she/her)
Cohort: 2021
Hometown: Rockville, MD
Bio: Maya J. Sorini is a narrative medicine scholar, writer, medical student, and award-winning poet. Maya holds a master's degree from and has taught in Columbia University's Narrative Medicine Program, and continues to work as a freelance narrative medicine workshop facilitator. Her first poetry collection, The Boneheap in the Lion's Den, won the 2023 Press 53 Award for Poetry and is available for purchase online via most book retailers. Her work has appeared in numerous arts and medical journals, including JAMA, Intima Magazine, and Doxy's Op Med. Maya currently attends Hackensack Meridian School of Medicine and lives in Bergen County with her grandmother.
To the Emergency Room Custodian,
After the clothes have been cut off, After the airway has been secured, After the lines have been attempted, failed, tried again, and placed, After the units and units of blood have gone in, After the patient has been swept to the OR, And the bay is a void, You come like a wildfire, Scorching the tile, Engulfing the bay.
Name: Mark Schoenike (he/him)
Cohort: 2021
Hometown: Austin, Texas
