According to Audrey Shafer, there is something profound in the moment a patient wakes up from surgery.She would know — she's an anesthesiologist. She's responsible for people when they are at their most vulnerable: unconscious, unable to breathe on their own or even blink their eyes.As a result, Shafer says, a kind of intimate trust forms between her and her patients. It's this closeness that moves her to write poetry about medicine.Shafer is an anesthesiologist and professor at Stanford University School of Medicine. She directs a program called Medicine and the Muse, which combines the arts, including poetry, with the practice of medicine. Her poetry has appeared in medical journals and poetry anthologies.Poetry, she says, is a natural means of translating the murkiness of what happens to the brain under anesthesia."Anesthesiologists tend to be viewed as more knob-and-dial oriented than people-oriented," she says. But, Shafer argues, that couldn't be further from the truth. When patients finally come out of surgery, she's one of the first people to welcome them back to their conscious experience of the world."They can be quite grateful right at that moment they realize 'I've woken up. The surgery is done. I'm OK. I'm back.'" Shafer says. "The anesthesiologist gets to witness that moment."
Falling Fifth: The Neurosurgery Patient and the Anesthesiologist
(Based on Robert Schumann's Third String Quartet, Movement 1)By Audrey ShaferWe meet in the holding room; a paper dress covers your tattoosAt any moment, your craze of fragile vesselscould spill, fill the sea cave cradling your mindYour wife holds your hand until it is time for us to goI guide you as you blow through a strawswimming across your long day of surgeryFive hours, and five more: surgeons untanglea crevice of your brain, clamp the feeder, reassemble your skullYou re-surface, blinking like a newbornride in your wide white boat to intensive care;nurses and doctors give and take reportyou speak but I do not understandHhhh-m you say, and louder Hhhh-m!Head? I ask Hurt? Hand? Heart? Does your chest hurt?I am wrong and wrong again--You smile and try once more:Hug meHug you? I repeat, and the entire team turnsto stare silently:I lean over wires, bandages, the spaghetti of tubes, the upright side railand give a most awkward hugThe team resumes its buzz: monitors bleep, pagers bark,phones ring, keyboards clack, bellows wheeze, alarms blurtthe unit dins in unscored discordBut for two notes, harmony presided over all--in a falling fifth, a two-toned sigh, you told me you know;you know you landed on the warm sands of recovery:Hug me.
April is National Poetry Month, and Shots is exploring medicine in poetry through the words of doctors, patients and health care workers. The series is a collaboration with Pulse: Voices Through The Heart Of Medicine, a platform that publishes personal stories of illness and healing. Copyright 2017 NPR. To see more, visit http://www.npr.org/.