Recycle Me
JILLIAN MACEK UMKC RESEARCH ASSISTANT
Medium: Metal Artist’s statement: This stylized portrait is made of soda cans, chicken wire and a lot of glue. I used the bright, pop colors from the can’s printed side for the hair strands and the solid silver interior for the skin tone for good contrast. The skin portion is woven through the chicken wire for texture.
Gray
MOLLY UHLENHAKE, DO UMKC ASSOCIATE PROFESSOR OF INTERNAL MEDICINE AND PEDIATRICS
9:20 a.m. That was your appointment time I noticed your name at the start of the morning No students, I said Don't even try Just let him be, or he will get cranky I will go on my own I know your history by heart No notes or computer needed End stage hepatocellular carcinoma I reviewed the pathophysiology for the young doctors We first met seven years ago You were discharged from the ICU after a stab wound You used to drink Heavily Sometimes your kids talked to you Usually, they did not I never met a single family member You were a fighter You always came alone You did it all for the past two years Every recommendation Gold star patient Until suddenly You were going downhill Circling the drain No more treatments No more options I talked to the students about our history Seven years together, you and me Patient and doctor Doctor and patient Sometimes you counseled me as well Recently, I twisted my back You recommended your favorite home remedy The last few visits we both knew the end was near A group of students and staff helped me sing Happy Birthday to you Several years ago, you said no one called on your special day So, I always tried to remember it. Now, your birthday is the same as my youngest daughter’s So, I will always remember it. I convinced you to go on hospice You stayed with it for two months Then I got frantic calls You refused the visits and signed out You wanted your clinic Your medical home for the past seven years Where the front desk staff know you by name and call for a wheelchair on your way out You wanted to see me, your doctor Not someone new who could only read about your journey I knew it firsthand I lived it with you
Each month, I was relieved to see you checked in. Your name highlighted in green signaling you were ready for the appointment I was always happy to see you Our last visits were more like conversations between longtime friends I breathed a sigh of relief when I entered the room You made it back You had more time You were still breathing although I didn't like your pale color and it pained me to watch you walk How are you? Bowels okay? Appetite good? Pain controlled? How is your family? Eventually, I started asking questions I had never asked before Are you ready? I became your hospice Your end-of-life caregiver, counselor, and doctor I told you not to come in Offered telehealth appointments instead Tried to save you a trip before the trip But you refused You said you needed to come in The appointments were your medicine Later, you thought about going home to New Mexico or Puerto Rico. I prayed you would actually get there Lately, I paused at the end of our visits Unsure of what to say Goodbye? Too sad, although we both knew it may be true. See you later? A bit optimistic, we both knew it may not happen. Last month, your arm throbbed Unable to lift it after simply rolling over in bed So painful, I had to send you to the ER The X-ray confirmed a pathologic fracture The cancer was there too In your bones In your blood In your face Gray It struck me every time I walked in the room Today, I was selfish. I wanted to knock on the door one last time I wanted to see you again Instead, your name turned gray I called and called The phone rang indefinitely Like an echo in an empty tunnel No answer. I know the answer.