You Hand Me A Tissue

A poem

In 2016, shortly after I joined the faculty at Stanford, my friend, fellow anesthesiologist, and medical humanities evangelist Dr. Audrey Shafer, encouraged me to join a writing group called Pegasus Physician Writers.

The group invites medical students, trainees, and physicians to join small monthly meetings to write and share work. Opposed to the often oppressive learning environment in medicine, Pegasus requires participants to learn how to support each other’s creative efforts (What line resonated? What word choice caught your attention?), rather than criticize. They also arrange public poetry readings and other creativity-related events.

Pegasus nurtures a wide range of creative physicians and trainees. I’ve often appreciated the way the group’s transgenerational membership offers unique opportunities to talk about how medicine is the same and yet totally different than in other eras. Being in a supportive community with these physicians is a balm, especially when facing difficult times in our lives and careers.

The first poem I read publicly at a Pegasus event was You Hand Me A Tissue.

It captures the most challenging death conversations I have: when the dying child is the same age as one of my kids. I often use writing to address the profound emotional turmoil of being a physician and bioethicist, facing tragedy with patients, their families, and their caregivers.

Last year, my group leader Dr. Rick Mamelok invited me to publish my poem in an anthology of Pegasus work: Walking with the Shadows, Leaving them Behind: The Pegasus Physician Writers at Stanford.

Last night, a local group of poetry lovers invited several of the authors from the anthology to read our work.

I share it here with you now. ❤️

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You Hand Me a Tissue 
By Alyssa M. Burgart

My child is alive 
Thriving
But I feel the brick of death 
Laid upon my chest

Catching my inhalations
The first tears leave tracks 
For the next to follow
In an awkward role reversal
You offer me
A kindness
Too much to ask
You fumble for the box
(As I have done so many times)
You hand me a tissue

You have such grace
This afternoon
Sitting firmly
On an uncomfortable
Hospital couch
Somehow not sucked in
By the black hole of death
That brought us here

It pulls me
By mere proximity

Just days ago
We were the same
You and I
Parents of kindergarteners
In a sea of five-year-olds
Our two twinkling stars
Making faces
Complaining about vegetables
Playing soccer
Drawing love notes
Full of existence

Inexplicably
Yours has  
Burned out

His blazing bright light
Gone dark

I imagine the calls 
Teacher and his empty desk
Friends with canceled play dates
Grandparents planning an out of order funeral
Insurance company requesting the death certificate
The very worst news
Compressed into sound bytes

The weight of death 
Digs deeper
I scratch away my tears
With this dry, institutional tissue

My child is safe
I have never succeeded
In growing a mask
To hide emotion
I never really tried

I apologize 
For my lack of dignity
My absence of strength
The shame of daring 
My compassionate pain 
To be made manifest
When I have lost nothing

Not yet

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Thank you for reading. I hope you’re having a good week!