Public Journal

Rohin
"The Soul" ( Sanskrit )

I have born my soul to God, my son.

As he slipped into the crevice of death,

I could not watch nor see his image before me,

But I knew of the perfect beauty of his body

Even when he nestled within me,

For he is loved as a mother loves a son

And no pearl nor ruby nor even diamond

Can light the shards of shattered dreams

More than this love.

Peace will come to me, I know

And my son, my soul,

Will take from each
Of my uncountable tears

Eternal sustenance as he rests

Now in the body of our earth
And learns that what we know
As the saddest sadness

Is but a gate into the mystical

And miraculous wonders of
Tribulation, promise and hope.

Asclepidae

                     From Hippocrates
                     On whom we swore
                     And Aesculapius
                     Who thus bore
                     Hygeia, we now
                     With dutiful dedication
                     Somehow
                     Must manage to transcend
                     A myriad of extrinsic forces
                     With one purpose: to mend
                     The bleeding and the cries
                     Of our diverse patients' lives.
                     We birth their children,
                     Curette their wombs,
                     Remove their tumors,
                     And for those whom
                     Maladies cause pain,
                     We set upon a course of healing
                     So that once again
                     Their being is restored.
                     But there is much more,
                     So very much more.
                     For the primal core
                     Of what we dedicate
                     Our time and strength
                     Is not just to operate,
                     Or to "stand before" and facilitate
                     The births of tomorrow's children,
                     But rather to provide
                     True counsel;
                     To advise and to guide
                     Through the darkest paths
                     In the deepest forests
                     Of our patients lives.
                     For when they face us,
                     Stare, eye to eye
                     And mourn their loss
                     Of health, of parent or of child;
                     When marriage dissolves into divorce,
                     And depressive thoughts of suicide
                     Bring them to us
                     And us to their bedside,
                     We must be skilled with more
                     Than laser or with knife.
                     We must be filled
                     With integrity and
                     compassion,
                     The moral virtues
                     of our life,
                     And bring to the ill

Comfort, sympathy and
hope.
The Asclepidae was the Greek Priest-Physician family of which Hippocrates was a member physician and surgeon. This is written as a plea for those medical students and residents who have chosen Obstetrics and Gynecology as their profession.

The practice of medicine is rooted in a covenant of trust among patients, physicians, and society. The ethic of medicine must seek to balance the physician's responsibility to each patient and the professional, collective obligation to all who need medical care.
The Council of Medical Specialty Societies, 2000

"Medicus Nihil Aliud Est Quam Animan Consollatio" A Latin Proverb translating to:
"A Doctor is nothing bu the constellation of the soul"

We Are Seven

by William Wordsworth

--A simple child,


That lightly draws its breath,


And feels its life in every limb,


What should it know of death?






I met a little cottage girl:


She was eight years old, she said;


Her hair was thick with many a curl


That clustered round her head.






She had a rustic, woodland air,


And she was wildly clad:


Her eyes were fair, and very fair;


--Her beauty made me glad.






"Sisters and brothers, little maid,


How many may you be?"


"How many? Seven in all," she said,


And wondering looked at me.






"And where are they? I pray you tell."


She answered, "Seven are we;


And two of us at Conway dwell,


And two are gone to sea.






"Two of us in the churchyard lie,


My sister and my brother;


And, in the churchyard cottage, I


Dwell near them with my mother."






"You say that two at Conway dwell,


nd two are gone to sea,


Yet ye are seven! I pray you tell,


Sweet maid, how this may be."






Then did the little maid reply,


"Seven boys and girls are we;


Two of us in the churchyard lie,


Beneath the churchyard tree."






"You run about, my little maid,


Your limbs they are alive;


If two are in the churchyard laid,


Then ye are only five."






"Their graves are green, they may be seen,"


The little maid replied,


"Twelve steps or more from my mother's door,


And they are side by side.






"My stockings there I often knit,


My kerchief there I hem;


And there upon the ground I sit,


And sing a song to them.






"And often after sunset, sir,


When it is light and fair,


I take my little porringer,


And eat my supper there.






"The first that died was sister Jane;


In bed she moaning lay,


Till God released her of her pain;


And then she went away.






"So in the churchyard she was laid;


And, when the grass was dry,


Together round her grave we played,


My brother John and I.






"And when the ground was 
white with snow


And I could run and slide,


My brother John was forced to go,


And he lies by her side."






"How many are you, then," said I,


"If they two are in heaven?"


Quick was the little maid's reply,


"O master! we are seven."






"But they are dead; those two are dead!


Their spirits are in heaven!"


'Twas throwing words away; for still


The little maid would have her will,


And said, "Nay, we are seven!"

The Gift I have a gift I did not want this gift, it meant suffering and pain. The pain came because of a love. A love which had manifested itself in a child. The child brought its love to me and asked for my love. Sometimes I did not understand this. Sometimes I did not appreciate it. Sometimes I was too busy to listen quietly to this love. But the love persisted; it was always there. One day the child died. The love remained. This time the love came in other forms. This time there were memories, there was sadness and anguish. And unbelievable pain. One day a stranger came and stood with me. The stranger listened and occasionally spoke. The stranger said, "I understand", and did. You see the stranger had also been this way. We talked and cried together. The stranger touched me to comfort. The stranger became my friend as no other had. My friend said, "I am always here", and was. One day I lifted my head. I noticed another grieving, grey and drawn with pain. I approached and spoke. I touched and comforted. I said, "I will walk with you", and did. I also had the gift.

“Dedicate some of your life to others. Your dedication will not be a sacrifice. It will be an exhilarating experience because it is an intense effort applied toward a meaningful end.” Dr. Thomas Dooley

"Are you willing to admit that probably the only good reason for your existence is not what you are going to get out of life but what you are going to put into it? To close your book of complaints against the management of the universe and to look around for a place where you can sow a few seeds of happiness?" -- Dr. Thomas Dooley, USN MD, 1954 - Supervised refugee camps to house fleeing N Vietnamise, l959 - Diagnosed, Cancer, Returned to Laos, 1961 - Died, age 34. From his final book, The Night They Burned the Mountain"

Do you remember Dr Tom Dooley? He said he learned his formula for happiness the day a small boat pulled alongside his craft carrying his first close-up glimpse of SE Asia. On that boat were over 1000 refugees -- suffering from smallpox, terminal tuberculosis and diseases he couldn't even name. Many of the children on board were unconscious from the 115 degree heat. As the only doctor, Dooley attacked this great mountain of suffering with a feeling of hopelessness and despair. But before long, he said, a strange excitement began to grip him. A splint took the agony out of a broken arm, a boil could be lanced, some vitamins could help another. That day he learned he could be deeply, joyously happy. I've always appreciated his explanation for this happiness. He said he had learned a fundamental truth about himself: he was extra-sensitive to sorrow, and that when he did something about it, no matter how small, he couldn't help but be happy.

Dr. Dooley held up in front of the camera a tiny, ill, starving child with a distended belly. Now, in the 1950s, such sights were never seen on television, or in magazines. It was shocking, and I recoiled emotionally. But then he calmly said, in essence,“When you look at this child you see something horrifying, but I look at this child and know that I have the knowledge and skill to make him well.”