ABSTRACT
Poetry looks at things differently from prose. We have drawn this selection from the many which were submitted to us, not because they are necessarily well written – although many are – but because they speak about what it is like to be a doctor and be troubled by mental illness. They cover a wide range of feelings, from despair to relief and joy. So dip in and let them speak to you of people’s experience. The rope The rope hung invitingly over the neat brick wall of medical school. A grab. Missed. A grab again and the ensuing steady ascent was acknowledged adequate in the qualifying rounds. Now real climbing began in earnest. Six- or twelve-month cycles of dogged training trusting a new rope, tackling a different rock face, learning to ignore the fear of the sheer of the sheer drop below while holding onto narrow ledges of exhilaration. The challenge of an overseas climb, considered by some to be the Olympics of them all, was carefully planned. begun, failed. Gentle climbs back home now loomed like Everest each tackled, conquered. Then the stumbling began. Footing missed over and again. One day, part way up a precipice the feet lost hold. And no sign of the rope. Anon <target id="page_96" target-type="page">96</target>Doctors with attitude Ranked high among gods we drink the oblation of devotees flavoured by obedience ‘sign the consent form here’ service ‘a few more days yet, Mrs Smith’ and daily penance ‘take two every night’ spiced with their unswerving faith that such human sacrifice earns relief from distress of body and of mind. But let us not forget, we to whom such worship is addressed, this cup from which we quench our thirst so professionally holds ingredients past, present and yet to be. Anon On admission to hospital Small dense sphere of darkness tightly packed with nothingness, magnet for the detritus of the world imploding on impact. Anon My room at hospital was not well appointed My cell is bashed-up blue, cold and empty, A hardboard curtain on a broken perspex window Looks out onto cell blocks C and D. A creaky iron bed, grey duvet And atmospheric light neither on nor off Create the perfect gloom, The perfect home for a depressed heart. Petre Jones Visitors Why do they want to come? To gawp, to stare, to gloat at my defeat? I want to hide from normal eyes. No human eye should have to see The dilute shafts of empty light That leak out from this dire captivity. And yet they want to come To talk, to share, to hold the light for me. I’m broken down in life’s pit, stopped, And in my broken state they see, With X-ray vision probing deep, The still beating heart, and my enduring humanity. Petre Jones <target id="page_97" target-type="page">97</target>Weekend on call 3am Monday chilly theatre eerie blear I scrub myself awake with disinfectant masked gowned gloved we play our rôles to clinical perfection orchestrated by the surgeon Mr B Incisive known to cut thrust sew as many -ectomies and -otomies and -plasties as he can at any hour and private plumbing in particular his eyes are probes his tongue a scalpel as he quips anatomy I grip retract the grind of teeth the scrape of steel a soporific respirator monitors my thoughts of sleep * * * on Friday seventeen admissions and a Twix then plastic cheese in swabs of sandwich snatched on Saturday between the rounds and bloods and bleeped demands and people in distress their lives depend on my precision mine in pounding wards and lime-green corridors becoming Sunday rain must sign must phone must diagno— emergencies and charts and tests a death a drip a new admiss— no time to sweat or feel or bed or 10pm I pause and bl*** that morbid-grey contraption summons me again to casualty a tawny woman fifty with a bloated cardigan apologises vomits writhes in pain I stroke her hand * * * and now she snoozes on the table sterile drapes expose her skin slit open bleeding singeing arteries her son outside and yellow spilling from the woman rotting tissues mottled liver irreparable we stitch her up in layers the smell of burning human flesh Joanna Watson
