FROM

THE
GROUND
FLOOR

A literary magazine
from Bellevues Emergency Room volunteers
From The Ground Floor | Page 1
Page 2 | From The Ground Floor Cover Art by Arianne Maya
 FROM THE
GROUND FLOOR
A Literary Magazine from
Bellevues Emergency Room Volunteers

Volume 1
Summer 2017

Committed to providing a forum for Bellevues

E.R. volunteers to share their experiences, beliefs, and
stories based on or inspired by their experience at
Americas oldest public hospital.

Wherever the art of Medicine is loved,

there is also a love of Humanity
Hippocrates

From The Ground Floor | Page 3

 Letter from the Editor:
Theres no place on earth quite like Bellevue Hospital. Walking through its
doors, one sees a myriad of faces: those that smile, those that cry, and often
those that scream. No one face looks the same at Bellevue: all of its patients,
doctors, and visitors seem to be of different shades, hail from drastically
different countries, or pray to wildly different gods. But for all of Bellevues
diversity, one quality remains strikingly universal in every person who calls
it home, even if just for a few hours. No matter what language a Bellevue pa-
tient speakswhether they use a Chinese dialect or click their way through a
Khoisan languagebehind those words invariably lies a story. One that can
evoke laughter, tears, or reflection; one that can spark conversation, change
ideologies, and bring once-foreign worlds together.

These are those stories. I can only hope that they inspire you as much as they
inspired us volunteers throughout the ten short weeks we spent at Bellevue.
Reflecting on a life-changing summer, I cant help but remember the words of
a resident on my first shift in the pediatric emergency room. After a teenage
mother was violently restrained by hospital staff, the young physician turned
to me and said, The first thing you have to realize is that this hospital isnt
normal. Its like nothing youve ever seen before.

And he was right. Bellevue isnt like anywhere else in the world. But thats
what has made this place, and the stories that lie within it, so special.

To the many editors who spent countless hours reviewing and editing these
pieces: thank you. To the authors who took time out of their summers to
chronicle their experiences: thank you. And to the patients who inspired this
journal: we are forever in your debt.

Arman Azad, PHC 17

Page 4 | From The Ground Floor

 Table of Contents
Poetry
The Orchestra 6 Saima Rehnuma
Still 7 Maissa Trabilsy
Abusadora 11 Hasanna Tait
Mental 13 Maissa Trabilsy
A Beautiful View 24 Roshana Brown
Crimson Red Shirts 27 Anonymous Author
Stronger 42 Haley Barravecchia
Untitled 54 Anonymous Author

Prose
10:34 pm, Saturday 8 Libby Ho
A Humble Prayer 10 Divya Roy
The Boxer 12 Cristian Ramirez
A Patients Resilience 14 Erika Zambrano
Perspectives 17 Anjay Batra
Life Lessons 20 Iqra Tahir
The Patient, not the Prisoner 21 Saima Rehnuma
Allow me to tell you about 22 Austin McMeekin
Project Healthcare
A Loved One 26 Lenura Ziyadinova
Rewritten 28 Alexis Nduka
Up There 32 Sophia Song
Odaijini 34 Caroline Yao
Grammar School 36 Kevin Wang
To Process 40 Nathanael Rehmeyer
Code Blue 44 Anonymous Author
Thankful 46 Amira Cohan
Wednesday 47 Rachel Marks
Held Momentarily 48 Kristen Perez
Shagotom 49 Pooja Dutta
6/21: A Stream 51 Maya Graves
of Conscioussness

From The Ground Floor | Page 5

 The Orchestra
Saima Rehnuma

I saw his fingers go blue, his toes cold

Within what seemed to be a second
I asked the doctor later and they said he had only so much time.

They compressed, injected, and shocked

To a naive child it would appear an orchestra seamlessly performed
Smooth sailing, no bumps.

We had signed up for it all

The good and the bad
No calling shotgun.

The monitor mirrored the crescendo of his heart

Beating and racing to keep up until
Time of death 17:36.

The doctors debriefed and I stood aside

Trying to be a part of what seemed the right way to cope
The right way to process it all.

It stuck to me, his body lifeless

But just as the orchestra finished and the curtains were drawn,
I had no choice but to carry on as a volunteer.

"Hello, is there anything that I can do for you maam?"

The old lady smiled warmly,
"A glass of water would be nice."

Page 6 | From The Ground Floor

Still
Maissa Trabilsy

We are so lucky
to have two arms
to embrace our beloved,
and push away all we fear,
so lucky to have a heart, and a mind,
to understand how we feel,
and have our heart ignore it anyways.
We are so lucky.

Yet we dont always know our wealth,

so we let our struggles and pains
become Us,
manifesting themselves in every breath,
in every step.
So after I met you,
and learned that you will be losing a leg,
I wished you well,
and even said I hope one day,
you will be happy,
nothing else but happy,
because thats all I ever desire to be.

With such gleam in your eyes,

you said you already are.
Keep living,

you are so Lucky.

From The Ground Floor | Page 7


10:34 pm, Saturday
Libby Ho
A
man waved me over and asked me to
give him some gloves and abdominal
pads, gesturing rather calmly at an
open flesh wound in his left leg. I hesitated,
wondering what in the world this patient
was planning on doing, playing doctor with
himself. He saw my look of bewilderment,
chuckled, and assured me that he was just
going to clean the wound.
I watched as he expertly put on his gloves,
sprayed the wound with saline solution,
wiped it clean with some sterile gauze, and
taped abdominal pads to dress the wound.
It was almost as if he was a doctor himself,
taking care of his wound dressings the same
way Id seen so many residents do over
the summer. After finishing, he took off
his gloves and asked me to help slide him
into his diaper. Any other 29 year-old man
wouldnt have even dared contemplate the
thought of wearing a diaper, much less ask
a nave little volunteer to help him into one.
But he said it with the ease of someone who
had just finished dinner and was simply fol-
lowing his normal daily routine before going
to bed.
His girlfriend had once shot him four times
(he showed me the scars on his stomach,
back, and hip) at 9:23 AM with his own
gun while he was sleeping. He ended up in
a wheelchair, unable to move his legs. Even
today, he still couldnt figure out why his
girlfriend did that to him.
After that incident, he got really paranoid
and sat on his gun all day, every day in his
wheelchair until he realized he had an ulcer
in his left hip. He actually didnt even feel
Page 8 | From The Ground Floor
it at first, and it was only until the ulcer
reached Stage 4 and hit his spine that he
suddenly couldnt move. But somehow, by
the grace of God (and he made the sign
of the Cross when he said this), his cousin
happened to come into his bedroom at 3
AM in the morning, drunk and looking for
weed. She saw him paralyzed, mouth wide
open and just gawking at her with terrified
eyes, and she yelled at the top of her lungs,
Dude, whatever weed youre smoking, I
dont think I want it no more! That was
enough to wake up his grandma, who came
in, saw him, and immediately called 911.
If it hadnt been for that drunken cousin
thinking he was smoking weed at 3 AM in
the morning, he wouldnt have stayed alive.
The surgeons took a skin graft from his left
leg to replace the rotten flesh from the ulcer
in his left hip. But the surgical wounds in his
leg didnt heal very well and kept opening
up. That was why he had come over to the
ED today, to fix up the nasty open wound in
his mangled left leg.
He told me he was trying to find a nursing
home or some facility that could help take
care of him in his crippled state. But no
nursing home would take him, because he
was only 29 and no one wanted to take care
of someone so young and still capable of do-
ing many crazy things. Race and his low-in-
come status, unfortunately, were deciding
factors as well. So hed been stuck trying to
be his own doctor until he could find a care
facility willing to take him in. He said he
did find one that had potential; it provided
just the right amount of care he needed but
allowed some freedom for him to do the
things he wanted to do. But that was only in
the talks for now.
He showed me pictures of his 4 year-old son.
He was an adorable little kid peeking out
from his dads phone wallpaper, and the man
raved about how smart and good-looking his
son already was. He wanted to start walking
again soon to take care of his son and raise
him up the right way. His doctors told him
he would never be able to walk again, but he
was going to prove them all wrong.
constrictors that were the size of his legs and
wrapped around his arm three times.
The big one is Bella, and the baby one is
Bellarina, and he pointed to a not-so-baby-
like snake that still looked significantly larger
than my whole arm.

Look, he said, and I watched as he slowly, He gave me another toothy grin. Something
gingerly, in an act of proud defiance, raised to show just how cool he was.
his legs just over an inch above the stretch-
er. He looked me in the eyes and repeated
what he said. He was going to prove them
all wrong. He was going to prove them all
wrong. Because even as bad as all this was
(he gestured broadly at his wheelchair and
legs), there was always someone out there
who wished they could be in his situation.
Theres always someone worse off.

And looking at him, with two crippled

legs and four gunshot scars and a nasty leg
wound from a surgery done to treat a Stage
4 ulcer, and not being able to walk and being
confined to a wheelchair and having to ask
a young girl to help him into a diaper at
his age, I felt the strongest urge to believe
him. This man sure had some rotten luck,
but despite it all, he still fully believed that
he would one day be able to walk again and
take care of his son. Even with all the hellish
challenges life threw at him, hes still alive for
a reason, and hes doing everything he can to
keep trooping along.

Whats your name? I asked him before

leaving.

Larry.

Larry, youre a pretty cool guy.

He grinned. That was nothing. If I wanted

to see something really coolHe showed
me pictures of his pets, two enormous boa

From The Ground Floor | Page 9

 A Humble Prayer
Divya Roy

Father God, you have led me today to this woman, to this beautiful
soul. Let your spirit fill her as we pray, and let not your spirit leave her
during these hard times in her life. Father God she has no one in this
land; no husband, no daughter, no mother or father. I pray that you
can fill in those empty spaces. Make her fearless and courageous so
that she can fight her battles. Make her a vessel to fulfill your purpose
and God I pray, take away her iniquities. For she needs you Father. In
this room filled with many faces, many problems, I hope you can see
hers too. In your name I pray, Amen.

I opened my eyes and I saw tear drops down her soft cheeks. She
held my hand tight, and eye to eye, we stood there silently for some
time. She couldnt speak and neither could I. We smiled at each other.
Believe me, for a brief moment we were speaking without any words.
I parted with her unwillingly hoping that I have left her safe in the
hands of God.

Page 10 | From The Ground Floor

Abusadora
Hasanna Taitt

Sweet venom rushes through my veins

I revel in the poison

Here ends my reign.

One more drop and it all goes away

One more drop

Its my turn to fade

One more drop

Ill never look back.

That which debilitates

Also liberates

And then for once Im free

Free from the chains

Free from society

Wont you just let me be?

I am the unwelcome tenant

In the city thats my home

But this liquid euphoria

Quiets my fears.

From The Ground Floor | Page 11

 The Boxer
Cristian Ramirez

Y
oure a fighter. You were then and you are now. The grime of the sooty ring
coated your face when youd get knocked down, but youd refuse to just
lie there. Your card read 0 KO until the last fight, a bad one. I want our
daughter to grow up with a father, Bill. You hung your gloves up and let the years
pass. Brain tumor, malignant, they said. Or no, a stroke. Maybe. Maybe an aneu-
rysm, tough to tell. Another MRI, another biopsy, who knows what it is. You refuse
to surrender, after 53 hard-fought years. Your body, swift, strong, statuesque, once.
Now, atrophied and disobedient. Your left leg collapses under the weight of grav-
ity and your smile droops. You cry as you look into the passing shiny orbs on the
ceiling. You stare at your reflection, interrupted by the grit-spackled tiles lining the
hallway leading to the CT room. You reach out to the side of the stretcher. Your
arm is marble-heavy, it twitches and lifts off in a winding trajectory before crashing
down onto the bed. Blind fury fills your gut and you want to hit the wall. You catch
a glimpse of your wifes auburn hair, you focus on her freckles, you ignore the worry
lines around her mouth, the dark circles around her eyes. Shes beautiful. She holds
your hand. You relax. A whimper comes from behind you. You wonder what they
told your daughter; does she understand? Shes been afraid to speak to you. Turtle,
you call her, because she loved to hide as a kid. You motion for her with your work-
ing arm. She carefully positions herself at your feet. Your back aches worse than
when you took 37 kidney punches in a single round, your head burns like its been
doused in kerosene and set ablaze, your right toes tingle and feel like theyre being
prickled by microscopic needles. You look up. A spiraling, concentric sun dome
shines the morning into the hospital room. The stained-glass panels scatter bright,
white light onto you, like the spotlights that surrounded the ring. The announcer
would scream your name when youd step under the lights, the crowd would go
wild. You wonder if heaven sits on the other side of those windows. A tap on your
foot interrupts your thoughts. Dont worry, dad, says your turtledove. Youre a
fighter.

Page 12 | From The Ground Floor

Mental
Maissa Trabilsy

Sedated.
Why couldnt you help me?
Why couldnt you save me?
My mind was racing,
I thought I was flying,
I saw an S on my chest,
a red cape around my neck,
and I wanted to flee,
so I tried and tried.
But I couldnt,
with restraints around my arms,
until I could.
And I soared,
Security is what they called for,
You held me down,
beat my head into the ground,
until I bled.
Why couldnt you help me?
Why couldnt you save me?
Violence is what they called for,
not one person,
not one human.
What is wrong with me?
I didnt know,
They didnt know,
But no one thought to know.
Blood gushing out my head,
until I was sedated,
Illness.

From The Ground Floor | Page 13

 A Patients Resilience
Erika Zambrano
T
o me, the most gratifying and beauti-
ful sight at Bellevue Hospitals Emer-
gency Department was a patients
resilience and positivity. By saying this, I
do not mean to romanticize or generalize
patient pain and suffering. I refer to the
patients who, despite enduring lifes great-
est hardships, remain resolute in fighting
for their survival. I deeply value each of the
patients I interacted with this summer. As
I gained their trust, they shared a painful
moment of their lives with me, a complete
stranger.
An Emergency Department is full of a vari-
ety of medical cases, but Bellevue cares for
New Yorks most marginalized populations.
Many patients come from underserved
communities that have suffered systemic
violence and state neglect. They are some of
the most broken but most resilient people I
have met in my life.
Because I am one of the few Spanish-speak-
ing volunteers in the program and Bellevue
caters to a large Spanish-speaking patient
population, I had a special connection with
many immigrant patients. Immigrating to a
new country and not speaking its main lan-
guage is an intimidating and difficult experi-
ence. When many patients saw me walking
through the ER, I introduced myself or they
called out to me hoping I could speak Span-
ish. As soon as I confirmed their suspicion,
they became more relaxed and friendlier.
I felt so happy and privileged to be able to
provide some comfort just by communicat-
ing in our shared language. They happily
engaged as we conversed about each others
Page 14 | From The Ground Floor
lives and common experiences. I felt helpful
at being able to communicate between them
and the healthcare providers. Often, individ-
uals would reserve questions from doctors
and ask me because they felt uncomfortable
bothering the doctor. I often reassured
them or asked the doctor or nurse myself if
they were simple, non-medical questions.
During one of my social work shifts, I was
able to talk to two Spanish-speaking patients
who had suffered from assault and helped
mediate the communication between the
English-speaking social worker and the
patients. The first was an older woman in an
abusive relationship who had moved from
Spain, following her husband. The second,
a man who had suffered an assault at gun-
point in his friends car.
After moving to the States with her hus-
band, Olga suffered domestic abuse for four
years. That day, she arrived at the hospital
with multiple bruises and a red eye. Holding
back tears, she recounted how her husband
constantly belittled her and threatened her
that the police would never believe her
and that they would deport her due to her
undocumented immigration status. The
social worker and I told her that police
could help her with a restraining order so
that she could leave her aggressor. However,
we could not assure her that she would not
be vulnerable to possible deportation by
engaging with law enforcement (NYPD),
especially in this current presidency that has
repeatedly demonized immigrant commu-
nities. Even though I couldnt do more than
serve as an interpreter and offer compas-
sionate support, Olga tearfully thanked me
for helping her. I felt a mixture of gratitude
for this kind woman and guilt at not being
able to assure the possibility of her safety
and of her living situation. Although I am
aware that the social realities that drove her
into this abusive situation and cause her fear
are out of my control, I couldnt help but feel
powerless and disappointed. As she entered
her taxi, she gave me a hug and graciously
thanked us for the resources we provided
and suggested.
After Luis was stabilized, we talked to him.
Luis told us of his fear for his life at being
held at gunpoint and how he took away the
car keys and refused to relinquish them. The
aggressor hit Luis is the nose with the gun
and Luis took advantage of the opportunity
to run away with the keys. Thankfully, the
aggressor fled the scene. As we took pictures
of his wounds, he asked, Should I smile?
Even though he had just gotten attacked, he
was so grateful that he was alive. He told me
that life is awful so one must be happy to
numb the pain of reality. He was not just re-
ferring to his assault from this day but his life
in general. We took one serious picture and
another of him smiling so sincerely. Frankly,
I was amazed that he radiated happiness and
tranquility and admired him so much at this
moment.
These two interactions reinforced my hope
in peoples humanity and their faith in living.
At Bellevue, I lived through so many similar
interactions with dissimilar patients. The
seemingly little actions that I carried out for
patients proved to be the most helpful. I was
humbled by their grateful attitude.
An incarcerated patient came in in a stretch-
er and had a C-collar on. After introducing
myself and asking if he needed anything
from me, he voiced his extreme thirst. As I
noticed he had not yet been seen by a nurse
or doctor, I told him that I couldnt bring
him anything to drink until he had seen a
healthcare provider. Exhausted, he under-
stood and I reassured him that as soon as the
doctor cleared it, I would give him some-
thing to drink. I checked back periodically
and as soon as the doctor said he could drink
water through a straw (because he couldnt
move his neck in the C-collar), I hurriedly
left to find a drink. Once I found the juice,
I desperately tried to find a straw. The AES
pantry had not straws left and I looked in
the stockroom. I went to all the stations
looking for one and asked the nurses where
they could be found. No one knew where the
straws were and I felt frustration at not being
able to help this patient immediately. After
ten to fifteen minutes of looking for straws I
went to another department and looked for
them. I finally found them and came back to
the patient and helped him drink the juice
while he could not move. He thanked me
with so much sincerity and I felt that I had
truly helped this man.
People were so hopeful and proud of my
possible future as a physician. I didnt want
these conversations centered around me, but
I learned that patient trust is earned through
sharing experiences and commonalities. I
improved on carrying on difficult conversa-
tions with patients I related through shared
or unshared experiences. I provided compas-
sion and actively listening to a patients story
of suffering.
Many patients who arrive at Bellevue are
scared, frustrated and tired of their lifes un-
fair treatment. If they come to the ER, they
have most likely exhausted other alternatives
or more than likely have no other alterna-
tive. They are scared and worried about their
physical mental health, a roof to sleep under
for the night, some food to quench some of
their hunger, financial ability to pay etc...
Ive learned from life experience to never
belittle an individuals story life experienc-
es or pretend to understand them, because
I cannot. I can only imagine the pain, the
From The Ground Floor | Page 15
 hurt, the frustration, the hopelessness, the
emptiness, and the cynicism. Most patients
deemed uncooperative sometimes needed
validation of their experiences, not someone
who supposedly understands or minimizes
the emotional impact of trauma. I never pre-
tended to understand experiences I have not
lived myself; I only listened and responded
with compassion and hope.
There are so many indescribable experiences.
I could never understand a homeless patient
who has confronted starvation, frigid nights,
intoxicating summers and hopeless thoughts.
I dont presume to. I can never understand
the trauma suffered inside a prison cell and
the abuse at the hands of police. Ive suffered
a lot in life due to personal experience and
can relate my own trauma that manifests in
panic and hopelessness. I relate to the frus-
tration of many and hopelessness in a system
that fails many.
I admired their optimism after facing com-
parable and more extreme hardships than my
own. I admired their positive attitude and
smiling faces. We agreed that life forces us to
suffer and fight through the pain. We must be
resilient and find the happiness into the little
moments of joy we are afforded. I only hoped
to be able to do that for the patients: to be
able to share some joy and hope.
cry at lifes inequity and how I see it manifest-
ed: its ability to ruin peoples lives, take away
their peace of mind, separate families, take
away loved ones and cause so much suffering.
I was frustrated at how powerless I felt in
many situations.
There is no doubt in my mind that I want to
go into healthcare to alleviate pain, but also
to provide comfort and inspire hope that
manifests into action and tenacity needed
to fight for their health and some control
over their lives. Hope for a better tomorrow
keeps me and resilient patients going. My
goal has always been to help those who suffer
the most and I hope to follow the right track
through Emergency Medicine. I want to go
into this field to fight for equity-centered,
compassionate, humanistic care. I want to
engage in collective action with future fel-
low healthcare providers to improve local
communities and also fight for federal policy
change. In this way, I could provide care but
also minimize inequity in communities and
directly impact social problems that exacer-
bate health.

My only regret this summer is that I couldnt

do more for patients. So many patients had
social issues that exacerbated their health
conditions and these same social realities
often led to illnesses. I cried for them and
their situations. I cry frustrated tears as I am
writing this reflection because our healthcare
system and other services are so flawed and
fail so many. Denying healthcare to patients
is dehumanizing; deeming a persons life as
less deserving because of their identity or
their inability to pay is ludicrous and cruel. I

Page 16 | From The Ground Floor

Perspectives
Anjay Batra
O
n June 12th, I left my dorm on 14th
Street for my 6pm shift at Bellevue
Hospital at roughly 5:15pm. Thank-
fully, it wasnt raining, but a downpour was
clearly imminent. Dark gray clouds hung
over the familiar Manhattan skyline, en-
shrouding the beautiful top of the Chrysler
Building. It was summer, so the sun was
working overtime, diffusing its light through
the clouds. Occasionally, it would find its
way through a small gap, reminding me that
it was still there.
I made it to the hospital by 5:45pm, and
to the Emergency Ward, where I was as-
signed that day, by about 5:55pm. The EW
is where patients go after being stabilized
after a trauma, and they stay there either
until they can be admitted to a bed upstairs
or theyre discharged. Therefore, patients
who are in the EW are typically very sick.
The ward is a V-shaped room, with two rows
of patients intersecting at the apex of the
V and the nurses station in between. As I
walked down one row of patients toward the
nurses station, I heard slightly raised, tense
voices snapping back and forth, as though
in an argument. I began to eavesdrop, when
I heard a deep, low groan come from the
patient room to my left. The sound was one
of a pure, piercing, pervading pain, the kind
that would evoke sympathy and sadness in
even the most cold-hearted person. I tried to
shake it off and walked to the nurses station
to introduce myself. Although some tension
still hung in the air from whatever had hap-
pened earlier, the nurses introduced them-
selves. The charge nurse, M, smiled as soon
as she saw my bright, fire engine-red polo.
You guys are finally here for the summer!
Well need you, believe me, she said. As I
looked around the room, I noticed that most
of the patients appeared to be asleep, their
rooms dim. One of the patient care techni-
cians (PCTs) walked me to an empty patient
room and showed me how to properly fold
some oversized paper towels. She asked me
to fold thirty of them. It was raining hard on
the windows above me as I folded.
After I finished, I spent the next fifteen min-
utes or so walking around the room, work-
ing up the confidence to introduce myself
to patients and family members. I thought
of what to say. Hi, my name is Anjay and
Im a volunteer. Please let me know if you
need anything. That would work, right? The
first person I spoke to was a middle-aged
woman, presumably the wife of the simi-
larly-aged man in the patient bed. The man
seemed to be asleep, with several plastic
tubes connecting a wall of machinery to his
insides. A quick glance at his vitals moni-
tor indicated that his heartbeat was wildly
irregular. An elderly woman, presumably a
relative, sat next to him, praying. I turned
to his wife and tried my line. Hi, my name
is Anjay and Im a volunteer. Please let me
know if you need anything, I said, awk-
wardly trying to balance friendliness with
solemnity. What could she possibly need
from me, though? This ladys greatest pri-
ority at the moment was probably to have
her husband feel better and get out of the
hospital. Regardless, she smiled, nodded and
thanked me.
After introducing myself to the patients, I
went back to the nurses and asked why the
unconscious patients vitals were so irregu-
lar. M lowered her voice and said, He had
a hemorrhage on his brainstem, the part of
the brain that controls vital functions like
heartbeat and breathing. Theres no hope
for him, but the family has waited a week to
From The Ground Floor | Page 17
 pull the plug. Most people do it within three
days. I dont know what theyre waiting for.
Upon hearing this, I was most taken aback
by how well put-together the family seemed.
His wife had smiled at me.
After hanging around and watching the
nurses for a few minutes, I awkwardly left
the nurses station and walked around the
EW, looking for a patient I could have a
conversation with. Everyone was either
unconscious or unresponsive. As I walked
past the nurses station after making a full
round of the room, L, another nurse, looked
up and said, You really need something to
do, with a touch of impatience. She was tall,
with a serious face and a matter-of-fact tone.
I shrugged and said, Do you have anything
in mind for me to do?
Where are you from? She asked.
Houston, Texas.
She typed on her computer for a few
seconds. You want to be a doctor?
Yep, I responded. Thats the plan. up a glove into a balloon. Ive met PCTs who
She smirked. Good luck.
Any advice for a pre-med? I asked,
expecting to be told to live a balanced life or
something along those lines.
Dont do it.
There was an awkward pause.
Why? I asked.
Dont do it unless you cant think of
anything else to do. Thats what I tell my son.
There is no more glory, the country doc-
tor is dead, the pay isnt as much as it was,
and you could randomly get stuck with an
HIV needle, or hepatitis, or something. The
patients dont even appreciate you anymore.
It isnt worth it. There are other ways to make
money if thats what you want. What do you
think? she said, turning to the other nurses.
They nodded in general agreement, and one
nurse said, Yeah, this is a pretty screwed up
place.
This was not what I was expecting on my
Page 18 | From The Ground Floor
first shift. Was medicine really the way L
painted it to be? After years of being con-
vinced that my future would be in medicine,
I was questioning myself. Whats the point if
no one feels any better at the end of the day?
In that moment, with the sound of the rain
pouring on the windows, the dying man in a
coma a few feet to my left, the memory of the
painful groan from the patient I still hadnt
met, in the dim nighttime lighting of the EW,
I wasnt sure about medicine anymore.
Its mid-July now, and were more than half-
way through the summer program. Since my
first shift, I have encountered several nurses,
attending physicians, residents, and other
care providers who enjoy their lives and
have a generally positive outlook on medi-
cine. Ive had patients thank me and call me
mijo simply for bringing them a glass of
water or some juice. Ive seen residents put a
smile on pediatric patients faces by blowing
greet me with a What up brother! and a fist
bump.
A few shifts ago, I met a senior resident, T,
in the Adult Emergency Services depart-
ment. What struck me initially was how
genuinely he smiled when I introduced
myself. Further, he said hed come get me if
anything cool is going on. He kept his word.
Later, when a patient with a developmental
disorder needed an ultrasound of the heart,
he pulled me into the room to show me how
a heart looks through an ultrasound. When
we walked into the room, the patient was
very nervous, as her chest felt tight and she
was concerned it was something serious.
She anxiously listed a series of issues that
bothered her, even though she thought some
might be unrelated, but she just wanted to be
sure. From the way she was insistently tell-
ing us of her problems, I got the sense that
she wasnt used to being listened to. But T
listened with patience, sometimes giving her
a gentle smile. Over the course of the patient
interview, she calmed down. Not only did she
visibly become less nervous, but I watched as
her blood pressure and heart rate decreased
on the monitor. I was amazed.

Im convinced now that medicine is still a

rewarding field, filled with good people who
enjoy their lives. In a high-stress environment
like the emergency department at a pub-
lic safety-net hospital, people are bound to
become frustrated in difficult circumstances.
However, as long as people like T continue
to smile at patients and listen to their stories,
and to teach the next generation to physicians
to do the same, Im certain that medicine
will remain effective and rewarding for both
patients and providers. We must understand
the pressures faced by providers in such fields
and provide adequate support for them to
maintain such a positive outlook and stay
healthy. I look forward to each of my remain-
ing shifts at Bellevue, and I hope to find time
between sightseeing and volunteering to tell
more stories.

The soul becomes dyed with the color of its

thoughts. Marcus Aurelius

From The Ground Floor | Page 19

 Life Lessons
Iqra Tahir

The communication, interaction, and thinking that occurred in the background

of Bellevue Hospital were truly life-changing. Besides clinical competencies and
medical terminology, the most important thing that I learned during Project
Healthcare was the humanistic side of medicine and patient advocacy. I devel-
oped skills in observing my environment and the body language of patients, in
addition to conversing with individuals from diverse backgrounds. I would not
have learned these if I stood still. As a Project Healthcare volunteer, you see a
recurring theme: the necessity to be proactive and to foster your own knowl-
edge and growth. You have to reach out eagerly and without fear for richer
knowledge and I developed the confidence to do just that.

The patients I interacted with became my teachers. I witnessed many patients

bed bound and dependent on the individuals around them. Nurses were con-
stantly changing adult diapers, providing food, and cleaning patients in the
Emergency Ward, Adult Emergency Department and in several other depart-
ments. While observing vulnerable adults, I was also able to see infants in the
Pediatric Emergency Department clinging onto their parents in the waiting
room or when the physicians examined them. So it could be said that vulnera-
bility is a cycle. You are born into the world frail and delicate, but leave it just as
helpless. This vulnerability requires a healthcare worker to become a supportive
friend physically and emotionally. The patients are in their most critical stage
and they lay their lives in the doctors and nurses that become their only lifeline.

The people that come to Bellevue dont need pity, they need love and respect.
As a volunteer, I became a supportive friend with one of the greatest responsi-
bilities in the hospital: to provide that love and respect. I also had the opportu-
nity to listen to diverse stories while caring for these patients. They taught me
about respect, empathy, happiness, and hardships. I realized then that a person
does not learn from a textbook or short story, you are inspired by the people
you meet, who unknowingly teach us life lessons and guide us to the right path.

Page 20 | From The Ground Floor

The Patient, not the Prisoner
Saima Rehnuma

It was another one of my emergency room shifts. I was tired from having shifts
consecutively and had a fever from the night before. I couldnt imagine staying
on my feet for 5 hours, but as I thought of this, I laughed to myself. This was
only the start of a career I have dreamt of and the hours were only going to get
longer.

I remembered the patient from Rikers Island, the one I refused to call prisoner,
who held my hand so tightly as he went in and out of seizures. His tired pale
body was curled up into a ball, his left arm hanging limply on the side of the bed
extended through the bars of the bed rail. His right arm, with veins that yearned
for hydration, appeared thin and pruned. Silver cuffs hung loosely grazing the
wrinkled skin of his ankles. With hardly any energy to muster, I cradled his
hand as we waited for the medicine to kick in, and to be taken to CT.

It gets lonely, thank you for being here with me, he whispered and smiled
bleakly. I wanted to say I understand but I didnt. I didnt know how it felt to
be in prison for 37 years, to be kept isolated from the world, and only to interact
with people when brought to the hospital. Could it be that this was as good as
it could get for him? I didnt want to think that. I wanted to tell him it would be
alright and that he would be alright, but every thought I had seemed futile. And
all I could do, at that moment, was squeeze his hand.

The officer that came with him told me to stay away, dismissing the patient. It
was an interesting relationship; we were both players of the same team trying to
help the public, but we had such different approaches. I was a volunteer of the
hospital, and like the staff here, I worked to help anyone who walked in. But he?
He was quick to dismiss and push aside, but I learned quickly to give everyone
the benefit of the doubt.

The patient thanked me countless times. He was so appreciative of my being

there. I didnt care that he was a prisoner, that he had committed a crime to have
led him to this position. I only cared about what was right now. To a large extent
that is the beauty of medicine- we are solely here to help anyone and everyone,
and with that in mind I headed to my shift in the emergency room.

From The Ground Floor | Page 21

 Allow me to tell you
about Project Healthcare
Austin McMeekin
A
llow me to tell you about Project
Healthcare. Unfortunately, Project
Healthcare is a one-of-a-kind 30+
year old summer program for young adults
to volunteer in Bellevues Emergency De-
partment. I say unfortunately because
sadly a program like this has yet to become
a staple in emergency departments across
the country. Its beauty and power lie in
the expanded roles us volunteers have the
privilege of undertaking, which surpasses
most medical volunteering positions in this
nation or at least the ones Ive seen as a
veteran pre-medical student. At first, I was a
bit puzzled by the continuous remarks from
the emergency department staff doctors,
nurses, patient care technicians, social work-
ers, and administrative staff regarding how
happy and appreciative they were that we,
as volunteers, were here. And it made me
wonder: why are we so helpful? Were only
volunteers. We have little power and our
absence would not vitally impact the normal
functions of the ED, or so I thought.
After weeks of sitting on this idea,
I realized our power lies in our expansive
roles as patient advocates. We were informed
of this title at the beginning of the program,
but its meaning had little substance in my
mind. However, volunteering in the adult
and pediatric emergency rooms, the urgent
care unit, the emergency ward, social work
office, and so much more has shown me
a side of medicine that I began to see was
severely lacking in the regular emergency
department operations. Within this ED,
everyone has their responsibilities. Doctors
attend to the medical needs of the patient,
Page 22 | From The Ground Floor
nurses tirelessly ensure that this process and
the functions of the ED operate smoothly,
patient care technicians assist with some of
the more non-pressing needs of the patient,
social workers connect the patient with the
outside world, and the administrative staff
keeps everything afloat. Everyone is a cog
in a healthcare machinery that makes up
the emergency department. But what are
we as volunteers? What does it mean to be a
patient advocate?
Simply put, we attend to the needs
of John Smith. John Smith, while a patient,
also has a name, a family, a mental well-
being, and a brain that is trying to process
what is happening in the emergency room.
And sometimes while each cog in our ED
machine is turning with one another, one
might be a little off centered, or not well-lu-
bricated, or a bit cracked. In the end, our
patient John Smith is the one that is affect-
ed. So what are we as volunteers? We are the
adjusters, the lubricators, and the repairmen
that have the privilege of not having our
own cog but the oversight to see all of these
moving pieces. In doing so, we can catch
those little moments that affect our health-
care machinery and work to make them
better for the sake of Mr. Smith.
When I saw a female patient lurch-
ing in pain on her stretcher one day, I
approached her with the intention of under-
standing the situation. Through her visible
discomfort, she informed me that the doctor
said he would get her pain medication a half
hour ago. A red flag immediately went off
in my head; a cog had potentially become
out of place. With the freedom bestowed to
us volunteers, I drifted to the whiteboard,
found the patients provider, and sought him
down to ask for clarification. In my wander-
ing I came across a 4th year medical student
wearing an I.D. badge with the name I was
looking for. I stepped closer as he relayed
information of this particular woman to the
attending physician. His voice was oddly
devoid of emotion and I briefly wondered if
he was aware of how much pain she was in.
But then again, this was a medical student
on rotation. I had never seen him before and
it was equally possible that this was his first
few times caring for a patient in an emergen-
cy setting. I asked myself If I would be any
different. Well, of course I would, but Im not
in his shoes yet to understand their medical
logic. Or there was the equally likely chance
that the medication order was already in and
they were waiting on one lab, scan, or anoth-
er result before administering it. Whatever
the case may be, I was determined to ease
her suffering, even if it was only with the
knowledge that the pain medication was on
its way.
I sat by the medical student and the
attending doctor listening to their conver-
sation while trying to discern what might
be the issue. The medical student continued
listing off details about this woman while
the attending physician critiqued him on
his assessment. An inner struggle raged in
my mind: do I interrupt this critical teach-
ing moment, which might come off as rude
and ignorant if I wasnt careful, to ascertain
whether or not this womans pain had been
forgotten? I was caught in a second of hesita-
tion until I decided that in the end, I was not
volunteering for the doctors. After assessing
the conversation before me, I interjected
with my limited knowledge of the E.D. oper-
ations and braced myself to bear the reper-
cussions. Excuse me. Two pair of eyes land-
ed on me. Youre talking about Ms. Carlson
in room 18, yes? I just wanted to check on
the status of her pain medication because it
seems like shes in a lot of discomfort. The
attending physician slightly widened her
eyes and glanced around at her computer.
No medication was currently listed and she
quickly put in the order while calling over a
nurse. Lets go check on Ms. Carlson, she
said. They stood up and left me behind to
my own thoughts.
Was that it? Had I fixed her pain? Well, yes.
I watched as the nurse gave her the prom-
ised pain medication intravenously and saw
her body visibly relax. I did it. I momen-
tarily ended her suffering. I was able to do
something that I thought was critically and
necessarily needed. Her cog fell between the
cracks of communication and I was fortu-
nate enough to bring it back to its proper
place. I learned what it truly meant to advo-
cate for patients.
My fellow volunteers and I could
give you countless stories of similar form.
The truth is that in the emergency room,
like any working machinery with multiple
parts, small lags sometime accumulate and
lead to a serious problem down the road.
And who is tasked with catching these lags?
Well nobody, except us volunteers. We can
be patient advocates. We do have a criti-
cal purpose within Bellevues Emergency
Department. One that is not met in many
other hospitals. While they may benefit from
such immersive volunteer programs as well,
Bellevue remains the original prototype that
has proven its efficacy. And perhaps one day
Project Healthcare will inspire these hospi-
tals to start their own volunteering programs
within the emergency departments. But for
now, we volunteers will continue our roles to
the best of our ability, and in doing so, help
those that have momentarily fallen through
the cracks.
From The Ground Floor | Page 23
 A Beautiful View
Roshana Brown
The following are statements and questions made by Bellevue Hospital
patients, nurses and doctors.

What you doing at that crazy house?

I dont need to be at Bellevue! I promise Im not crazy.
No one wants anything to do with me.

Im not a monster!
I dont have schizophrenia.

Thats Bellevue for you.

I was a Vietnam war sniper!

I escaped my abusive husband.
I am illegal.

Can you find me a detox bed?

I dont think I can live any longer.
Ive been homeless for 9 years. The streets are my bed.

I dont have any money for food.

Can I have a sandwich?

I dont have any family.

I want to get better, but life is too hard.
Youre going to be somebody one day.
Thank you for talking to me-I needed that.

I just need a shower, can I have some soap?

Hes a regular.

Doctor, youre so smart, no one else could find out whats wrong.
You made my day a little brighter.

Page 24 | From The Ground Floor

 These are the best doctors.

I know youre not allowed to, but can I have a hug?

Why are you so nice to me, do you want something from me?
Thank you for talking to that patient.

Can you make some stretchers?

Volunteer needed for transport!
You make my job so much easier.

Why are you wearing a red coat?

Dont talk to me like a child, doctor.

Can you sing, Little Monkeys again?
My children make me proud.

Tell my husband, I love you, I miss you and I cant wait till I see you again.
Its my birthday, a volunteer made me this card!

Bellevue is my home.

Thank you for being so helpful.

I am going to miss you.

It has its ups and downs, but I wouldnt stay if I didnt enjoy my job.

You cant make this stuff up.

I love Bellevue.

From The Ground Floor | Page 25


A Loved One
Lenura Ziyadinova
I
t was a busy afternoon in Bellevues
Emergency Room when a new trauma
case was brought in by EMS. Having had
an early notice, doctors huddled up to discuss
the course of action. The patient was found
unresponsive at his work place. As he was
wheeled into the trauma slot, his gaze was
fixed. He did not move, nor did he talk. Was
it a stroke or a brain bleed? The possibilities
seemed endless. Curiosity and anxiousness
filled me as I stood on the side observing the
team examining the patient, inserting IVs and
prepping him to go for a CT scan. I was fas-
cinated by the abilities of doctors and nurses
to think and act so rapidly under pressure:
one doctor intubated the patient, another
was ventilating, while nurses administered
medicine for what was now confirmed to be
a stroke. Every minute was important, every
minute was crucial to saving this mans life.
As a student interested in medicine, any new
case brought into the emergency room is seen
as an opportunity learn more about anatomy,
pathology, and medicine. Yet, we are often re-
minded that medicine is not about treating a
disease but about saving a human being. This
trauma case was just another reminder. As
soon as the patient was stabilized, I followed
two of the doctors to the family waiting room.
As we walked inside, we saw a middle-aged
woman sitting in the corner, staring blankly
into a wall. She quickly stood up the moment
we came in, and fearfully looked at the doc-
tors. She was mortified as her husband, her
loved one, was lying on a stretcher hooked
up to monitors, unable to breathe. Perhaps
she simply couldnt believe that the same
man, who just earlier that day kissed her on
the forehead as he left for his job at the local
Page 26 | From The Ground Floor
sweatshop, was now admitted to the hospital
in a critical condition.
This middle-aged man was no longer just a
patient who needed to be saved. In my eyes,
he was now the son, husband, and grand-
father who meant the world to his family.
Despite the severity of the news delivered to
her, his wife stood strong and held back the
tears. Was she in shock? I kept wondering.
She approached her husband, held his hand
and whispered something into his ear. It
seemed like nothing around them mattered
at this point. The environment around them
was hectic: nurses passing by ensuring IVs
are in place, doctors overlooking the patients
breathing, medical students calling an elevator
for him to be transferred upstairs. But for the
couple, time stood still. Her simple touch and
loving words were the only thing needed for
her husband in this scary situation. I stood
and watched them next to one another, as she
affectionately stroked his hair and rubbed his
hand to make them just a bit warmer. I waited
by her side until her husband was taken into
the operating room. She wanted to be strong
for her husband and only when he was no
longer in her sight did she let her emotions
take over. She sobbed as I hugged her. She
asked me to help her dial a number on her cell
phone. Her hands were too weak.
Weeks after the incident I came to know that
this man has fallen into a coma. Palliative care
has been advised for his family and hopes re-
main low. At times, I wonder about his grand-
kids who can no longer play with their grand-
father, about his children who come to see
their loving father in such a helpless situation.
Lastly, I wonder about his wife who is most
surely fighting and hoping for his recovery. I
try to hold back the tears remembering that
hectic day. I realize that a clear and concen-
trated mind is key for any medical profession-
al, but emotions are the true humanity that
elevates a patient from a body to a loved one.
Crimson Red Shirts
Anonymous Author

I wanted to leave, to run away and never look back.

But I stayed.
I stayed because everyone else left;
The nurse with the warmest smile,
All three of your doctors, your father and then your mama.

When you told me of how an angel had wrongfully taken your father
away,
Flashbacks of my fathers death flooded my mind.
I looked down at my crimson red shirt, and said look, youre doing
well

But I knew damn well, that you never forget.

There are five stages of grief,
but Ive discovered a sixth;
Bearing tainted memories everyday.

These memories welcomed new alliances;

Alcoholism, depression, anxiety.
I saw you fighting, but in some battles even ninjas need love.

I told a nurse about you.

She reached to phone the CPEP consult, she swiftly asked
Is he suicidal?
No, not at the moment, hes been to CPEP once before.
Oh, then there is nothing we can do

There is nothing we can do.

I wanted to leave, run away and to never look back.

I couldnt dare tell you, I couldnt become another bearer of failed
promises.
But I stayed.
Sometimes all we can give are crimson red shirts.

From The Ground Floor | Page 27

 Rewritten She does look like me, yes, She said
with a smile. Her cheeks rose and pushed
Alexis Nduka up against her eyes. Despite her thin frame,
she seemed full. The gray strands in her
hair and dark bags revealed a fifty-year-old
VOLUNTEER TO TEAM 2. VOLUNTEER
woman, but her bright brown eyes and eager
TO TEAM 2, the voice echoed overhead.
smile reminded me of a twenty-year-old.
Is she your only daughter?
I walked up to the nurse who was putting
Yes, she is. My only child.
the speakerphone down.
Did she leave?
Yes, she has to go to work.
Hi, Im a volunteer. Did you call for a
Where does she work?
volunteer? I asked her even though I knew
the answer.
The conversation continued as I wheeled
Yes, take the patient in room 4 to the
her into the patient elevator. Betty spoke
17th floor west, she replied.
quietly but confidently. Whatever made her
Ok, thanks! I said with a smile. The
sick wasnt getting the better of her when she
nurse handed me a large mustard yellow
was telling me about her daughter being a
envelope and turned towards her computer.
teacher.
I walked into the isolated cube-shaped room
How old are you? she asked as I
and saw a thin, frail woman. She stared
wheeled her stretcher out of the elevator and
blankly at me as I opened the door. I looked
down the halls of 17 west.
at the yellow envelope to see the patients
Questions about my age were common. The
name.
most common questions, however, were
Betty? I asked.
Why are you volunteering? and Can I get
She nodded her head.
food?
Hi, Im Alexis. Im a volunteer of Bel-
Im 21, I replied.
levue, I said as I elevated her stretcher to
Oh, youre young!
accommodate for my 510 height. Youre
Yeah, haha. I am. I locked the stretcher
being admitted upstairs. Im going to be tak-
in place as I passed the yellow envelope to
ing you to your room now. Is that ok?
the nurse at the main desk.
Yes, she responded. I released the stretch-
Shes in room 1735, the nurse said as she
er from its brake and started to wheel her
took the envelope from me.
down the aisle. This was my first time seeing
Ok, no problem. Thanks!
Betty. When I previously passed her room,
the doors were closed and the curtains were
I rolled Betty down the hall. The room was
drawn. I did, however, notice that there used
not too far from the main desk. The other
to be a young woman standing outside the
patient in the room could have been my age,
room.
or younger. The patients family had circled
her and pleasantly smiled as I wheeled Betty
Was that your daughter before? I asked.
into the room. I smiled back as I headed
Yes, it was.
towards Bettys section by the window. The
I can tell! She looks just like you. Shes a
window had a beautiful view of not just a
carbon copy of you.
cascade of buildings and bricks but parks,

Page 28 | From The Ground Floor

grass, and trees.
Ok, this is your room! Isnt it nice?
Youre by the window. I managed to put the
stretcher parallel to the bed so she could
slide over.
Yeah, it is. I thank God.
Ok, do you think you can scoot over to
the other bed?
Yeah, I can.
As I watched her slowly and painfully slide
over, I couldnt help but want to stay with
her. She was weak yet determined, in pain
yet strong, and seemingly in a hopeless situa-
tion yet so hopeful.
Is your daughter coming back to see
you? I desperately needed to know that she
would be tended to before I left.
No, she will be at work.
Oh, right.
She needs to make more money.
Yes, money is definitely needed to do
anything in this world, I chuckled.
She adjusted herself on the bed as I removed
her property bag from underneath her
stretcher.
Where do you want me to place this? I
asked.
Put it in there, she said pointing to the
drawers by her bed, I need to use the re-
stroom.
As she lifted herself off the bed, the odor of
the room changed. The muted or neutral
smell that filled the room was now replaced
by a smell I could only describe as violent.
I could nearly taste the odor. My thoughts
changed from Alexis, take your time to Alex-
is, leave as soon as she is stable.
I maneuvered the stretcher out of her
section and took some deep breaths before
returning to the room. Can you ask the
nurse for another napkin? The one under my
armpit fell, Betty asked as she walked out of
the rooms private restroom. I nodded and
speed walked to the nurse. As I led the nurse
to Bettys section, I convinced myself that
I would leave once the nurse started clean-
ing the wound. But as I got a glimpse of the
source of the odor, I couldnt turn away.
A hole, the circumference of a volleyball,
was under her armpit. The hole was deep
enough to see her flesh but not deep enough
to see her bones. Bumps and lumps varying
from the size of a fist to the size of a lychee
fruit decorated the hole. The nurse quickly
closed the curtains around Bettys section.
Ill be right back, the nurse said as she
dashed out the room. I couldnt resist want-
ing to know more about her condition.
What did the doctors tell you that you
have? I asked.
Stage three breast cancer, she said as she
looked at my eyes. Her tone was sure but
distant.
When did you start seeing the symptoms
for this?
I went to the doctor in November. He
gave me an envelope with the information
in it. And I showed it to my daughter, I sent
her a picture of the paper. And I didnt really
understand what the paper said, so I started
looking up the words. And I found out it
was cancer. And she called me, and she told
me she was looking up the words, that she
thinks it says cancer, but I already knew. I
already knew.
Did you start receiving treatment then?
No, no money. No money. I dont have
insurance and its expensive to get the sur-
gery done.
She stared at me. I could not tell if she
could see my eyes getting red or beginning
to water. It felt as though she was staring at
me, looking past me, seeing through me,
seeing my thoughts and ignoring them all at
once.
From The Ground Floor | Page 29
 So what did you do from November until
now? I asked.
I changed my diet. I stopped eating meat.
I hear it helps.
Are you sure you dont want your daugh-
ter to come?
Yeah, I am sure, by Gods grace I am fine.
Amen, I responded. I dont know which
one of us found more peace at the mention
of God, her or me.
The nurse came back with a mask, gloves,
gauzes, and tape. I tore the package from the
gauze and passed it to the nurse. The nurse
stuffed the large asymmetrical hole with
gauze and then covered the hole with more.
She then wrapped the tape from around Bet-
tys armpit to her back. Temporary fix.
Can you fill my water container, please?
Im thirsty.
Of course. I grabbed the gray container
from the top of her desk. The nurse pointed
me towards the supply closet and gave me
the code to open it. I went in the room and
calmed myself down as the water filled the
container. I closed my eyes and told myself
not to cry, not to tear up, and not to feel for
a couple of minutes until I left her presence.
Although I wanted to stay with her all day, I
couldnt. I didnt want her to hear the crack
in my voice as I talked. I came back with a
full jar of water.
Is there anything else? I asked. I prayed
she would say no.
No, thats it darling. She held her cup up
as I filled it with water from the container.
I have to go downstairs now, but I hope
you feel better soon.
By the grace of God, I will.
Amen, you will. I smiled and walked
away. Away from her, away from room 1735,
away from the nurse, away from 17 West,
away from everything and every emotion
that was attached to her, and that, and it.
Page 30 | From The Ground Floor
Later, I realized why Bettys condition
made me so emotional. Although cancer
itself is an emotional topic, her circumstance
reminded me of my late Aunt Graces cir-
cumstance. Aunt Grace was really a family
friend but I called her aunt out of respect.
Like Betty, Aunt Grace disregarded the signs
of breast cancer because she didnt have
the money. Aunt Grace was also diagnosed
with stage three-breast cancer. Aunt Grace
had no daughter, no sister, no mother, no
brother, just my family and some other
friends. And there in room 1735 laid Betty,
no daughter, no son, no husband to stay by
her side, just me, a volunteer. The last time I
saw Aunt Grace was on a bed, at a hospital
upstate. Her appearance and personality was
completely altered. She was usually loud and
vibrant but on that day she laid on her bed,
quiet and weak. She was usually a tall, large
woman but the illness made her thin and
frail. The doctors told my mom that Aunt
Grace was in her last stages of life. A part
of me wishes I hadnt seen her in her last
weeks. She wasnt herself on that bed. Now
all I could remember was someone who was
not her in her hospital bed, answering to her
name. Aunt Grace passed away in 2013 due
to breast cancer. I wanted the story to end
differently with Betty. In place of fearing for
the worst with her condition, I decided to
make my own ending for her:
The hospital received a large dona-
tion for which they put part of the money
to pay for her surgery, and rent for the next
year. She recovered faster than expected.
Betty lived a long life after the treatment.
Her daughter, to whom she still bears a
striking resemblance to, got a promotion,
and was now the principal. Her daugh-
ter also received a tremendous bonus and
married the love of her life, Sam. Betty went
back to work, due to sheer boredom of be-
ing home 24/7. Betty still does not eat meat;
she hears it works to keep illnesses away. She
sings in the choir at church and frequently
dances. Shes happy and after recent news
of having a granddaughter on the way, first
wanted to name her Peace, after her own
mother, but now hopes to name her Grace
for reasons she cannot explain.

I wish this fix was not as temporary

as the gauzes stuffed in her wound. I wish
this fix were not just words on a paper. I pray
God rewrites her story better than I have.

From The Ground Floor | Page 31

 Up There
Sophia Song
Chest hurts, the patient responded, face
twisting in despair. The two residents looked
at each other. This was about the tenth time
that the man used that answer in response
to their questions. Yes, but what about your
head? Is there pain there? they tried ask-
ing again. No. Chest. the patient empha-
sized. This time, the residents paused and
discussed with each other how to proceed.
They turned back to the patient and gently
inquired, Have you ever thought of hurting
yourself?
It had only been a couple days working in
the Bellevue Emergency Department be-
fore this event occurred. Even within the
short timeframe, I noticed the impact of
staff being able to communicate in another
language. Not only did it save valuable time
by bypassing the phone interpreter, but also
the patients were more responsive in their
language of choice. They were visibly more
relaxed and described their symptoms in
greater detail.
When another volunteer approached me
and asked, You speak Mandarin right?
my heart leapt in joy. I thought to myself,
Im finally able to use my second language
to assist a patient to communicate with the
providers, thank God. I rushed over to AES
Team 1, eager to help. Upon entering, I saw
most of the doctors and nurses seated at the
team station, with one nurse placing an IV
into a patient. There were six patients there
that morning, so I easily identified the man
who needed help on my left. My eyes imme-
diately fixated on a frail, elderly man with
wide eyes and sunken cheeks. I saw him ly-
ing on a stretcher with a Neurology resident
Page 32 | From The Ground Floor
standing beside him. His skin showed telltale
signs of extensive sun exposure and his slen-
der frame that of malnourishment.
As I approached, he glanced over before
quickly returning his attention to the resident.
The resident quickly explained to me that the
man did not have a comprehensive medical
history. Usually with these types of cases, the
hospital would call the patients family and
friends to collect the missing information,
but he had no one. She was called as a consult
because the records suggested that he had a
stroke over two years ago. She was there to
access the patients neurovascular condition
and discover the reason for his visit to the
ED. To the best of my ability, I translated the
providers questions. However, the patients
terse answers seemed to always steer towards
his immense chest pain. He could not elabo-
rate on the pain, just that it was agonizing. It
seemed as though he understood what I was
asking, but couldnt communicate a complete
answer other than the immediate source
of his distress. The neurologist finished her
exam and only had enough information to
confirm a past stroke. I left with the resident,
feeling somewhat underwhelmed with the use
of my second language. I thought that I would
be able to help uncover the problem, the phy-
sician would come up with a treatment plan,
and it would be a case well done.
Periodically, I popped my head back into AES
team 1 to check on the man, only to see him
balled up underneath the white sheets. He
was so slim that had I not been there earlier, I
would have assumed that the patient had de-
parted and left behind a mountain of sheets.
Near the end of my shift, I checked in again
to see two medicine residents by his bedside.
Once again, I ventured over in hopes that I
could help. I was too late this time; they had
already called the phone interpreter.
The residents conducted a similar interview
to the Neurology resident, with similar
responses from the patient. Although he was
incapable of fully explaining his symptoms,
his eyes told of desperation, seeking relief
from the pain. In a way, he was trapped in
his body, with only his eyes relaying his
desire for freedom. The residents realized
that they could not get far with the standard
interview questions they were asking, so
they switched gears. They started asking if he
had ever thought about ending his life. This
question made the man pause and contem-
plate his answer. After a little more prod-
ding, he finally confided that yes, he often
did. He attempted to jump off a building two
days ago. He wanted to go up there and
be in peace. He didnt want to feel this pain
anymore, didnt want to be alone anymore.
Standing by, I felt an overwhelming amount
of heartbreak for this man. He had no one
to share his pain with, and thought death
preferable to his lonely existence. This could
have happened to anyone who lost his or her
memory due to a stroke. It easily could have
been my brother, my grandfather.
Coming into Project Healthcare, I assumed
that this would be similar to my other hospi-
tal volunteer experiences. What I didnt take
into account was the patient population. Its
the underserved community that taught me
that perhaps a physicians greatest gift to pa-
tients is empathy. This experience broadened
my understanding of healthcare. Not every
case is solvable, and not every patients di-
lemma stems from a physical origin. Some-
times the best we can do as caregivers is to
listen and try to ease their sadness. Walking
away from the mans stretcher, I knew that he
did more for me than I could ever for him.
He changed my perspective of what a phy-
sician should be and taught me the signifi-
cance of compassion.

One of the residents took the mans hand

firmly and reassuringly stated, We will help
you. They repeated their promise until the
mans shoulders slightly relaxed. He nodded
his head in understanding and gratitude. He
still may have been experiencing chest pain,
but his eyes became more tranquil in nature.
The comforting touch of another human
changed the patients demeanor from one of
agitation to trusting. It was in this instance
that I understood that practicing medicine
encompassed more than just addressing a
patients physical concerns. The resident
eased the mans pain by simply assuring him
of their support in his journey to a happier
life. Whether the chest pain could be re-
solved or not, the residents still alleviated his
suffering during this visit.

From The Ground Floor | Page 33

 Odaijini
Caroline Yao
T
he minute Pak was rushed in from
triage, he was surrounded by a bevy
of residents, medical students, and
nurses. Pak thought he had the common
cold before taking some cough medicine and
experiencing worsening abdominal pain. A
layer of sweat covered his tanned face. He
clutched his front as he violently shivered
under a thin sheet.
Hes febrile, diaphoretic, and guarding his
abdomen. He might be septic...
His blood pressure is 80 over 40, we need to
give him fluids now...
Under the fluorescent lights, behind the
blood-splattered, baby blue curtains of Bel-
levues emergency room, residents hooked
Pak up to a monitor, and attempted to take
blood samples. Pak was so dehydrated that
the nurses struggled to find a suitable vein
to start the IV. Eventually, they succeeded
and he was put on a four-liter saline drip
and some painkillers. Bewildered and mar-
veled, I gripped some blue nitrile gloves as I
watched the flurry of action.
Thank you, you guys are amazing... Pak
forced out the words amidst his groans.
The attending physician kindly smiled back
at him, No, youre amazing. I love my job
because I get to meet people like you. Pak
laughed weakly.
As another volunteer and I stayed to assist
Pak with drinking sterile water for his CAT
scan, I learned he had taken some medica-
tion that his friends recommended. I joking-
Page 34 | From The Ground Floor
ly chastised him for not knowing what he
was ingesting and bringing the torture upon
himself as he laughed good-humoredly. I
also learned he was Korean, but grew up in
Japan. He had resided in New York with his
pet dog for some time. His face lit up when I
revealed my upbringing in Japan.
Do you speak Japanese? He seemed aston-
ished as I nodded. Suddenly animated, he
started recounting the origins of his Japa-
nese nickname as if his pain had stopped
bothering him. I enthusiastically nodded
at Paks references, feeling triumphant that
I was able to provide a sense of familiarity
and comfort for him 6,000 miles away from
home.
Fortunately, Paks CAT scan revealed no
abnormalities, but his blood pressure was
still dangerously low even after four liters
of fluid. The resident relayed the need for a
central line and expressed his sympathy. Pak
quickly agreed; yet, his eyes darted fearfully
to me as the risks were listed: pneumotho-
rax, thrombosis, infection. I smiled sympa-
thetically and touched his hand, which was
dotted with marks of failed IV insertions.
He smiled back bravely.
The team of residents and medical students
swept in again to prepare for the line. Before
Pak was covered under the sterile drapes, he
asked me to remove his flip flops, and place
them underneath the bed for fear he would
catch an infection from the bacteria. How
silly is that request, I initially thought as I
slipped the shoes off his feet. Instantly, I felt
a pang of guilt. Given the risks, I would have
done the same.
Soon after, all I could see of Pak was the
site of insertion on his neck. The whole
Editors Note: Odaijini is Japanese for Please take care
of yourself. It is usually said as a familiar parting phrase
by the caretaker to every patient when he or she leaves
the hospital.
procedure was understandably detached.
Lidocaine, ultrasound, needle. The resident
painstakingly inched the needle forward un-
til dark blood aspirated. The atmosphere was
tense and the half-dozen staff were quiet,
save for an occasional groan and squirm that
reminded me Pak was underneath the blue
sheets. Like an anxious, invested fan from
the sideline of a game, I worriedly peered
at the ultrasound--- a jumble of black and
white pixels I could not comprehend. After
straining my neck for some time, I finally
breathed a sigh of relief as the resident suc-
cessfully inserted the guideline and the cen-
tral line into the vein, then placed a couple of
sutures. The attending came by to congratu-
late Pak on his good work. Eventually, Paks
blood pressure rose, and he felt much better.
As our shifts came to a close, the other
volunteer and I said our goodbyes to Pak.
Looking at both of us with sincerity, he
heartwarmingly remarked, You are like
angels sent from heaven. The other volun-
teer and I grinned embarrassingly at each
other. Inevitably, a tinge of regret crept into
my mind: it was too bad that I could not stay
and confirm his recovery with my own eyes.
I gave Paks hand one last lingering squeeze,
then left him to video chat with his pet-sitter
and dog.
Pak is forever etched into my memory not
because of the severity of his condition or
the complexity of his case, but because of his
strength and positive attitude in the face of
life-threatening disease and a painful medi-
cal procedure. He arrived at the emergency
room in excruciating agony, yet he made his
appreciation for the doctors known, expend-
ed his energy engaging with the volunteers,
and even remembered his dog. Despite
his fear towards the procedures uncertain
outcome and being stuck by needles more
times than I could count, Pak courageously
faced the central line that would cause more
discomfort. Through his openness, he gave
me an invaluable lesson on how to confront
adversity. He showed me, as a volunteer,
the significant difference I could make for a
patient, no matter how dismissive my role
seemed.
Paks case also gives me hope. Too many
times, I have witnessed frustrated residents
call for beds upstairs for patients who need-
ed to be admitted, and disgruntled patients
trapped and hungry in the emergency room
because of delayed test results. Too many
times, I also have seen residents shake their
heads at the homeless patient that had
walked in for the third time that week, and
nurses running short of patience with the
patient who repeatedly demanded to eat or
leave. As those instances chipped away at
my idealistic vision of healthcare, Paks case
renewed my belief in the efficiency, sensitiv-
ity, and compassion of Bellevues emergency
staff. His care showed how quickly Bellevues
staff could come together to resolve a critical
situation, and how much the staff not only
cared for their patients physical health, but
their mental and emotional well-being as
well.
I wish you well, Mr. Pak, and I would like to
see you sometime again to see how you are
doing. But in the likely chance that we never
meet again, I just wanted to say: Odaijini
and arigato, Pak-san. to make up for our
premature farewell.
From The Ground Floor | Page 35
 Grammar School
Kevin Wang
Authors Note: This short story is largely a fictitious
interpretation of an interaction I had with a patient
living with homelessness. I garnered what I could of
him through our conversations, but his character and
backstory are based on fictitious narratives of my
own. That said, I would like to make transparent my
incapacity in truly writing from the patients perspec-
tive, who is in a situation far less privileged and far
more precarious than my own. I have no intention of
projecting a self-righteous understanding of his plights
and circumstances onto him, nor of supporting any
negative stereotypes associated with homelessness. On
the contrary, I wish to build a full character and inner
voice as a testament to his humanityone that ex-
tends far beyond his struggles. Our interactions were
simple, but they struck me powerfully and evocatively,
and thus motivated me to harness fiction to convey
my reflections, but presented through the patients
perspective.
O
nce again, the worlds spinning
around me. My head is throbbing.
Its a dull ache that persists, suffi-
ciently pulsating through my head to set
itself apart from the usual, one Ive learned
all too well to live with. Its almost as if Im
pulsing with it, drifting in and out of sleep as
it breathes poison through my bloodstream,
gnawing at whatevers left inside of me. But
it really is most tranquil, me in my state of
God-knows-where, knowing that theres
enough of me left to feel what a drink or two
of refreshing booze can do to bring you back
to life.
The usual ache feels different though,
deeper and darker. Much like the unknown
creatures lurking in the perpetual night of
the ocean depths. Its too deep for me to
reach and grasp, for me to do something
about it. I didnt ask for them to hop aboard
my ship, only to sink me into suffocation.
Many times Ive tried, more than anyone
here would care to believe, to wrestle my
way out of their looming presence. Its like
swimming underwater towards the sunlight
Page 36 | From The Ground Floor
shining through the water surface, only to
find that its no more than a mirage. One
you imagine ahead of you. One you can
keep swimming towards, but will never
seem to reach. Ive lived too many years
plagued by their low, rumbling sounds that
never cease to remind me of their unsolic-
ited company alongside me. Its a different
kind of ache than the one thats in charge for
the moment, but theyre both just as tangi-
ble.
But did I say it was a drink or two I
downed? Jokes on whoeverbecause that
pathetic amount wouldnt have sufficed in
the slightest. Not enough to bring me to
where I am mentally, not enough to bring
me to where I am physically. So whatever
it was I put in me, it did what I needed it to
do.
Back to the hospital. Of course. The
officers probably saw me slumped over on
the edge of the streets, looking my best as
always. And then theyd roll their eyes, even
farther back than they did the last time they
saw me, and make no effort to conceal their
groans as they haul me into an ambulance.
My moneys also on them making a joke out
of me; heck, Im probably still the laughing
stock on the tip of their tongues. Here he
goes again, they would say, laughing on as
if I dont hear them mocking me. Not like
theyd give a shit if they knew Id heard. But
not like I really give a shit myself, anyway. It
really isnt much different from the looks I
get from passersby on a daily basis, if I even
get one in the first place. An odd amalga-
mation of pity, disgust, repulsion, conde-
scension, and, every once in a blue moon,
a sparing dash of sympathy. Bottom line:
Im used to it. The only difference is that the
officers wear it on their sleeves, fitting right
there along with their badges and fancy
stripes, serving the glamorous City of New
York. Minus me, of course, the patron they
all could do without. But on the flipside,
its perhaps quite the honor, frankly, to be a
fervent topic of conversation. I almost forgot
what that felt like.
I open my eyes for the first time
in a while to see the regular hustle of the
emergency room in full force. I know what
regular is, just as well as anyone who works
here. After all these visits, I can afford to call
myself an expert too. It seems that Im in the
hallway this time, under the close compa-
ny of figures dressed in all colors, moving
briskly with such purpose in all directions
around me. There are lots of blues (blues of
all shades, in fact), as well as greens, blacks
and reds. But its all really a blur at the mo-
ment, and my headache soon takes over to
seal my eyelids shut again. Lets put that head
back onto the bed, it demands. Its somewhat
comfortable.
Suddenly, the senses of my body,
probably worn out from the alcohol, finally
catch up to my fleeting awareness, shaking
me into lucidity. Its urgent message: I des-
perately need to take a shit. I am also fam-
ished, my appetite escalating with my hang-
over. I sit up clumsily and lay eyes on the
first uniformed person ahead of me. Proba-
bly a nurse, but I really dont care. I need the
bathroom, I croak.
What do you want? she says with
a look of annoyed confusion laying bare
across her face. She probably didnt under-
stand what I said, and I wouldnt blame her.
I struggle to understand myself most of the
time as well.
I need the bathroom, I repeat, with
more success.
She lets out an unrelenting sigh and
looks beyond me, seemingly at someone else. lived there long enough.
Volunteer, I need you to take him to
the bathroom.
Moments later, a young man in an
oversized, bright-red shirt shows up in front
of me. He looks younger than most people I
see here, but who knows. I repeat my request
to him, pointing at my legs to indicate my
difficulty walking. Partly actual difficulty,
partly my own laziness, but who needs to
know? He nods with a faint smile, and dis-
appears behind me to wheel my bed towards
what hopefully is the bathroom. I fade out
briefly, drifting back into my comfort.
We stop in front of a door and he appears
again. This is the bathroom, sir, he smiles,
offering a hand, do you need help walking
to the toilet seat?
I nod without a sound and start shuf-
fling down to the edge of the bed, stripping
myself from the precious comfort of my
sheets. Its tiring and sore to move myself
across the seemingly endless bed, especially
with weak legs that barely support my sober
self. After what seems like eternity, and pos-
sibly even longer for the volunteer waiting
with his hand outstretched, I land with my
feet onto the floor. He grabs me by the arm,
with his hand concealed in the typical blue
hospital glove, and paces into the toilet with
me. I reach the toilet seat (at last) and down
I sit. He stands back quietly and stays with
me, lest I fall, I guess. As I pull down my
sweatpants, I notice streaks of my excrement
smothered across my legs, again. It doesnt
feel particularly great at all, but I cant say its
the first time Ive found myself laced with a
foul smell and sight that repels others. Per-
haps thats why hes so quiet, discreetly trying
to avoid inhaling the noxious fumes I reek
of. Personally for me, however, nothing new.
Its surely nauseating odor escapes detection
from my nose entirely. Not even the slight-
est slips through, after all these years on the
streets of New York. I mean, if you can still
smell your own home, you probably havent
As I wrap up and stand myself back
up again, pressuring the legs that threaten to
give way any second I stay upright, he comes
to my assistance. We wobble back to the
stretcher, taking each step generously. Whats
the rush, anyway? Where have I to go? What
have I to do? Beats me. But I ask myself that
everyday.
How are you feeling, sir? he sud-
From The Ground Floor | Page 37
 denly asks. The word sir always confuses
me, because it conveys an empty and decep-
tive sense of respect devoid of actual feeling.
But I havent seen him before. Hes smiling,
or at least trying to, which I guess is effort
enough.
I want food. I retort. My hollow
stomach kicks me again, aggressively de-
manding sustenance. It knows were at
Bellevue again, and that the food cart is just
around the corner.
Well get you some food as soon as I
bring you back to where you were, he reas-
sures me. My name is Kevin, by the way. Im
one of the volunteers here today.
Not everyone introduces themselves to me
anymore. Not the doctors, not the nurses,
and most definitely not the officers who
approach me on the street. But, really, its the
least you could do sometimes.
I know a Kevin, I reply.
Really? How do you know him?
And with that, distant memories I
forgot I still had began washing over me,
as Im briefly sent back decades through
my life. All of a sudden, I am my innocent,
prepubescent self again, barely independent,
but somehow far more functional than I am
today.
It was the grammar school recess
area, the one Id rush to with my friends
whenever we got the chance to. Nothing like
the stuff they have these days, but definitely
enough to house many episodes of pleasant
memories that are all coming back to me
now, after years of isolation in the unknown
caverns of my head. There had been a rusty
hoop poorly nailed into a wall, but somehow
sturdier than it appeared. It was most surely
the center of action each day, when wed run
in dribbling an old basketball we found on
the streets, like typical kids filled to the brim
with constant energy. Kevin was one of my
first friends entering grammar school, and
we stuck through many years as close friends
and (sometimes more importantly) as bas-
Page 38 | From The Ground Floor
ketball partners, always on the same team.
We werent incredibly athletic, but we were
damned fantastic at a unique sense of syner-
gy and teamwork that rivalled the biggest and
fastest of players. And that specific moment
I was taken back to was the first three-point
shot I made at that old, rusty hoop. Being
rather short as a kid, I compensated for my
physical disadvantages with tenacity, along-
side Kevin. But that day, he shot me a pass
and I, without a second thought, went for it.
Not a swish, but it hit the wall above the hoop
squarely and firmly, producing the most bril-
liant thud, and then landing smoothly into
the hoop. Kevin jumped up to me in cheer
and elation, hand raised as I prepared for
the painful high-fives hed give me in sheer
excitement. But the pain was a beautiful one:
one of accomplishment, one of pride. And
it was but one of the many moments wed
shared together in our grammar school years,
before we parted ways. This was the first real
lesson of how things dont always end up the
way you expect them to, which is a conclu-
sion Ive come to experience time and time
again, in all shapes and forms.
The typical warm, fuzzy feeling fills
me as I step out of that memory. Its a feeling
with which Id lost familiarity over the years.
But its one reserved exclusively for memories
like these. A warm, fuzzy feeling that alcohol
couldnt even begin to rival, I must grudg-
ingly admit. Because sometimes memories
are all you have left. And they bring you back
to different times, better times, and keep a
dwindling flame inside you burning on.
I knew him from grammar school, I
respond, as I shuffle back onto the bed. I take
my time as my limbs grow even wearier, but I
dont quite feel it as much anymore.
It was a brilliant memory, but I stopped
myself from saying more. Ive since learned
to keep these memories to myself. Not that
anyone would care about some stupid, clich
childhood story from me anyway, when they
have all these other people they could be fas-
cinated by. People whove been places, seen only damn thing keeping me alive for all I
the greats of the world, and changed lives for care, and it clearly works much better than
the better. With people caring less and less some fancy, mumbo-jumbo medical proce-
about me, Ive learned to offer likewise. dure. As if I could even afford it in the first
But more importantly, theyre what I have place anyway.
to myself and myself only. And even in the But Im back behind my eyelids,
absence of everything else, its what wont drifting through the limbo that offers an
tarnish with time, even in the most unfor- elusive island of peace unavailable to me
tunate of imaginable circumstances. No one anywhere else. Its almost if Im back in my
can take it from me, and no one can under- grammar school days, before the diver-
stand it the way I do. In this insurmountable gence of different lives took hold of mine. I
mess Ive been a part of for too much of my vaguely remember returning to my original
life now, I deserve to have this of my own. Of hallway position, and being handed some
course, the other reason is having no desire much-needed food in the usual paper bag. I
to bear the emotional weight of dwelling probably finished it all and asked for more,
on these memories any further. What al- knowing me. For once, though, my stom-
ways ensues is the psychological turmoil of ach is at peace, so I guess I wolfed down the
self-questioning, asking myself about what food so quickly it escaped my notice. I sink
could have been. Would I have done some- back into my bed, and nothing else matters
thing differently back then, had I known for now. Not the soreness of my feet, not the
my fate? What did I do wrong? Is this even offensive stench I carry, and most definitely
my fault? Like so many others, including not what happens next once they discharge
the innocent-looking volunteer standing me again.
before me, I began life with a decent child- And for these brief moments in the
hood, playing, laughing, crying, living. What uncertainty that is my life, I feel some sense
changed for me, and not for anyone else? of calm, as the world continues spinning
And do those people I shared paths around me, with me, or without me.
with, the Kevins I once had, still remember
me? I dont want to know the answer. I dont
care, or perhaps I dont want to care, if he
still remembers me or not. I have no feelings
nor capacity left to handle the empty answers
to these questions. Im long past that. So for
now, this Kevin in front of me seems like he
cares a little more than the others, so hell
have to do. He responds enthusiastically as I
take refuge again in the comfort of Bellevues
hospital bed, but frankly I am losing track of
his words. My lethargy and the traces of al-
cohol still running through me are taking me
back into tranquility. Ive grown sick of them
telling me about how alcohol is dangerous
and toxic. It can ruin and kill lives, they say,
reading from some overused script, standing
on their self-righteous pedestals. What the
hell do they know about ruined lives? Its the

From The Ground Floor | Page 39

 To Process family chairs. The girls seemed bored, so I
made a note to go get them some books and
Nathanael Rehmeyer activities, when they finally discharged the
man I was with.

I
After about an hour when the man
entered Bellevue at 5:50 pm, knowing
left, I went to search for the books in the
I had just enough time to get changed
Pediatric Emergency Department. There
and sign in, to start my 6 to 11 PM
was an awkward moment when scrambling
shift in the Adult Emergency Department.
through the books, I wondered what pre-ad-
I felt tired but was looking forward to the
olescent girls looked for in a book. I played
normal shift and the additional one from
it safe, grabbing a Guinness World Records
11:30 pm to 2:30 am afterwards to shadow
book from 2014, a word puzzle, and an Ar-
my resident mentor. But I was not nervous.
chie comic. The girls were elated and quickly
By week eight I knew how the Emergency
turned their focus to flipping through the
Department functioned and my role in it. I
records and finding words. Congratulating
was prepared to talk to patients and poten-
myself on a job well done, I gave them space
tially bother some residents as they worked.
to read and headed out to do other good
The volunteer I was replacing pointed out a
deeds.
young man on a stretcher in the hallway and
I returned soon after, excited to
said, Go talk to him; he has an interesting
see how they were doing. I love working
story. Seeing that nothing needed to be ur-
with children and my favorite shifts are in
gently done on the rest of my side, I headed
pediatrics, so I was ecstatic to be able to
over and started a conversation. It was a
interact with some in the Adult Emergency
great interaction as he opened up about his
Department. They started sharing about the
life. His story is powerful but not the point
records they had found and ones they would
of this piece and I do not think I have a right
like to beat, as well as words they had cir-
to share it anyways. However, it was the
cled. The girls seemed excited to have some-
family in the room behind his stretcher that
one to talk to and in a rush I learned they
compels me to write now as I continue to
were vacationing in the USA from Ecuador.
process.
I got detailed information on the drama at
I first noticed an older woman walk
school and when it was starting again, much
into the Emergency Department with two
to the girls disgust. In addition, I learned
children at the beginning of my shift. I rarely
that the girls were cousins, the woman was
saw children here. They really did not belong
their grandmother, and the patient was their
in the fast-moving and sometimes aggressive
grandfather who had fallen that morning.
environment of the Emergency Department.
The grandmother injected bits of infor-
It caught my eye and I watched as they en-
mation here and there but otherwise just
tered the room next to where the man and
laughed at the interactions between myself
I were conversing. The isolation room, as
and her grandchildren. The grandfather
its calledtypically reserved for infectious
returned from a test and I left again with an
patients is separated from the rest of the de-
enormous smile on my face, fueled by their
partment. However, it was being used today
energy.
as overflow and held an elderly gentleman
Later on, a friend in the city came to
in obvious pain. I was already with a patient,
pick up the girls for the night and I walked
but I observed other volunteers bring the
them out. We said goodbye and on the way

Page 40 | From The Ground Floor

back I remarked to the grandmother that she
had wonderful grandchildren. I finished up
the normal shift and started the shadowing
shift without any further interaction with
the grandmother or her husband and put my
attention to watching my mentor put in a
central line.
It was near 2 am, the end of my
second shift after eight hours in the Emer-
gency Department, and I was thinking about
heading home. Suddenly, there was a lot of
movement in the department. Nurses and
physicians were rushing in one direction and
one called for my mentor to follow. We head-
ed towards the isolation room as alarms rang
out across the floor. It seemed like an endless
stream of doctors and nurses were cramming
into the tiny space. I prepared myself to
follow my mentor in and shadow whatever
procedure they were doing. That was when
I saw the pumping motion, the visible sign
that CPR was in full swing, and the flat line
on the monitor. My heart sank as I saw her,
the grandmother, slumped against the wall
outside the room, trembling, and ignored by
the rush of people trying to do their jobs and
save her husbands life. My mentor ran in
and motioned for me to follow but as I nod-
ded, I knew I had to stay with her. I went up
and put an arm around her, whispering, It
is going to be alright. I ran and got a chair
for her to fall into and she thanked me. I put
a hand on her shoulder, unable to say any-
thing else. I knew we were too close and she
should not be there, but I was frozen. Help-
less in the noise and flow of people. I peeked
into the room, unable to see the man behind
the swarm of physicians, and held back tears.
Someone eventually noticed her and asked
us to move down the hall. I found her a chair
and heard he had a pulse was intubated. I
excitedly shared the news.
After that it seemed like an eternity
of me standing in stunned silence and her
slouched in a chair, eyes downcast. I wracked
my brain for something to say. Something
to take the pain away, distract her from this
terrible situation. I was screaming at my-
self to do something, but continued to just
stand there. She eventually pulled out her
phone and started showing me pictures of
her grandchildren. We talked about Ecuador
and her family. She spoke about her husband
going to college in the USA and that he still
worked in Ecuador because he loves his job.
She invited me to come visit anytime. and I
mostly listened as she shared.
They stabilized her husband and pre-
pared to take him to ICU. The grandmother
received a call from her daughters so I went
over and helped change him. I went up with
the transport team and carried the familys
bags. Upstairs, I said goodbye and wished
her a goodnight. I wanted to say something
helpful and profound. Something to lift
her spirit as she stood there alone by her
husbands side and let her know I would be
praying. But I froze up again and the mo-
ment passed.
When we returned downstairs, I
looked at my watch and saw that it was 4:30
AM. I thanked my mentor for the experience
and he mentioned to take time to process as
these things can be really hard. As I slowly
trudged home, feet throbbing after standing
for ten and a half hours, I felt emotionally
numb. Unable to grasp the events that just
occurred. In the pre-sunrise darkness I
passed by quiet buildings and empty streets.
The city that never sleeps, seemed to be tak-
ing a moment of silence with me. I entered
my building, collapsed into bed, knowing
eight hours later I would be back at it, ready
to go again.
From The Ground Floor | Page 41
 Stronger
Haley Barravecchia

I see you
Covered in bruises, blood, iodine stains
Bundled up, under thick white sheets

I smell you
The alcohol swabs and packages of candy
All opened, all tasted, as if you were looking for something
But were never quite satisfied

They say you have lupus,

I lost my best friend to that.

I hear you
Between beeps of monitors,
Dreaming of what you would do if
you were ever healthy again.

A beach.
Crystal blue waters, and peach colored toe nails
Playing in the white crunchy sand.
That is where you long to be.

But you will never lay in the sun

They say you have lupus,

I lost my best friend to that.

You show me photos

Of who you are
of who you were
before you had lupus

I cannot recognize you

But I know you are not this disease
Nor should this disease be you.

Page 42 | From The Ground Floor

I meet your mom,
and your best friend.
I was there when she called to say she was pregnant.

They know who you are outside of the white gown,

away from the tubes
and lullabies of the monitors.

They say you have lupus,

I lost my best friend to that.

When you are finally sent home

A few days later
I paint my toes peach
And go to the beach

Maybe I will see you there one day.

They say you have lupus,

But I know you are stronger than that.

From The Ground Floor | Page 43

 Code Blue concavity of the chest that may have been
caused by broken ribs due to CPR. It was
Anonymous Author difficult to observe so many people taking
turns pressing hard and fast on the fragile

I
chest of a lifeless body.
entered AES (Adult Emergency Services)
and immediately noticed how busy it
There was one resident directing the chaos:
was, which Ive heard can be rather
which probably was not chaos at all, but
normal for a Monday. With seventeen to
it seemed like that to me, having no other
twenty-two patients per team, it took a while
benchmarks to compare it to. There were
to navigate in search of the person on the
two attendings amidst the slew of people,
previous clinical aide shift, a shift designated
asking for updates along the way. One
to shadowing physicians in the Emergency
attending reminded the resident that after
Department. I soon learned that I would
this much timeabout 60 minutes after
find the outgoing clinical aide volunteer in
onset of cardiac arresteven if a heartbeat
the trauma slot. Given past lectures about
was restored, brain activity would not be
volunteers overcrowding the trauma slot, I
regained. The other attending brought in
questioned whether or not I should go in. I
the family, who were rather calm despite the
decided to enter, though with little idea of
circumstances. This gesture was done mostly
what I was walking into.
to show the family that all efforts had been
made to resuscitate their loved one. Though
When I walked into the room, one trauma
calm, they asked many questions that could
case was in the process of dispersing. The
not be answered at the time.
other was just the opposite. There was a
huddle of twenty or so people around the
When the family walked in, this patient,
stretcher, many of whom were involved in
though lifeless, became more human to me.
some way or another with the performance
of CPR. There were pulse checks, rounds of
Throughout the code, I stood very still,
epi, and deliverance of shocks. All things I
gripping my hands together as if to hold my
had either learned in CPR certification or
own hands. I had been nervous about this
heard of elsewhere but had never seen in
moment or type of situation for a long time
front of me. This was all in an effort to save
coming, probably about seven years, with
an 83-year-old man with dementia who
varying intensities. Anxiety about death is
was in cardiac arrest. Technically speaking,
not necessarily common for a twenty one
though not something I processed in the
year old, especially when it sets in at the
moment, this man was already deceased the
age of thirteen. Though for children who
whole time I had been present.
face the trauma of childhood disease and/
or serious surgeries, like me, this may not be
Watching this resuscitation effort, I noticed
the case. In my case, the likely trigger was
and felt things I would not have expected.
open-heart surgery at thirteen.
There were sounds and creaks, maybe from
the cracking ribs or movement of the body
Thoughts surrounding the transition from
on the backboard. There were unpleasant
life to deathof myself, my family and
odors. In the moments when compressions
friends, and strangerspop into my head
were halted or exchanged, I noticed the
more frequently than I would like. They can

Page 44 | From The Ground Floor

be momentary considerations or can span
minutes that feel more like hours. They can
occur at the strangest of times or times that
seem more relevant.
Back in the trauma slot, it is no surprise that
these thoughts started to resurface. But I
stood gripping my hands to help myself be as
present as possible. I did my best to put aside
the fear and instead focus on the realities
that were occurring in front of me.
Once the family had left the room, it was
time to call time of death. Only v-tach had
been detected. All other life signs pointed
towards death. Time of death was called
at 13:21 and all measures at resuscitation
ceased. The commotion quelled and quiet
lingered in the area. One attending stepped
out to tell the family the news, though they
had seen the dire situation only a few min-
utes prior.
It seemed that members of the team were
still processing this event, yet there was
immediacy towards getting back to busi-
ness. In other words, there was a quick shift
from providing life-saving measures towards
a debrief in which the team discussed the
medical situation of the officially deceased
man and how to improve the leading of
a future code. Though this transition was
rather suddenso sudden that the patient
was still lying lifeless only a few feet from
the conversationI appreciated and under-
stood the movement towards practicality.
The discussion centered on concepts that I
may not medically or scientifically know but
could conceptually understand, unlike death,
which to me is incomprehensible.
Before long, all of the doctors headed back
out to AES, likely to be bombarded with
thirty more tasks and requests from patients
and staff. Practicality and getting back to
business was at play once again. Not much
time left to process the emotional aspects of
the situation. For the remainder of my shift, I
tried to get into the mindset that many of the
residents seemed to. To package or suppress
my feelings for now, until I was in a place
and time where I would be ready to reflect
on the situation.
Even a week later, I have yet to fully examine
or sort out this experience and my lingering
emotions surrounding it, yet I know that I
am appreciative of it. I am grateful that the
first person I saw pass away was not a loved
one, though that does not mean I dont feel
sadness for the nameless man whom I saw
die. I am relieved that I got to experience
my first code as a passive observer, with no
responsibilities towards saving or providing
care for the patient. However, in the future,
being educated and experienced may help
me make sense of the harsh realities of cardi-
ac arrest and other fatal conditions. My hope
is that this experience has, in part, prepared
me to manage the emotions and fear that
will no doubt be present when it comes time
for me to actually participate in life-saving
measures and have responsibilities towards
my own patients.
From The Ground Floor | Page 45
 Thankful a puzzle that has so many pieces. When
a patient enters the emergency room it is
Amira Cohan very important to do a well rounded work
up to make sure no medical issue or root

I
problem goes unnoticed. I am fascinated
t has been a while since I have written
by just observing AES, watching how the
about my past weeks at Bellevue. The
patients sit or lay in their beds, watching
summer is flying by, and the weeks run
how the staff interacts, and watching people
together especially when I have weekend
come and go. One afternoon in AES around
shifts. However, aside from the whirlwind of
four oclock an older woman came into the
a schedule, my time here is only improving.
center of Team 1. She was brought in by an
I have adjusted to the hospital and its staff
ambulance because she had fallen on the
and from them I have learned such a great
street. As she lay in the bed bleeding pro-
amount. I have met great people: both pa-
fusely from the cut on her forehead doctors
tients and providers. When I think back on
and nurses filled in around her. She had no
the past six or seven weeks I feel extremely
family with her and I could tell she was not
lucky to have been chosen to be part of Proj-
comfortable. I noticed that she was reaching
ect Healthcare. I feel extremely privileged to
her hand out toward me even though I was
be allowed in all the areas of the hospital and
far from her at the foot of her stretcher. I
to lend a hand, whether its assisting with
looked around to see if any of the providers
a task, bringing a patient food, or simply
or medical students that were beside her
extending my ears as a listener. I no longer
would take her hand. No one seemed to
worry about making sure the conversation
notice it. Immediately I wedged myself in
flows or continues because I am confident
between the medical student and the bed
that it will go on naturally. Which, is proof
and grabbed her hand. She took my hand
that my interpersonal skills have improved
and held it tightly. I held her hand until the
greatly. I now am able to talk to anyone and
end of my shift that afternoon and when
have found myself more willing to engage
it was time for me to go I passed her onto
with people on the street or those around
the next volunteer to make sure she did not
me, even when I am not at the hospital. It
have to be alone. After, I could not help but
is hard to think about how only three more
think about how nobody noticed or thought
weeks remain, and I am reluctant to see my
to grab her hand. I vowed to myself to never
role here this summer come to a close. I will
forget how something so simple can help a
try to engage with the community in Boston
patient so much.
when I return to school but it will not be the
same. Bellevue is an extremely special place
More recently, I have left my shifts feeling
and I dont know of any other hospitals
like I really made a difference. I feel like my
like it.
role is so important. I do not need the pa-
tient to thank me or let me know I was help-
I consider myself very observant. When I
ful, I can tell on my own, by the tone in their
am not talking or occupied with a task I
voice or if their body language changed, that
am watching. I consider this a skill because
my presence was appreciated and made their
I notice little occurrences and if some-
time in AES more tolerable.
thing I see is concerning I will vocalize my
thoughts. I believe attention to detail is very
I am thankful. Thankful that I have always
important, especially when working with
had good access to healthcare. Thankful for
Page 46 | From The Ground Floor
my family members who support me. I am
thankful. Thankful to be able to be a part of
Project Healthcare. Thankful for my coordi-
nators and supervisor who work so hard. I
am thankful. Thankful to be given the ability
to work in Bellevue. Thankful to have met
so many people from so many places. I am
thankful. Thankful to have learned. Thankful
for the ability to make a difference, no matter
how small. Thankful that the help I offer is so
willingly taken. I am thankful. I am thankful.
I am thankful.
Wednesday
Rachel Marks
I
t was on a Wednesday when I saw my
first death. I walked into the emergency
room at 8am, my drowsiness quickly
falling away as the now-familiar smell of an-
tiseptic wipes and hospital food washed over
me. People claim that hospitals smell like
illness and death, but over the course of the
summer, it had become one of my favorite
smells. Team 1 had only a few patients on it
when I arrived, two of whom were still deep
in sleep. The only awake patient was a wom-
an who looked to be in her early thirties,
and was clearly not too thrilled with being
in our ED. I went over and started talking to
her, trying my best to distract her from her
pain. I discovered that she was twelve weeks
pregnant, and that she was on a business trip
to New York when she started feeling sharp
pain in her abdomen and decided to come
to Bellevue. After a few minutes of chatting
and even a few smiles from my patient, the
overhead speaker interrupted us with a loud
and clear cardiac arrest, Team 1. My heart
jumped, as it does every time my team is
called to the trauma slot, even though as a
volunteer I have no real responsibility laying
on my shoulders.
I followed the doctors into the trauma slot,
which was already crowded with nurses and
paramedics and an unresponsive woman
laying in the middle of it all. It seemed as
though half of the hospital was in the slot at
that moment, yet everyone was totally calm.
I grabbed a pile of warm sheets and stood in
the corner, gripping them close to my body
as I watched the doctors take over chest
compressions. They pushed down on her
body harder and faster than I imagined they
would. This was no practice dummy. The
doctors compressed relentlessly for ten min-
utes, while they shot epinephrine and Nar-
can into her, in the hope that drugs would
induce some sign of life. Eventually they
paused to check the pulse. No pulse. And
just like that, it was over. Time of death,
8:24. I waited, expecting a wave of emotion
to pass over me. But there was nothing. No
sadness, no anger, only a bit dazed at how
fast it was all over. I never even saw her face.
As I was standing there watching the staff
wrap up the body, another trauma came
into the slot, with the usual slew of doctors
behind it. No one looked twice at the body.
Instead, they surrounded the patient that
was still alive, the heart that was still beating.
Because as a doctor, as a human, thats all
you can do. Keep moving forward.
It was on a Wednesday when I saw my first
life. The pregnant woman from Team 1 was
brought into the GYN room and a resident
grabbed me on his way in to chaperone. It
was always a privilege to observe a pelvic
exam, because its such a vulnerable moment
in a womans life. The patient was clearly
frightened, nervous about the status of her
baby. Although this was her third child,
she had never felt abdominal pain like this
before, which is why she was so worried. As
the doctor conducted the exam, she winced
and screamed in pain, and it broke my heart
to see her so in distress. Thankfully, the
exam did not reveal anything of concern. I
wheeled her back to her room and layered
From The Ground Floor | Page 47
 sheets on top of her to help her feel warm
and safe again. A while later, I was chatting
with her when the resident returned with
an ultrasound in tow. I watched, holding
my breath as the probe focused on the little
being inside of her uterus. Even at twelve
weeks old, it resembled a developed baby,
with a round little head and a heart that
fluttered rapidly in its chest. I looked over at
the mother and she was grinning, her eyes
shining. Can we listen to it? she asked. And
so with me standing right next to her, she
heard her babys heartbeat for the first time.
It was a rapid collection of clicks that sound-
ed nothing like the heartbeat we all have, yet
it was absolutely breathtaking.
In school, Wednesdays are the worst day of
the week, already dragged down by assign-
ments but too far away from the weekend
to feel any sense of relief. During Project
Healthcare, Wednesdays dont really exist.
With the unconventionally scheduled shifts,
it is easy to lose track of little things like the
days of the week. But for doctors, Wednes-
days could amount to anything. A trauma
case, a surgery. A life, a death. And thats
what intrigues me so much about this pro-
fession. This is no office job where the daily
agenda is sitting on your desk, waiting to be
checked off. Every day is something new.
Everyday has the potential to leave you with
a wondrous, humbling experience.
Held Momentarily
Kristen Perez
I
stood on the train platform, slowly
suffocating from the summer humidity
and the stench of stale vomit and urine.
My phone told me that it was only 7:00 in
the morning, but I still felt anxious. My first
volunteer shift in the Bellevue Emergency
Page 48 | From The Ground Floor
Ward was to start in one hour; lateness would
not be tolerated. Furious at the MTAs inability
to follow a schedule, I silently chided myself for
not learning how to drive sooner. After what felt
like an eternity, the train finally screeched into
the station. As I eagerly leapt into the metal car
to be pressed against the window like a sardine, I
practically wept tears of joy because reaching my
destination was a possibility at that moment.
I strolled through the EW exactly one hour later,
proud of myself for making it on time to my
shift. However, the pat on my back was imme-
diately interrupted by the commotion from the
trauma slot. As I peeked through the tiny red
window looking directly into that room, a team
of nurses and doctors had already begun to
wheel out the body of a man who was lost in a
sea of blankets, blood, and medical equipment.
Poor soul, I thought to myself as I walked to
the nurses station. Curiosity infected my mind.
Who was the man? What happened to him? Did
he have any family? I wasnt ready to hear the
answers. I couldnt bear the thought of being
invested in the life of a dying man.
Instead, I distracted myself by keeping busy with
my shifts. This plan was successful up until the
EW nurses received John Does belongings. As
they rummaged through his personal items, I
could no longer contain my desire to know how
the mystery man landed in the hospital.
Do you know what happened to the last
person in the trauma slot? I asked.
He tried to kill himself. Jumped in front
of a train, said one of the nurses nonchalantly.
Come again? He must have been pushed
in front of the train, right? That happens all the
time around here, I stammored. There was no
way that anyone could be so casual about self-
harm.
No sweetie, this was intentional. Unfor-
tunately, this sort of thing is not uncommon at
Bellevue, said the other nurse somberly.
The temperature of the room dropped
ten degrees. Even though I was wearing a thick
sweater, I felt goosebumps rise on my arm.
Thats why my train was so late, I thought.
Shagotom
The thought of someone intentionally jump- Pooja Dutta
ing to their death as I impatiently waited for

G
the D line to show up sickened me. But, he
rowing up as a South Asian-Ameri-
was surrounded by a team of doctors and
can in New York City is both excit-
nurses after all. Perhaps he was still alive.
ing and enlightening. My hyphenat-
Its a shame that he died. He had
ed identity offers the chance to experience
such beautiful children.
the vibrancy and grandeur of both cultures,
as well as its fusion through concerts by
The nurses popped my bubble of optimism
underground rappers like Anik Khan and
faster than the thought could leave my head.
savoring pork belly paratha tacos at Smor-
Shivering, I looked over the counter to see
gasburgs Goa Taco. However, I have also
them sadly examining several photos of John
grown aware of a concerning generational
Does family that they retrieved from his
gap amongst South Asian, especially Bengali,
wallet. They also discovered an NYU card
immigrants who were unable to assimilate
amidst his other items, suggesting that Doe
as well as our younger generation and as a
was either an alumnus or professor at the
result, were frequently misled, confused, and
college.
separated from integrating into the Western
majority culture. Consequently, I have been
Sensing my distress, one of the patient care
consumed with responsibility to address
technicians decided to have a long conver-
these cultural and deeply-rooted develop-
sation with me about the varying degrees
mental issues. Working at Bellevue Hospital
of injury that are often seen in the EW , the
has given me the opportunity to not only
most common being suicide. I sat there and
serve a large underserved population, but
listened to her speak, unable to move. She
also cultivate this personal mission.
asked what I thought about the man sleeping
peacefully on the bed across from us.
I was walking around the adult emergency
He has a giant bandage around his
room one morning, peeking over at each
throat, I said.
patients bed to find an inviting face to talk
What else? Look closely, she said
to. I came across a middle-aged South Asian
patiently.
woman lying with her eyes closed, twisting
and turning in bed, writhing in pain. I went
My heart sank. His thin arms were tightly
up to her and introduced myself.
strapped to both sides of the bed, inhibiting
any upper-body movement. He tried to kill
No response.
himself too? I asked desperately. Many
times, she sighed. But as long as he is here,
I mentioned that I was a volunteer and here
we will not allow him to do that.
to help her with anything she needed.
When my shift ended, I walked past the
bandaged man who was now struggling to
No response.
maintain consciousness. Just kill me, he
pleaded. I want to die, he said louder. I
She seemed very confused and I had an-
kept moving forward. No matter how fast I
ticipated that she had many unanswered
walked, however, I could not escape the chill
questions from this ER visit. Despite being
that had permanently settled within me.

From The Ground Floor | Page 49

 rejected by her a few times, I mustered the
courage to ask her in Bengali if she was also
from Bangladesh. Immediately, the tense-
ness on her face gradually subsided and her
eyes were filled with some interest. Yes, yes!
Are you from Bangladesh? All it took were
a few words in Bengali to trigger many more
hours of conversation. I learned that she was
here with a severe viral infection and despite
experiencing serious throat pain, she seemed
to earnestly power through it to continue
our conversation. I learned about her long
journey to this country and the great deal of
effort it took to establish a foothold to sup-
port her family. Her story was similar to that
of many other Bengali immigrants in that it
demonstrated a unique resilient spirit. She
lived with her husband in a tiny one bed-
room apartment in Brooklyn with two kids
and they labored away several hours of their
lives to send their children to college, sac-
rificing many of their personal aspirations.
She shared her struggles with being accept-
ed in the local Bengali community and the
pressures she faced from her husbands fam-
ily to be the best housewife and mother. Her
eyes glistened as she described her passion
for cooking Italian, Chinese, Thai, Mexican
and other cuisines in addition to traditional
Bengali food.
Suddenly, I was taken aback as she reached
for my hand and clasped it in hers. She
sounded helpless saying she had no hope
and encouraged me to continue my studies
and serving others. I imagined my mother
and her similar obstacles when adjusting to
this country. It was this same resilience that
sparked her interest in entrepreneurship and
led her to establish her business. I gave her
ideas on how to transform her passion for
cooking into a profitable source of income
and encouraged her to seek resources to em-
bark on this journey. Although she seemed
skeptical, she was receptive and appreciative
Page 50 | From The Ground Floor
to the help. Our conversation was interrupt-
ed by doctors and nurses asking for infor-
mation and drawing blood and I watched
her grow more comfortable and reveal even
more information as I reassured her that she
was going to get the best care. At the conclu-
sion of our meeting, a smile crept over her
face as she said, If you werent here Id have
so much trouble. You are like my daughter.
Youll be very successful.
It is often responses like these from patients
that make volunteering an extremely grat-
ifying experience. I was not only able to be
an advocate for a lady who knew minimal
English, but I worked on my personal mis-
sion by trying to offer opportunities and
services to her. In that moment in the ER,
I lessened the gap and helped her feel safer
in an unfamiliar setting. Although I could
not treat her medically, it was thoroughly
reassuring to know that I was able to heal
her by hearing her story and trying to make
her believe that her life was not yet over. She
had given up half of her life for her family
and I wanted her to believe that now it was
time to live hers, and she was in the right
place to do it. Working at Bellevue, a hospital
whose mission to treat everyone and focus
on promoting long-term healthy living in the
underserved by providing resources and sup-
port is aligned with my own. It inspires me
to continue helping Bengali immigrants by
helping to make their time at the hospital a
more enjoyable stay and eliminating barriers
to treatment such as language.
6/21
Maya Graves
A Stream of Consciousness
T
oday is my sixth shift, and I final-
ly get it. I finally understand what
the coordinators were talking about
during the entire orientation week. I finally
understand how a patientsomeone with
no agenda to change someones perspective
or impact someones daycan make you feel
emotion that you had never felt until today. I
think today I was consciously empathetic for
the first time in my life.
The Emergency Ward is a very quiet place,
which is an anomaly in Bellevues Emergen-
cy Department. Rarely do you have anyone
yelling behind a blue curtain because they
want food, juice, sweatpants, or simply the
attention of any part of the staff as they
would like their IV to be removed. Con-
versely, in the EW are some of the sickest
patients in the ED that have been brought in
by transport (typically a trauma) or walk in.
Sickness is interesting, though. Aside from
physical trauma, one can often not gauge the
level of illness from which one is suffering.
In my case, today, among the three patients
that I spoke with, only one of them appeared
sick as he had a gauze 4x4 taped on his
neck spanning from below his left to right
ear.
I came into my Emergency Ward shift
mentally preparing for this to be one of
the more uneventful or lonely shifts as men that are not quite old and also not
there are no other red shirts (volunteers) on
the shift with you. However, right from the
get-go, Anu, another volunteer, introduced
me to her favorite patients of the day. One
of Anus favorites, a man named Mr. Young
would soon be one of mine as well, impact-
ing me more than he knew that afternoon.
Although awkward at first, I attempted to
build upon the conversation, and ultimately
the relationship that Anu had created with
Mr. Young once Anu had said her good-
byes. Medically, I didnt know the reason
for Mr. Youngs stay at first as he had no
visible debilitations, but after reading his
chart I learned that he had fallen at home
and the providers were worried about his
heart function due to how out of breath he
became from the smallest tasks.
If theres anything Ive learned thus far,
its that you have to connect with people
in your own individual way, at your own
unique level, for the conversation to be both
lasting and meaningful. Mr. Young and I
connected through his reminiscing early
life stories. I found out that he had been a
part of a circus for most of his life (which
I found fascinating! Who do you know
that grew up as part of a circus?), and he
also acted at La Mama, a theater run by a
revolutionary African American woman in
the 50s. La Mama to my surprise is just a
couple blocks from where I live. I mentally
noted to make it there one day and see it.
A little while after chatting, I was asked to
transport Mr. Young to receive an echocar-
diogram. The nurse had given us the wrong
location, so I was thankful that Mr. Young
was so kind, understanding, and did not
become frustrated when I took a couple
wrong turns while wheeling him around the
Hospital. After I dropped Mr. Young off a
couple floors up, I attempted to spend time
with other patients. One thing I have found
is that, being a young African American
woman, it is sometimes hard to approach
quite young, but father age, as I like to see
it. I dont know why I feel this bias against
them, or feel like they will not want to talk
to me or will feel awkward talking to me,
but I do and I am trying one day at a time to
conquer it.
From The Ground Floor | Page 51
 In order to uphold my promise to myself
this summer that I would step outside of
every comfort zone I have ever created and
defeat all unconscious biases, I walked up
to Robert. Robert was a 43 year old white
male that did not look interested in speak-
ing at all. But he was awake, I had nothing
else to do, and I dont regret my decision
one bit. Robert was a Polish man who had
been in New York City for the past 6 years.
He and I initially related through his En-
glish (which he considered broken but I
perceived as conversationally competent),
discussing first his diet habits and exercise
and then moving into traveling and expe-
riences. Once he understood that I wasnt
going anywhere, and that I actually wanted
to talk about any and everything, he began
to share with me why he was in the hospital
in the first place. I still dont know if Robert
is an alcoholic or not. He was in the EW for
vomiting blood over the past day. He shared
that he drinks one day and then when he
doesnt feel good from drinking the pre-
vious day he has another beer or two and
then he wakes up the next day and does the
same cycle over and over and over. This vi-
cious cycle of self proclaimed therapy with
more and more alcohol led to a tear in his
esophagus. After speaking with the doctor,
he understands that he has to change the
way he thinks and handles his drinking. The
doctor was worried about his liver function
declining in the near future if he didnt quit
drinking. From our time speaking, which
amounted to about two hours, I know Rob-
ert is a smart man with a good background
and I really hope he finds the strength to
manage his drinking habit. Ive never really
wanted to feel hope for a stranger like this
in my life before.
Empathy.
A Stream of Consciousness
Page 52 | From The Ground Floor
A close friend of his died 4 years ago from
drinking. I hope that the memory of that
and the doctors advice is enough for him
to stop. He is lucky that he eats so healthily
and is in such good shape otherwise, or his
drinking may have taken a bigger toll on
his body. After talking about his illness and
after I made a couple of other transports
with other patients, Robert talked to me
about his latest girlfriend that didnt work
out because he thought she was was too
controlling. From the way he portrayed the
situation, he did the right thing by ending
that relationship. What really upset me
though was when he shared about his ex-
wife and daughter that live back in Poland.
He shared how he had tried to contact his
daughter over Facebook and she has never
responded to him. I dont know why, but
that made me distraughtI fought back
tears in that moment.
Empathy?
To lighten the mood we talked about the
next adventure he set his eyes upon after he
divorced his now-ex-wife and left Poland.
That conversation made it easy for me to
control my tears as he described his new
life in Barcelona as paradise. He shared how
people told him that the US was paradise,
but that he doesnt necessarily agree any
longer. Here in the U.S., its all about capi-
talism and money, and from an immigrants
standpoint, Robert painted that picture for
me to understand quite well. It was weird to
listen to an outsider describe the Ameri-
can class system that he voluntarily became
a part of six years ago. He stated first and
foremost that it is so incredibly difficult
for someone that does not speak perfect
English to get much of a well-paying job.
And on top of that, it is hard for someone
of a different line of work to find a husband,
wife or any type of partner with serious in-
terest who holds a line of work with greater
prestige than the other. He specifically said,
a doctor doesnt want interest in a cleaning
lady and that is because of the class system.
In that moment, not only could I full wrap
my mind around what he was referring to,
but that analogy resonated with me in a
manner that opened my eyes to the type of
society we live in. I wish I would have asked
Robert what type of work he did, but I did
not want him to feel any lesser of a being af-
ter he shared that he was nervous as he knew
I wanted to go onto being a doctor. Now,
after typing that, I realize how backwards
of a thought that was, but at the time it felt
like the right thing to do. I am not sure. I
am never sure what is right or wrong in the
realm of Bellevue human interactions.
Empathy?
With only about an hour and half remaining
on my shift, a nurse was moving a patient
from the stretcher to an admissions bed and
asked me for a hand. Respectfully, I told
Robert that I had duties to attend to and I
allowed him to rest his broken English for
a while. As I was finishing up that duty, the
PCT next door asked me to help readjust a
patients bed and help her put down sheets
while he was in the bed. 1) Did I not only
think it was impossible, but 2) I was mildly
nervous to be around this patient as I had
heard about him from my fellow redshirts
the day prior. He, who I would come to
know was named Justin, had gotten violent
while attempting to hurt himself again and
I didnt want to be the next victim of pa-
tient abuse. However, today, Justin was very
relaxed and calm. He called me a couple
names that I wasnt keen to responding
to, but nevertheless, after continuing our
conversation while casually ignoring the
things I chose not to hear, he proved him-
self to be a kind but heavily agitated and
confused patient. Justin had a huge bandage
around his neck, spanning basically from
ear to ear. I soon came to find out that Justin
had attempted to kill himself by slitting his
throat. His mother, Julie, was also there.
She was a 77 year old woman who didnt
look a year over 60. I was impressed by her
strength in seeing her son in not only this
state of being but also state of mind. Justin
was sedated, which made his speech a little
slower than normal, but he was able to hold
a conversation. He shared how he knew that
he had some sort of psychotic break, and
that this was not the normal him. I dont
know if I was being naive to believe him, but
I genuinely did. I think just accepting what
patients say and not over analyzing as we are
not providers is part of process in under-
standing these patients. The more he shared,
Justin seemed to be scared of the manner
in which he was said to be acting upon his
transport to Bellevue. He claims to have no
memory. The PCT even agreed that what he
did did not line up to what she had observed
during her one-on-one observation. I think
that observation was to determine whether
Robert should be transported to the emer-
gency psychiatric ward, but once again I am
not sure. Am I ever sure about anything?
Anyhow, that was that, and my five hour
shift alone in the Emergency Ward was
coming to an end quicker than an extremely
hectic shift in the Adult Emergency Room.
The next volunteer, Maissa, showed up, and I
said goodbye to what I thought was a sleep-
ing Justin, who in fact was not and whis-
pered Goodbye Maya back.
When I said goodbye to Robert, he shook
my hand and asked if I would be back
tomorrow. Regretfully, I told him that
although I would not be back tomorrow in
the Emergency Ward, I would be back in
the Adult Emergency Service and before my
shift I would come say hello and check in on
A Stream of Consciousness
From The Ground Floor | Page 53
 him. This was the first moment that I knew
that breaking down barriers that I had created
throughout my twenty one years of life was re-
ally worth it. Because of the overtly simple re-
quest Robert had posed, I knew that my words
and my open ears had not only left footprints
on my heart, but his as well. It was much
harder than it shouldve been to say goodbye
to Justin and now Robert, but time was ticking
and I had to move onto Mr. Young.
Much like Robert, Mr. Young too asked me if I
was going to be back tomorrow and if I would
mind stopping by to say Hello and whole
heartedly I said I would. Three patients that I
thought would perceive me as nothing more
than the current volunteer who was doing
her job had asked me, me personally, to come
back to check on them and I dont think Ive
never felt as warm or needed as I did at Bel-
levue as a volunteer anywhere else in my life.
To know that these perfect strangers who I
had only met five hours previously appreciated
my presence and allowed me to contribute to
their care in the simplest way meant more to
me than I know they will ever even be aware.
Although it is only my sixth day, there is one
thing about emergency medicine that I know
for sureit is not for me. I do not think that I
can spend time with a patient treating, caring
for, getting to know and empathizing with and
then just send them on their way to never see
again. I kid you not, I came home and tried to
find Robert on Facebook, but I didnt catch his
last name when I was in the EW and I failed
to pay enough attention to the whiteboard to
remember now. It saddens me to know that if
these patients are discharged tomorrow before
my shift at 1 pm, I may never see them again.
But it also warms me to know that while Ill
never forget them, hopefully they will not
forget me, either. And I hope that I changed
their days in a way that made their Bellevue
experience that much better. I hope I see them
tomorrowI really hope I do.
Page 54 | From The Ground Floor
Untitled
Anonymous Author
I hope God treats you well.
You dont know me but I cared for you.
You, after all, were a man,
just like my brother,
or father.
Im sure you have done some noble things,
and some awful,
whoever you were, you became a part of me,
when I heard cardiac arrest, team 3.
You were dying and I was watching.
They did everything they could they said.
I hope they did.
I will never know you, but you will forever
be entrenched in my mind.
I also cried for you.
I didnt even know your name,
and I still cried.
Maybe that was a sign of weakness,
or strength, but whatever it was,
I hope you felt my love for you.
Because nobody deserves to die,
as another patient,
lesson,
or a spectators show.
I was there with you.
I hope you felt it too.
I hope God welcomes you,
and treats you well.
 COLOPHON
Editor-in-Chief
Arman Azad

Managing Editors
Haley Barravecchia
Anjay Batra

Literary Editors
Alexander Chong
Maya Graves
Alangoya Tezel
Julia Dokko
Cristian Ramirez
Sarah Wishloff

Copy Editors
Caroline Yao
Kevin Wang

Recruitement and Publicity Officers

Alexis Nduka
Maissa Trabilsy

From The Ground Floor was founded by volunteers from

Project Healthcare, an immersive clinical internship at
Bellevue Hospital in the Kips Bay neighborhood of New York City.

Project Healthcare is a partnership between the NYU School of

Medicine and NYC Health + Hospitals/Bellevue. The Summer 2017
program was headed by Anthony Orneta, and this years coordinators
were Julia Romano, Katie Nerlino, and Chris Laugier.

Cover Art by Arianne Maya

From The Ground Floor | Page 55