I pictured him at his waiting room door . . . clutching a chart, catching eyes, . . . calling out a name, bewildered
Richard M. Berlin, MD
I place a stethoscope in my ears and listen to the heart when I’ve run out of things to say.
I'm reviewing a left ventriculography from a man with chest pain, MI ruled out, his wife dead for a post-crash hour...
"A hundred people dancing so hard they’ve thrown off their shoes . . ."
Einstein's happiest moment revealed.
—for SusanneWe kneeled on the bookstore floortwo students scanning the bodiesof new books, checking outeach other's Principlesof Internal Medicine.Scores of textbooks laterwe're a pair of pagers and missed dinners,companions in sleep-deprived nights.We suffered the long delaybefore our only child while we ranto slashed wrists and ODs,sprinted from half-read journalto school play to board meeting.In conversation long as summer lightwe talked patients and drugs,recited the simple prayers of dying,learned how we both took medicineas a life-long lover.One hushed June evening in mid-lifescented rose and thick with fire-flies,the phone steals her.I sit with my half-filled glass
Needle sticks and night call, Hep B burrowing skin, bad smells, deep wounds, death, dying, dead wood...
A poetry reading by psychiatrist Richard Berlin, MD.
One of the special aspects of practicing in a small community is seeing patients living their lives outside the office.