Richard M. Berlin, MD

I drive west along the black granite bed of Cold River as it sweeps down the mountain. My best friend drives the same road east, the lies his wife told the judge trailing us...

Laennec was running late when he saw children send sounds through a wooden beam...

When a health system honcho asks me to see his thirty-year-old son “for a little anxiety” I can only agree. He arrives with a girlfriend, the couple dressed like characters from an Armani ad...

Tears track his leathered face like seawater spilled from a sinking hull...

My penmanship sucks. So does my typing. I’ve been this way since seventh grade...

Looking out at a flat gray sea, I try to imagine the chasms in the ocean’s floor where lava laced with strontium pours...

I want my patients to believe I consider Peabody’s advice before I see them, that I recognize our shared humanity...

He smoked trabucos, mild miniatures produced by the Austrian monopoly, but preferred Don Pedros and Reina Cubanos...

The trouble with looking like a God becomes clear after we learn to wear our mask of omnipotence, pretending to know the answers to questions...

His new hip healed in, we’re working on a bluff, talking doctors and health care reform as we shove a new propane tank into place...

Sometimes when proposing a treatment plan, I flash to an image of my patient seated beside me on this orchard bench watching orioles court in May’s sharp sunlight...

Dawn is at five, but I sleep past nine, not caring if I miss a few warblers flying home for summer...

That’s how he’d like to go, he tells me, not by this slow seeding of liver and spine, not with all the tears and long good-byes.

The Big Bad Wolf and Wicked Witch liked to creak the stairs by her bedroom door and wake her from dreams calling, “Daddy!”

On the cracked macadam court in the shadow of The Castle on the Hill, below fake gun turrets built with bricks...

I’m driving home from the ER, not ready for sleep, eaten up by memories of my mistakes...

We’ve been meeting since his PSA spiked and he decided on surgery. Radiation finished, nerves nicked by the robot...

After a managed care company calls me to be “a prescriber,” I recall The Book of Dinosaurs my grandfather gave me the day I turned seven.

It's always a brain tumor when I have a headache. “Don’t be crazy,” I tell myself, “You’re just inventing a doctor-mind catastrophe.”

Fifty Shrinks allows us to see ourselves through the sensitive eyes of a colleague and artist.

When I learned my first scale at 45 I knew I would never rip loose and free like the pros who started as teenagers, when time didn’t matter and practicing was just another form of play.

I begin by remembering my hours as a patient and Freud’s “Fundamental Rule”: Say Whatever Comes to Mind...

When I’m hungry, I love to stroll past the campus barnyard and visit the colorful, caged characters who live, like me...

I’d love to create a new set every year, our glossy portraits on one side, caduceus in the corner, honors, cure rates, and publications on the back...

When a full-time writer's husband was diagnosed with cancer, she found writing poetry helped her cope. She guessed that others would, like her, find their experiences with cancer best expressed through poetry. So began The Cancer Poetry Project.

Three years deep in despair, he’s swallowed every pill I prescribed...

Under the V of her cashmere sweater, sacs of silicone sag in tangled scar, their arc of cleavage a triumph...

If I could be edible, I would want to be a steamed vegetable dumpling, pure white like my doctor’s coat…

While I watch the artist paint, I imagine him in the time of plague crafting a portrait of a Medico della Peste, a Plague Doctor wearing an ibis-like mask...

In the graph, bands of color recede like mountain silhouettes drawn by a child...