Editor’s Note TABLE OF CONTENTS

1

Editor’s Note

Zora Neale Hurston once said “There are years that ask questions, and years

that answer.”

2020 was a year that came with its own set of questions. A year that took loved

ones, celebrations, and opportunities from us. A year that taught us racism is

still evident and the importance of unity in fighting this injustice. A year that test-

ed our patience, resilience, and adaptability. A year that we may never forget.

Though the year brought many questions, we brought our answers whether

through artwork, prose, or poetry.

Welcome to Scope, the literary journal for SIU School of Medicine! Often, sci-

ence and art are seen as two different entities. Science is thought of as a left

brain dominant task and art as a right brain dominant task. We at Scope believe

no one is limited to just one skill. We find that medicine is where both science

and art converge.

Thanks to the unconditional support of Mr. Roger Robinson, we were able to

establish Scope in 1993, giving our medical community a concrete space where

science and art could be explored and celebrated. 28 years later, Scope contin-

ues to serve as an important outlet for our community, arguably more so this

past year than any other year before. I believe Mr. Robinson would be proud to

see what Scope has become to our community. We at Scope are grateful for all

his hard work and dedication to the establishment of this magazine.

I would like to thank everyone that contributed to our 2021 edition. Thank you to

our many talented artists for sharing some of their most vulnerable works with

us. Thank you to my colleagues who worked hard to help amplify the visions of

our artists. Finally, thank you to our readers for being present. We hope you

enjoy!

To 2021, a year of more answers.

Bukky Tabiti, MSIII

Editor-in-Chief Bukky Tabiti

Faculty Advisors Christine Todd, MD and Kathleen Jones, PhD

Review Staff Ashay Vaidya, Catherine Greene, Gregory Harpring,

Logan Grubb, Stephanie Short, Janet Martin

Staff Advisors Steve Sandstrom, Kristie Parkins, Jordan Hammer

2

TABLE OF CONTENTS SHIPWRECK AT FT. WILLIAM, SCOTLAND ·································· 6

SEASON CHANGE ······································································ 7

A COVID YEAR: A WORLD IN FEAR ··········································· 8

CRINKLED LOVE ········································································ 10

CALM LAKE WITH LILY PADS ···················································· 11

DREAMSCAPES ········································································· 12

STRANGER THINGS ···································································· 13

GUITAR ······················································································· 14

BARRIERS···················································································· 15

CHANGING SEASONS ······························································ 16

FULL BLOOM ·············································································· 17

IDENTITY MAP ············································································ 18

TWO TRAINS PASSING ······························································ 20

FIELD AT SUNSET ········································································ 22

TURNING TIDES ·········································································· 23

MICROAGGRESSIONS ······························································ 24

STATE OF REPAIR ······································································· 26

ONCE IN A THOUSAND LIFETIMES ··········································· 27

A 2020 WISH ·············································································· 28

THE CHING CHONG SONG ····················································· 29

UNTITLED ···················································································· 30

JAMAICA’S PEACOCK····························································· 31

3

VIRTUAL INTERVIEW/COSTUME CHANGE ······························· 33

ASTONISHED ············································································· 34

BARN AT SUNSET ······································································· 37

THE TOUCH OF A LETTER ·························································· 38

GLIMPSES OF GRANDMA ························································ 44

VISION ······················································································· 45

BLEEDING HEART ······································································ 46

NICU ADIEU ··············································································· 47

LIFE FLUORESCENT ···································································· 48

TRAILER TRASH ·········································································· 49

PIKKU HALSSI RETREAT ······························································ 50

WHEN THIS IS OVER, WHEN ······················································ 51

LINCOLN PARK ········································································· 52

FRENCH TOAST ········································································· 53

BAD THINGS HAPPEN ······························································· 54

MENACING GAZE/A VERY BERRY BREAKFAST ······················· 60

PRIORITIES·················································································· 61

23, 24, 25 ··················································································· 62

SOULREST ·················································································· 63

ICY LEAF ···················································································· 64

SLOW REFLECTIONS ON RAPID CHANGE ······························ 65

HIDING IN PLAIN SIGHT ···························································· 66

4

Roger Robinson 1934-2020

SCOPE dedicates this issue to Roger Robinson, the Assistant Dean of

Students in Carbondale for SIUSOM until his retirement in 1994. Roger

supported, encouraged and mentored scores of medical students

during his career, and SCOPE would not have existed without his

guidance and backing. SCOPE is proud to continue the community

discussion that Roger began over 25 years ago.

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Roger Robinson

A Remembrance by J. Kevin Dorsey, MD, PhD

In the summer of 1973 members of the charter class and I, a newly

hired biochemistry faculty, arrived in Carbondale to begin an innovative

experiment in medical education. Dick Moy, MD, the founding dean,

was determined to create something better than the education he had

been “subjected to.” There would be integrated organ system

instruction in the basic sciences, early clinical skills training, no grades

and the concept of mastery learning: do it/test it until you get it right.

With the three-year, round-the-calendar curriculum starting in

Carbondale, one of Dr. Moy’s wisest moves was to recruit a few

education specialists to help launch his untested model. Roger

Robinson was the quiet leader of those pioneers in medical education.

Joining them was a small cadre of basic scientists willing to try

something unique. Both faculty and students were thrust into this new

curriculum that was literally being created on the fly, just a few steps

ahead of the students. From my perspective, Roger always seemed to

be the man in the middle. He could make the pedagogy rational to both

the science content module authors as well as to the learners on the

receiving end. He was calm and reassuring at a time when metaphors

such as “drinking from a firehose” were used to describe student life.

A few years later when I changed careers and became a medical

student, Roger again emerged as a steady hand, almost like an older

brother who had been in your shoes and knew you could handle the

problem. Forty-five years later I can still remember his feedback to me

after observing a simulated patient interview that took a turn and was

no longer simulated. He helped beginners acquire confidence.

SIU School of Medicine has educational innovation in its DNA, and this

has been sustained thanks to the foundation created in those early

days in Carbondale when faculty and students who were willing to take

risks listened to each other and were gently guided by Roger Robinson.

6

Shipwreck at Fort William, Scotland Digital Photography

By Ian Pollock, Staff—Library

7

Season Change

By Cynda Strong, Community Member

Naked branches moan

Wind whipped hair and runny nose

Winter’s entrance looms

8

Times never seen

By living men

What does it mean?

When will it end?

Less getting sleep

More anxious mind

Close contacts keep

New havens find

More washing hands

More biting nails

Hair in long strands

Home haircut fails

Watch savings sink

Safe margins thin

Some people drink

When stim-check’s in

More people quit

Lose psychic fight

Drug ODs hit

New record height

More data seen

Who’s keeping track?

Keep research clean

Take errors back

Grim nurse’s face

Sees doctors cry

New vaccine race

As patients die

Half faces smile

Safe under mask

More lawsuits filed

Take rules to task

Keep healthy kid

In schooling pod

Zoom classes did

Feel rather odd

More baking bread

Less eating out

More stories read

Still people pout

Less busy gym

More eating sweets

Clothes options slim

Hard looking neat

But WebEx wear

Fits loosely—see?

Let cam’ra stare

At cat, not me

More doggy time

Glad wagging tails

Less worry grime

Clean floor assails

Less dusting too

Why neaten up?

No houseguests through

To raise a cup

A Covid Year: A World in Fear

By Kathryn Waldyke, MD Faculty—PA Program, FCM

Carbondale

9

Get furlough days

Could travel, yet--

Most transit stays

Too risky bet

Need t.p. more

Still finding less

How long’s it for?

I daren’t guess…

Times never seen

By living men

What does it mean?

When will it end?

10

Crinkled Love First Place Poetry

By Catherine Greene, Student—Class of 2023

It was love, this she knew.

There could be no other explanation for such passion.

Each time they met, there was a newness.

A fresh touch, a perfect match.

He always left her wanting more,

“One bite is never enough,” her friends would joke.

Oh, they had no idea.

When everyone else had given up on her,

she never let go of the possibility

Of the wonder, of the lose-it-all,

dive-in-head-first mystery of love.

And oh, what a mystery it was.

He was gone.

Her perfect match had left her matchless and

her taste buds as puzzled as her stomach,

which was now ready to commit treason against her body

if there ever were such a thing.

As she stood in the center of aisle 16

staring at the empty shelves that once

held her one true love, she wondered.

“Of all the things that have disappeared

in this darn quarantine,

black pepper crinkled lays are gone?!”

And so was the ending of a love that once was,

and also the beginning of a new mouth-watering romance.

“Hello there,” flirted the Doritos bag.

11

Calm Lake with Lily Pads Pastel

By Mary Corrigan Stjern, Community Member

12

To run from reality and chase a dream is of utmost comfort.

Rest easy.

The thoughts are more ravaging than the world itself.

Tomorrow will come but rest for now.

Eyes closed, mind open and free.

Head lay to pillow as mind lays to rest the worries of the day.

Sleep. Dream. Wonder of peace.

Of a world without disease.

Or chaos, or lies.

Of rest.

May your dreams carry you farther than your reality.

And may you remember that dream when you wake so you can re-

turn again and again.

When the day is young and the pain is new, rest.

When the week is long and misery ensues, rest.

As these weeks turn to months,

And the children grow up,

And the loss is great,

And the tears are many while the smiles are few,

When the reality of the end is too much,

And the thoughts are more ravaging than the world itself,

When joy hides from morning, and bitterness stirs the night,

May you escape into that dream and rest

Dreamscapes


13

Stranger Things 2nd Place Art Digital Photography

By Amit Sapra, MD, Faculty—FCM Springfield

14

Guitar Dean’s Choice Cardboard

By Thomas Hingle, Community Member

15

Barriers Acrylic on Canvas

By Glen Aylward, PhD, Faculty—Pediatrics

16

Changing Seasons Pastel

By Mary Corrigan Stjern—Community Member

17

Full Bloom

By Tyra Jones, Staff—External Relations

When in love I’m like a flower in bloom.

Once you open me up, I’m open all the way.

There have been plenty of men who have stepped on my petals.

And even some who have left me for dead.

There have been some who claimed that they wanted to nurture me

But did not water me so I dried up and eventually died

Then one day as I was out in the heat the Lord restored me

My petals came back,

My color came back,

My strength came back

My life came back

As I started to grow I could see the ones that left me for dead started to

return

They looked different but the agenda was the same

But this time instead of thirsting for the water they had

My roots were anchored in something better

Living water

So now what they offer doesn’t quench

The thirst I now have

It’s good to know that one day there will be someone who will notice

this flower

He will want to know what’s in my soul

Where my roots lie

He will be careful to nurture this flower

He will water me

And I will grow taller

He will love me and I will remain his forever

He will take care of me and I will flourish

18

Identity Map

By Megan Freeman, Community Member

Born on July 5 – a Cancer

Like PT Barnum and Huey Lewis

In 1983. white. Female.

Birthed in Springfield the day after the Beach Boys played a show in

Atlantic City -

Sandwiched between sea and boardwalk.

Seven years later, those boys brought sun and surf to the Illinois State

Fair –

First concert.

Parents-

Middle class. Union.

High school sweethearts raised by tiny, Illinois towns

Had a code – like Omar

Stop. Help. Lift.

They cared and provided and drove to places and practices.

Stand-up comedy and music.

There was always music – Whitney Houston, Bob Dylan, The Eagles,

John Prine, Eric Bibb,

BB King

The words were few, though,

And waste baskets filled with beer cans.

Something happens to a child exposed to so much aluminum.

Sensitive and anxious - an exposed nerve -

Feeling his slur, her cancer, his disappearance

Wouldn’t it be nice if we were older?

First pretending –

Old enough to smoke, sip

From pen and paper to Clarisworks and AOL

I totaled my first car on 9/11 and I went.

6 Chicago, 2 Seattle

South Loop

Lincoln Square

Boystown

19

Central District

Wallingford

Little Village

Andersonville

Rogers Park

And we’ll have fun, fun, fun

Where President Obama’s kids went to school and Aaron’s older

brother was shot.

Where I painted bodies at Pride and Ms. Angie’s son stabbed his

brother on the front step.

Where I told jokes at the Hideout and was threatened on the picket

line.

The sky opened with story and poem.

An American

Whose sexuality resides in the gray and

Whose childhood church wanted to pave that paradise to put up a

parking lot

An American

Who walks white

While my friends are trapped

Moving the blinds to the side

to peek the corner.

I get around.

I see the 11th street line and the blue lives matter signs

And dig around in my bag for compassion – control – intelligence

Finding only chapstick and tampons

I now sit here

With you.

In hope.

And God only knows.

20

Two Trains Passing Third Place Poetry

By Tyler Natof Student—Class of 2024

Our first date:

you were late and confessed

to wanting to skip it

Fate?

Let theologians decide;

I was just happy you had joined me

to share an unknown ride

Our lives intersected, so carefree:

“Whatever happens happens,”

we’d just let it be

I never would have known

how much that statement

was laden with irony:

In what felt like an instant

(but was really a year)

we became inseparable—

so I foolishly thought

But tragedy has a whimsical way

of ripping lives apart:

15 in 100,000 who die by suicide,

You became a statistic to the CDC:

but to me you’ll always be

one in a million,

the only one I’d ever want by my side

Ashes to ashes, dust to dust,

the kindly priest pronounced

But this prayer misses everything in the middle,

and was no solace to me

as I saw your closed casket,

holding a corpse only twenty-three

21

In that intervening time between ashes and ashes,

fleeting yet vital,

you were a catalyst

constantly converting monotony to magic

Though the casket was closed,

My mind saw you clearly—

through our love and friendship

we had x-ray vision into each other’s soul

Effortlessly, our lives intersected,

so too would they speed away

like two trains passing,

just long enough for us to wave

22

Field at Sunset Digital Photography

By Karen Shear, Staff—FCM Quincy

23

Turning Tides Acrylic on Canvas

By Sophia Matos, Student, Class of 2021

24

Microagressions Third Place Prose (Tie)

By Susan Hingle, MD Faculty—cHOP & Internal Medicine

Others

“Yes, what are you Sue? Aren’t you the princess of the ACP?”

“We’re sorry but you don’t have enough gravitas to serve in such a high

profile position.”

“You should wear more feminine clothes.”

“You shouldn’t report the sexual assault; no one will believe you. He

has an outstanding reputation. They may even blame you because you

wore a skirt showing your sexy legs.”

“You only got the position because you are an attractive white women

with blonde hair and beautiful eyes.”

“You are not well educated enough to deserve the position.”

“When you talk, I cringe.”

“You wouldn’t understand, you’ve never been pregnant.”

“I bet you feel guilty working so much. Children need their

mothers.”

“You are too nice to be an effective leader.”

“You only got the position because they needed a woman.”

“You voice is too high pitched. It is really annoying. You should get vo-

cal coaching.”

“You used to be beautiful Dr. Hingle.”

“We gave you the award because you are so nice.”

“They don’t ignore you because you are woman, they ignore you be-

cause you aren’t smart enough.”

“Be careful, nice people don’t get ahead.”

“We don’t really want a woman because you are so fragile.”

“You’re white, you wouldn’t understand.”

“That was a great presentation honey.”

“You tired of your husband yet? Or more likely is he tired of you yet?

25

(Wink, wink)”

“What is your role? Oh, you are responsible for the soft stuff. The

touchy feely stuff. Do you miss having a challenge?”

“It’s so strange, your reputation outside of SIU is so much better than

within SIU.”

Me

“You’re not good enough.”























26

State of Repair

By Logan Grubb, Student—Class of 2022

I hear you in the streets screaming that your lives matter,

Imagining what has happened to make you feel that that’s something

you even need to state.

Police running, sirens loud, protesters scatter,

Buildings torn up, burning, innocent lives meet their untimely fate.

Now I want to reach out to you and show you that I care,

I want to let you know that I hear you, that WE hear you,

What’s happened to you here isn’t even close to fair,

Let’s put this issue to rest, for the last time, unlike our forefathers, let’s

see it through.

Now how do you fix a country so poignantly divided?

How do you remedy scars that are so many centuries old?

When the fires are put out and everything has subsided,

How do we rebuild what has turned cold?

But do not despair my dear friends,

For as hopeless as our situation seems, it is wise to remember love

makes all amends.

27

Once in a Thousand Lifetimes—Neowise

Comet Digital Photograph

By Sara Way, Staff—Marketing & Communications

28

A 2020 Wish

By Jimmy Coyle Staff—Neuroscience Institute

To reach out and touch you

That is all I ask

To hug you or to hold you

Or to even shake your hand

Speaking on the phone just isn’t enough

Nor is talking through a window

Your touch is what I miss most

It is what my soul yearns for

Your strong embrace

Which brings calm and peace

Will that ever be felt again?

I am not quite sure

But I hope and long

For just one more time

Before it is too late

Just once to squeeze you tight

One last Bear Hug

Dad that is my only wish…

29

The Ching Chong Song

By Ayame Takahashi, MD, Faculty—Psychiatry

Ching Chong, Ching Chong, let’s all sing along with the Ching Chong

Song.

Ah soo, Ah soo, I stubbed my toe…

Let’s all sing along with the Ching Chong Song

Suzie Wong and Long Duk Dong

You look just like Ken Jeong!

Come on play along with the Ching Chong Song!

We’re fond of blonde, (I’m not brunette, or blonde)

Black (Hair) is whack,

Why don’t you go back?

Back where you belong.

Your face is flat, your eyes are slits…

Nose so small, can you breathe at all?

Chinese, Japanese, dirty knees, look at these…

Go back to where you’re from.

Chink, Nip or Jap which is your cap?

Or gook by fluke, we dropped a nuke

You bombed our land, you understand?

Go on back to China Town

Oriental, sallow, yellow

If black is black and white is white,

Then where do I belong?

(I pretend not to hear the Ching Chong Song)

30

Untitled Acrylic on Canvas

By Laurie Rollet, Staff—Capital Planning & Service

31

Jamaica’s Peacock

By Yasmin El-Amin, Community Member

We had just flown like seagulls into the paradise of Ochos Rios,

Jamaica.

I felt the warm gentle breeze against my brown skin, the sun kiss my

face goodbye as it was setting.

I smelled the salty water at the beach and heard the tall waves crashing

into the shore.

I was thinking this was the best way to start our vacation.

Nothing could change how I felt about this day.

These thoughts were spoken too soon.

We decided to go to our hotel room first.

We were going to get a fresh Jamaican dinner after we settled into our

new home for the week.

As we were walking, we heard an interesting sound.

We heard the shrill of a peacock, at least we thought it was an animal.

My mother sped past us like lightning. When we caught up my mother

had jumped in the pool.

So many things were happening, the air was filled with yelling, crying,

and sadness.

I wasn’t completely sure about what was going on at the moment.

My mind was racing.

I could see my mother in pain in the water. I didn’t know why

I saw my aunt jump in terrified and pulled back my mother.

I heard someone scream, ”get out the water it's electricity”.

I had put together the pieces of this puzzle and realized what had

happened.

I saw a man in the water. He looked unconscious, he was purple and

blue.

(Continued on page 32)

32

A frightened mother holding a baby crying in tears.

The mother was screaming “mi amor.” I now know that means, my love.

They got the breathless man out the water. He was not going to be a

father anymore.

Everyone was kneeling on the ground, my mom giving the man CPR.

My sisters and I were praying and crying while my mom yelled, “get the

kids out.”

It was a crazy night, I had never seen such a tragic event.

Minutes later we went to my aunt's hotel room in tears.

We walked in crying, tears streaming down our faces.

At that moment my mom made me realize how blessed I am.

It was a life lost and life saved.

There might not have been a peacock, but there was an angel watching

over my mom

The week before our vacation my mother was in another water getting

baptized

We think this is what spared her life.

My mom is not just a mom.

She is a doctormom, mi amor.

(Continued from page 31)

33

By Alexandria Wellman, Student—Class of 2021

Costume Change (top)

Virtual Interview (bottom)

Ink on Paper

34

Astonished Second Place Prose

By Juliet Bradley, MD, Alumni—Class of 1997

“Am I no longer young, and still half-perfect? Let me

keep my mind on what matters,

which is my work,

which is mostly standing still and learning to be

astonished.”

--Mary Oliver, “Messenger”

Olga’s Huntington’s disease was getting worse, and I was running

behind in clinic. It was almost two o’clock; I had not yet finished my

morning session and had not had time for a bite to eat.

I read somewhere that it can be helpful to take a deep, centering breath

before knocking on the door of an exam room. It’s supposed to help you

be more present. I looked at my schedule and took a deep breath. It

was never a quick visit with Francisco and Olga.

Two years ago, I’d been the one to diagnose her. At her first visit with

me, I’d asked the usual questions about what brought her to the clinic.

Typing into the EMR, I did not notice the sudden, involuntary jerking

movements. Her husband, Jose, answered the questions I asked Olga.

I’d looked sharply at Francisco, wondering if he was one of those

domineering partners who doesn’t let his wife have a voice. “She has

these twitching movements that she can’t control. She has problems

with balance. Speech is becoming more difficult. Her mother had

something very similar when she died in her fifties.”

In that moment, my mind seared into laser focus, and I discarded my

suspicions about Jose. Huntington’s chorea? I had met patients with

Huntington’s disease when I did my neurology rotation as a medical

student, but as a family doc, I'd never been the one to diagnose it.

Francisco and Olga, raised in a village in Mexico, had no name for this

tragic, degenerative illness, this aberrant gene that had taken her

mother and afflicted her older sister. I labeled it, this incurable curse

that would take her speech and her independence, but I would not be

35

able to do much more.

And now it’s two years later. A neurologist has confirmed the

diagnosis. There has been an aspiration pneumonia and a feeding

tube, and a progressive loss of function. A charitable organization has

provided a wheelchair. Our social worker has gone to great lengths to

get coupons for diabetic feeding tube supplements, bus passes for

clinic visits, and warm blankets for the days that the heating goes out in

their basement apartment. Olga’s speech has become unintelligible, but

her personality sparkles through. She smiles when I compliment her

new hair color, and rolls her eyes when Francisco reports on her

depression. Francisco asks me about my son, and Olga exclaims with

approving nods of her head at the most recent picture on my phone.

Francisco has problems of his own; he’d become my patient as well. A

genteel man with an easy smile and only a few remaining teeth, he’d

undergone quadruple bypass surgery a few years back and survived

two bouts of pancreatitis. The warmth of his brown eyes belied the

severity of his retinopathy.

Our visit followed its usual format: labs, medicines, transportation

difficulties, rescheduling missed appointments. Some of the specialists

at my hospital used to rotate with me as med students; sometimes I call

them up and ask them if they can squeeze someone in, a special case,

someone who really needs help. At the end of the visit, Jose took me

aside.

“Me puede recetar un poco de Viagra?”

The lift of my eyebrow must have been more perceptible than I’d hoped.

Francisco hurried to explain. “You might be surprised that we are

having sex, or maybe you think it’s wrong, in her condition.” I looked at

him quizzically, waiting for more. “But Olga is the love of my life, my

childhood sweetheart, the mother of my daughters. When we are

together in that way, and hold each other closely, in those moments our

age and our medical problems melt away, and she is still beautiful

young woman who captured my heart.”


36

My eyes welled up. I looked at Francisco and Olga, and ran the mental

time-lapse imagery in reverse. I saw them, young and laughing and in

love. I thought about how it required two buses for Francisco to bring

Olga to our clinic, in her wheelchair. Two different buses and a train to

get to the specialist, who could only prescribe Prozac and muscle

relaxants. I thought about how Francisco brought Olga’s younger

sister, and their daughters, to my clinic, but that none of them wanted to

get tested for Huntington’s. None of them wanted to see the future.

I wrote the prescription for Viagra. I gave Francisco and Olga each a

new dose of insulin and made them new appointments for

ophthalmology. As he trundled her off in the wheelchair, I wondered

whether someday, if I have a feeding tube and need a wheelchair, my

partner might ask his doctor for Viagra to be with me.


37

Barn at Sunset Digital Photograph

By Karen Shear, Staff—FCM Quincy

38

The Touch of a Letter First Place Prose

By Ashay Vaidya, Student—Class of 2021

As I awoke with a splitting headache, I could hear the car’s metal roof

strain against the weight of the underside. I was strapped into my seat,

upside down, with the seatbelt taut against my chest and hips. The

deployed airbags surrounded me, covered in glass and blood. “D…

dad?” I croaked, looking to my right. He hung beside me in his seat,

with his body limp and motionless. As I pressed the red release button

on my seatbelt buckle, its familiar click was accompanied by a loud

thump as I crumpled down onto the roof. Freeing my father from his

seat, I dragged us out of the destroyed sedan and onto the muddy

grass of the ditch. Blood seeped out of a gash on my forehead, and as I

laid there in the muck, I took one final look at my father as my vision

slowly faded into the darkness of the night.

Looking back, maybe I should have been more careful. Maybe I should

have had my high beams on. Maybe I should have driven slower. But

the small winding country road was a deeply familiar one, with a small

forest preserve on one side and a corn field on the other. Dad and I had

driven on this road countless times in my childhood to get to the lake for

our weekly fishing trips. He was a quiet man who had lost his wife,

Margaret, during childbirth. Soon after, he had lost his baby daughter,

Aurora, to devastating cystic fibrosis. Against all odds, he had found

enough love to overcome the pain in his heart and generously bring me

into his home and his life. “Adopting you was the best decision I ever

made, Liam. I don’t know if you know it, but you honestly saved me

from myself,” he had once quietly said with melancholy eyes. However,

when we would be on the lake together, his voice would lift up as he

taught me about different knots, casting, or assembling a rod. In these

brief moments, his eyes would light up and he would crack a rare smile.

As I had grown older and transitioned into high school, our weekly trips

had gradually turned into monthly trips. 4 years of college had further

distanced us, making the trips yearly. One day, as I was slogging away

in medical school, I realized that I couldn’t even recall the last time that

we had been out on the water. An ocean of guilt washed over me. My

39

father had taken me into his home, loved me boundlessly, cared for me,

and shaped me into the man I was today. What kind of son was I to let

our relationship slip away like this? How could I have let this happen in

the first place? This realization had immediately led me to call dad and

ask if he could spare time for a fishing trip this weekend. Through the

phone, I could feel him quietly smile on the other end.

On that chill October night in 2019, a white-tailed deer had leapt in front

of us, making me jerk my steering wheel to avoid it and causing the car

to spin and flip over in a chaotic ballet of metal and glass. The

Emergency Department nurses told me that my father and I were soon

found by another driver. She had called 911, setting in motion a chain

of events that had ultimately saved my life – a trip to the Emergency

Department, a neurosurgery to stop an epidural hematoma, and a 1-

week recovery on the inpatient floor. When I had finally regained full

consciousness, I had turned to a nurse and said, “Where’s my dad?

He…is he okay?” Her hesitant and devastating silence was enough of

an answer. The next day, I arranged for his cremation and memorial

service.

At the service, our friends and family gathered to pay tribute to my

father. Beautiful eulogies detailed the life of a man who had overcome

ravaging pain in order to brighten the lives of everybody around him. As

everyone wept in remembrance, there was one person who remained

emotionless – me. I looked around, puzzled at my own ambivalence, as

if I had just missed the emotional train that everyone else was riding on.

As the weeks went on and things slowly settled down, I felt increasingly

cold and hollowed out. One day, I caught myself looking in the

bathroom mirror. An empty husk disguised in flesh and blood stared

back at me.

I finally decided to talk to the neurosurgeon, Dr. Rose, about this during

my follow-up appointment. As we sat together in Dr. Rose’s office, she

heard about my unrelenting indifference. “What you’re going through

could just be part of the natural process of grieving,” she stated with a

worried look across her face. “It’s not uncommon after the loss of a

parent. However, we have got a really great in-house counselor that

might be able to help you and guide you through what you’re

experiencing,” she said. She opened a drawer in her desk and took out


40

the counselor’s business card. As I reached to grab the card, my

fingers touched the edges. I gasped as flashes of emotions jolted my

mind:

Worry that my patient was feeling this way.

Regret that my daughter had felt some of the same

symptoms, and that I hadn’t recognized her depression soon enough

as a parent.

Fear as I dreaded the thought of this patient spiraling downward like my

daughter had.

I dropped the business card in shock and staggered backwards,

looking up at my neurosurgeon in shock. I didn’t have any patients. I

didn’t have a daughter. Worry, regret, and fear – these weren’t my

emotions. These were her emotions.

I explained what I had just experienced to Dr. Rose. She was initially

skeptical, but as I described her own thoughts and emotions in detail,

her eyes widened. She asked me to be part of a collaborative study

with other fellow neurosurgeons and neurologists, and I obliged. They

conducted a variety of tests over the next few months, and their fMRI

scans found low levels of activity in the limbic system – areas of the

brain responsible for emotion. These same areas fired up only when I

touched an object previously held by someone else – a piece of paper,

a pencil, anything. I could immediately feel the giver’s most recent

emotions. While they vaguely mentioned that my condition could be

resulting from “neuropsychological impairment” from the accident, the

researchers could never pinpoint a solid explanation for this

phenomenon.

As the pandemic took off in March of 2020, social distancing protocols

stopped the research study and kept me at home. I missed meeting Dr.

Rose and the researchers – they were my only opportunity to feel

anything. As I began to feel like an empty shell again, an idea struck – I

called my friend, who worked at the local newspaper. We worked

together to set up and advertise a “venting” mailbox where people

could mail their experiences during this unique year. This way, people


41

could have an outlet for their emotions during the pandemic, while also

making me feel human again by experiencing their emotions through

their messages. Several days later, the first letter came in.

“I don’t even know why I’m writing this letter. I don’t even know if I’ll

send it. I guess that I just need to get it off my shoulders. I lost my job

today. I’ve been working for the company for over 30 years, and they

just called me over the phone and fired me. Over the damn phone. I’ve

got 2 kids at home and a baby on the way. My wife keeps saying that

it’s going to be okay, but I just heard her quietly crying in the bathroom.

I don’t know what to do. I just don’t know.” - Jake

I choked back tears and my hands shook as I placed the letter back in

the envelope. The emotions of fear, frustration, anger, and confusion

were overwhelming, seemingly threatening to burst out of my chest. But

they were something, and I was deeply grateful for them. As the months

went on, letters began pouring in and I eventually had to replace my

small mailbox with a larger drop box to accommodate them. The letters

described the loneliness of social distancing and the newfound anxiety

of being around unmasked people. Some expressed rage about mask

mandates, while others expressed anger about people who didn’t wear

masks. Many felt like John – helpless and uncertain after suddenly

losing their jobs. Unease, apprehension, fear, and disquiet became a

daily familiarity as I read letter after letter. One day, a new letter came

in the mail – a pink envelope, with a bright yellow letter inside. Scrawled

in red crayon, it said:

“Mommy got me a new mask. It has Spiderman all over it! She said that if I wear it, Spiderman will fight the virus for me!!!”

Pure and unadulterated joy rushed through me, coursing through my

fingertips to my brain, washing out the muck of despair that I had

become so familiar with. For the first time in months, I smiled brightly.

More and more letters gradually streamed in, detailing the happiness

that people were finding despite the challenges of 2020. People talked

about the joys of small weddings and birthday celebrations over Zoom.

Grocery store owners spoke of increased business as more families

began eating at home. A college student described how she had taken

up breadmaking as her new “COVID hobby.” A husband described how


42

working from home now allowed him to spend more time with his

children and rekindle his marriage. People were not simply surviving –

they were adapting and learning to thrive. Their letters slashed through

the pain of 2020, replacing it with a rejuvenating hope.

A few months after starting the mailbox, I received a phone call from an

unknown number. “Good afternoon! My name is Mr. Bancroft. I am

contacting you to talk about your father’s inheritance.”

“His…inheritance?” I asked.

“Yes, and I do sincerely apologize for the delay,” he stated. “Due to the

sudden nature of your father’s death and our office being quite

understaffed this year, it took me some extra time to get your father’s

affairs in order as he had wanted. However, everything is appropriately

in place now. Would you be available to meet in person?”

I timidly walked into Mr. Bancroft’s office the next day. He briefly

expressed his condolences before opening my father’s will and getting

right to business. My childhood home, a few antiques, stocks, bonds,

and my father’s beloved 1967 Corvette would go to me. The rest of his

financial assets would be donated to the Cystic Fibrosis Foundation in

memory of his late daughter – even in death, he had a heart of gold.

“Oh, and your father also wanted you to have everything in his safe de-

posit box. He listed you as a co-owner,” said Mr. Bancroft, sliding the

key to me across the desk. “What’s in his safe deposit box?” I inquired.

“Honestly, I really have no idea,” he stated with a shrug.

I walked into the bank the next morning. The friendly teller walked back,

we turned both of our keys together, pulled out the flat steel box, and I

was led to a secure private room.

I gently slid open the box to find a loose pile of documents in front of

me. There were the mortgage documents for my father’s home,

property deeds, the title for the 67 Corvette, old paper bonds, some

family heirlooms, and….a brown unmarked envelope. I broke the


43

envelope’s seal, curiously pulling out a small handwritten letter.

My dear Liam,

If you are reading this letter, then I know that something

unfortunate has occurred to me. I can’t imagine how hard all of

this has been for you. I can only hope that this letter provides

some respite from the challenging times that you have had since

my passing, like how you provided me respite from some of my

darkest moments. When Margaret had died so suddenly, the

only thing that carried me forward was the prospect of raising and

loving Aurora. When God took her too, I was at a complete loss.

There were moments when swallowing the barrel of the .38 Spe-

cial Colt revolver in my nightstand was more tempting than living

another day alone. All of that misery finally began to go away

when I met you.

You taught me how to love again, how to see light in the world

again, and how to finally release myself from the crushing guilt

that I carried for what happened to Margaret and Aurora. Our fish-

ing trips are some of my favorite memories of us. On the lake with

you, with nothing but the creaking boat and the water beneath us,

all of my worries drifted away. I love you, Liam. I always will. I

loved you when I was alive, and I love you now as I lie in God’s

arms.

Remember me in my brightest moments. Remember me as I was

on the lake.

Love,

Your father John

His thoughts and emotions flooded my mind and filled my heart with

happiness. I felt as he had when he was writing this letter. Tears

streamed down my cheeks and spattered the paper. I shut my eyes,

feeling his warm embrace around me. Then, a serene happiness began

coursing through me. It didn’t come from the letter though – the

happiness came from me. For the first time since the accident, I smiled

from within my own heart, content with some semblance of closure. I

would always remember him as he desired – my father on the boat,

floating on the calm water of the lake, a peaceful light in behind his

eyes, and a serene smile on his face.

44

Glimpses of Grandma

By Kari Williams, Staff—FCM Decatur

Aging neural synapses

Act like clouds hiding the

Radiant energy of an old soul.

Every now and then,

The clouds part and

Brilliant rays of light

Shine through.

45

Vision Colored Pencil on Paper

By Ciaran Wall, Community Member

46

Bleeding Heart Acrylic on Canvas

By Beth Nielsen, MD, Fellow—Pulmonary/Critical Care

47

NICU Adieu

By Kari Williams, Staff—FCM Decatur

I

Look through the windows of my eyes

Into your world,

Which, for a moment in time,

Has come to rest in the palm of my hand.

And, as I stand here mesmerized

By the wonders I see,

I am aware all too soon

Your existence

Will disappear from the face of my reality.

For you are like the sands of time

That all too quickly slip between my fingers,

Leaving me with an empty hand

And a memory that through the cracks of my heart

Forever faintly lingers.

48

Life Fluorescent


In light of life,

In the midst of strife

Don’t forget to dream.

Don’t forget to sing.

Life is fluorescent with both good and bad things,

So be your own hero,

Listen to your heart’s plea.

Be bold, unapologetic and yet timelessly serene.

Forge your own journey,

Be at peace with the war,

Keep pressing forward,

You never know what is in store.

But when you forget the good memories,

And are overwhelmed with fear,

Remind yourself this simple truth:

You are still here.

49

Trailer Trash Third Place Art Giclée

By Peter Somers, PhD, MD, Alumni—Class of 2000

50

Pikku Halssi Retreat Giclée

By Peter Somers, PhD, MD, Alumni—Class of 2000

51

When This is Over, When

By Christine Todd, MD, Alumni and Faculty—Medical

Humanities

I want it to be a beautiful crisp fall day. I want to fix my hair, and put a

little make up on, and wear real clothes. I want to meet you for lunch at

one of those ladies-who-lunch places with the white linen tablecloths.

I'm having a gin and tonic and poached salmon with béarnaise and

tarte au citron. Vivaldi plays. We discuss astrophysics. We finish with

espressos.

I want it to be a downpour. I want to wear the t shirt that makes men

back up a few paces and my Doc Martens. I want to meet you in a

feminist bookstore's cafe where we pile the table between us with

stacks of books with rebellious titles. We drink black coffee and plot

until the sun comes back out.

I want it to be your mother’s house. We sit on the plaid couch and eat

Fritos with a soap opera on. We skip school because we don’t need

school. We have plans to take over the world and do it better. We are

just waiting to borrow the car keys and for the right song to come on the

radio.

I want it to be the ocean. I want to be chest deep in the water, riding the

waves. The sun shines on the water and glitters with ancient light as it

moves. When I dive down, all I can see is endless blue. When I come

back up I can see you on the beach with your sunglasses that reflect

the horizon behind us. We are safe in the midst of infinity.

52

Lincoln Park Digital Photography

By Ian Pollock, Staff—Library

53

French Toast Second Place Poetry

By Vamsi Naidu, Student—Class of 2022

Sunlight spills through the kitchen window,

Decorating the room with an orange glow.

Hungry, bright red flames

Dance on the stove, heating the pan.

My grandma moves, like a gentle breeze,

Towards golden loaves of bread.

I jump with excitement

She sees me and laughs.

I watch her gentle, arthritic hands

Slice, season, move through the air

Like a wizard crafting a spell.

I’m glued to the scent of sugar and cinnamon,

Its hypnotic, like a siren’s song.

And finally, the bread meets the pan.

I grow more and more impatient.

It’s done!

French toast as soft as a pillow,

Sweet and warm like a hug.

It doesn’t stand a chance against my appetite,

Within seconds, it’s gone.

But now you are too.

54

Bad Things Happen Third Place Prose (Tie)

By Kathryn Waldyke, MD, Faculty—PA Program, FCM

Carbondale

Bad things happen to people all the time, sometimes one thing,

sometimes a bunch series, Beth began the article. Being a freelance

writer meant she often had to learn about completely new things, which

was actually one of the aspects she really enjoyed, but this time she

already knew some about the subject. She had experiences with

suicide before researching it. These days it seemed like everyone she

knew had had experience with a suicide attempt or completion (she

reminded herself: not “committing suicide”--like a crime--or “successful

suicide,” now there’s an oxymoron) by someone they knew and often

had loved or admired.

She went on, So why do some people seem to take strength from

surviving the hard times while others run out of energy trying to stay

afloat? And some people go beyond giving up to in fact ending their

struggles by ending their lives—but others don’t. They can fight on.

The number and severity of stressors is a factor in that fatal decision

but hardly the deciding factor. Other elements factor in to varying

degrees: current and prior social supports, self-care, coping skills

learned from parents, peers, and others, probably genetic influences,

use of drugs that may alter serotonin balance and/or reduce inhibitions,

perceived future prospects—now there’s a tough one, since

perceptions are usually quite distorted by pain, physical or psychic or

both. Beth knew this too. She had survived the hopelessness once, like

being in the bottom of a well, she felt. Way up above she could see

some sunshine, a cruelty not a hope when none of it was filtering all the

way down to her. She could see it but not feel it. And the more she tried

to claw her way out, the more dirt fell on her. No way out, no sign of

rescue—that’s how it had felt to her. People who have never

experienced suicidal ideas or feelings can be completely flummoxed.

[Beth really liked the word ‘flummoxed,’ but too many people would be

flummoxed if she used it. Fine…] perplexed. How can a person ever

think that there is no way out but dying/no solution to their problems?

Anything but death can possibly be ameliorated fixed, right? Maybe,

55

maybe not--but it surely does not feel that way sometimes. Beth knew.

And knowing can be powerful: having lived through suicidal ideas to

rewarding times again sometimes helped give people strength for riding

out the next low time. This writer was glad she had started journaling in

junior high, she reminded herself, when it was a hated assignment

initially but came to be a safe confidant at a tough time and a learning

tool later.

So older people should have an advantage, but that didn’t always play

out, either. Suicide rates among young people ages 15-24 have risen in

recent years, but the highest rates in the US are seen among elderly

men, especially those suffering terminal and/or painful conditions, and

those with access to firearms. Firearms. Now there’s a minefield Beth

had no interest in writing about. Emotions ran way too high. “More heat

than light there!” her mother would have warned about discussing that

topic. But access to firearms had an undeniable role in completed

suicides, she had found. God help the veterans. Wartime, PTSD,

alcohol, access to firearms…the perfect storm…

More than half of people see a health care provider in the month before

they attempt suicide. So the answer many propose is regular screening

for suicidality. But the providers scream back protest that there is not

time to do all the things that must be done already, so adding more

tasks is simply not possible. And they want solid evidence that the

screening will work, will actually save lives. Some propose that as much

as not having time, these providers do not have the training to respond

to a ‘positive screen’ (suicidal patient). While most now realize that

broaching the subject of suicide with a person will not ‘give them the

idea’, many are still uncertain how to word the questions and where to

turn when a patient admits to ideas of suicide. Ain’t that the truth, Beth

thought wryly, remembering being relieved when one medical person

asked her and she was able to express her own fears about hurting

herself, only to be scolded. “Don’t you see that all this is temporary but

death is permanent?”—pretty obvious, yes, I see…”And what about

your family? How could you do that to your family?” Well, friend, let me

tell you why these questions won’t help me. Either my dysfunctional

family is a part of the problem, how I got to this state in the first place,

or trust me, I’ve already guilted about this A LOT, and now you are


56

giving me more guilt instead of alternatives. NOT HELPING.

We seem to know who is completing suicide, so can’t we translate that

into deciding who is highest risk, and just screen them, not everyone?

Can’t doctors and nurses trust their instincts on who seems vulnerable?

Nope, no magical powers there… Beth had been frustrated at every

turn with her research into this aspect.

Maybe the thing to do was leave the article for a bit and walk off some

of the frustration. She took the stairs down to the apartment lobby and

headed out. Beth walked quickly to the park by the river while there

was still some sunlight; the pretty park became a rather creepy place in

the dark, sadly. Over the bridge, though, was a lighted path for bikers

and walkers, along the river, with a view of trees in the daytime and

sparkling city lights on the water at night—one of her favorite places in

the city.

Her thoughts on the path ahead and the article behind, Beth was

startled to see someone move just a foot or two away from her on the

bridge in the half-light of the gloaming twilight. The waist-high railing

separated them.

She gasped and blurted out, “What are you doing?”

“What do you think?” he snarled back. “Keep walking, lady.” He tried to

sound fierce and commanding, but Beth could hear resignation,

sadness, fatigue, despair in those few words. Even if she had wanted

to keep walking, she was now stalled in disbelief.

Not knowing why she would ask it, she blurted out, “Can you swim?”

“Doesn’t matter. We’re up high enough the water will knock me out. I’ve

figured this out. KEEP WALKING.”

Beth wanted to reach out and touch his hand, to reassure him with

human touch, or to grab his hand, to pull him away from the edge. With

no real time to think through the implications, she just had to trust the


57

feeling he did not want touch now, from her, and would pull away,

closer to the edge and to the fall into the dark and the water.

She walked a few steps further then came back and asked, “May I help

you?”

“I don’t want anyone’s help, thank you,” he growled.

She hit his hand on the railing just hard enough to seem like a serious

attempt, then she pushed at his chest.

“What the hell--???” he stuttered.

“I assume you want to jump off, or you wouldn’t be on that side of the

railing. But there you are, not jumping. I can help you get over the last

hurdle.”

“Are you nuts, lady?” he yelled, grabbing the rail more tightly.

She walked a few steps then threw her leg over the railing. “Stop, you

stupid broad!” he yelled. She hoped someone else on the bridge would

hear his shout and come to help or at least call 911 on a cell phone and

not just stop to film them with it. She would really like some back-up

about now. This was not in her job training—or was it? The irony of fac-

ing the situation so soon after writing calmly about it earlier was not lost

on Beth.

“Why? Why am I stupid to do it too? Are you being stupid?”

“No, I’m not,” he huffed defensively. “I’ve thought this through. You

haven’t.”

“Oh, so that is what makes me stupid?” she asked, hoping to buy some

time for an actual plan by drawing him into conversation. “How can you

know I have not been thinking about this too?”

“You haven’t. You’re just being stupid. Go back over and keep walking,

like I told you.”


58

Beth held out her hand: “Hold my hand. We can do it together.”

“You’re nuts. And you holding my hand is not going to give me hope,”

he said sarcastically, and continued, ”or be strong enough to hold me

up, in case you were wondering.”

“’Your holding,’” she could not stop in time correcting the grammar but

immediately regretted it.

“What?”

“Never mind that. It’s not important,” she lied. Well, not important right

now, she thought.

“So what is important?” he asked sardonically.

“You are.”

“I am?”

“Well, you are important to me right now. Surely I’m not the only one--?”

“Yeah, maybe you are.”

“I’m not enough, then? I think I’ll jump too.”

“Don’t make fun of me, lady.” The words sounded so sad she wondered

if he would cry.

“I won’t. May I know why you came here, so I can decide whether to try

to talk you out of it or not?”

“Why should I live? Every day I want to do this, to finish this, but today I

finally decided to do it.” His voice strengthened. “I can’t keep putting this

off.”

“Actually, you can.” She hesitated. “Can you trust yourself just enough

to give yourself another chance to answer this question again

tomorrow?”

59

“And every day after that? No. It’s getting too old. I’m too tired.”

By now their conversation had drawn the attention of two fellow

walkers, who hesitated several feet from them. They seemed frozen,

unclear what one should do in these odd, scary circumstances, only

able to watch, too stunned to participate.

Beth gestured toward the onlookers. “I guess they’ll see our names in

the news tomorrow, feel sorry for us.”

“Not us, lady. Look, I’m going to walk you off the stupid bridge so I can

do this in peace.”

“OK.” Beth waited what seemed like an eternity for him to put his leg

over the railing before she also pulled her leg back onto the sidewalk.

True to his word, he slumped silently toward the lighted walkway. She

walked silently beside him. At the end of the bridge, he asked, “Which

way are you going?” She hesitated then gestured to the left. “I’m going

that way.” He pointed right. “Don’t follow me. And,” he hesitated,

“thanks for caring, anyway. I guess I’ll be back later tonight, or

tomorrow. I hope you won’t. You’d screw it up for me again. But…

thanks. I guess.” He stood facing up the river, not back onto the bridge,

while she hesitated. Beth was yet again not sure what was right but

decided to do as he asked. She glanced at his stationary, shadowy

figure then turned the other direction and walked by the river, looking

at the blurred reflections of lights and crying as she dared not look

behind her.

60

The Menacing Gaze (Top)

A Very Berry Breakfast (Bottom)

Digital Photography

By Amit Sapra, MD, Faculty—FCM Springfield

61

Priorities

By Kathryn Waldyke, MD, Faculty—PA Program, FCM

Carbondale

A blank pad of paper

just begs to be filled.

A pen in my right hand:

prepare to be thrilled

or saddened or angry—

changed somehow, I hope.

If my words don’t move you

I feel like a dope

for wasting the paper,

the ink and the day;

both your life and my life

have less time to play

or sleep or grow flowers,

earn money or say,

“I love you forever;

please don’t go away.”

So put this page down and

go do those things now,

as “Actions speak louder

than words,” anyhow.

62

23, 24, 25

By Catherine Greene Student—Class of 2023

I lay silently next to my sleeping husband, eyes glued to the ceiling

simply breathing. I took my time with each breath, internally counting

every inhale and exhale. Each breath given was smothered in

whispered thankfulness as it passed from my lips, a ritual I had started

since the onset of this thing.

I slowly turned to face the clock that read 4:55 a.m. Turning my 5 a.m.

alarm off, I gently rose from the warmth and familiarity of our bed and

stepped into the day at hand. I stood there, bare feet to floor with my

eyes closed, allowing my aching muscles to get adjusted to their new

upright position. Taking in another deep breath, I opened my eyes and

looked over at my sleeping husband.

Yesterday, this would have been an ordinary day for me, for us. But

today was different. I was no longer just a wife, a mother of two small

children, or a nurse.

No, life was different now. I was a front-liner.

And being a front-liner makes you look at your life differently. You

appreciate your spouse more, love your children harder, and make

every breath count. Yesterday, I was just a nurse counting minutes

until the end of my shift at a NYC hospital.

Today, I was a front-liner counting my God-given breaths as I prepared

to leave the warmth of family and home, and head into the cold

unknown and rising uncertainty.

63

Soul Rest Digital Photography

By Yvette Schroeder, Staff—Surgery Clinic

64

Icy Oak Leaf Digital Photography

By Tom Ala, MD, Faculty—Neurology

65

Slow Reflections on Rapid Changes


Still I smile at the thought of late, fast-paced Friday nights.

There is a certain amount of normalcy there that just breathes fun.

I still lazily lounge in bed on Saturday mornings,

Some things will never change.

And yes, I will still worship God on Sunday mornings and every morn-

ing.

No quarantine will ever lessen my faith.

What I do not do anymore, however, is the true essence.

Stress, rush, or worry.

As the world has slowed, so have I.

The pace of life is different now.

May we all take at least one good thing from this period of uncertainty

when our world returns to that

rapid Friday night "normalcy".

66

Hiding in Plain Sight Digital Photography

By Anastasia Dufner, MD, Resident—Internal Medicine

67 68

SCOPE is the property of Southern Illinois University School of

Medicine. Copyright reverts to the authors upon publication.

The views expressed herein don’t necessarily reflect those of SIU School of

Medicine.

Funding for SCOPE was generously provided through the SIU

Foundation.

Browse past editions of SCOPE and review guidelines for submission at

siumed.edu/scope or contact SIU’s Office of Medical Humanities:

913 N. Rutledge St.

PO Box 19603

Springfield, IL 62794

217-545-4261

[email protected]

Submissions for the 2022 edition of SCOPE will be accepted from

October 2021 to January 2022.

Editor’s Note TABLE OF CONTENTS

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Transcript of Editor’s Note TABLE OF CONTENTS