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As we finish up the visit, I wonder again.
What’s in the backpack?
The patient sits before me. A large man of few words, head shaved, muscles rippling, tattoos.
I finally ask.
“So... what’s in the backpack?”
He smiles, and reveals his secret. 1/
As we finish up the visit, I wonder again.
What’s in the backpack?
The patient sits before me. A large man of few words, head shaved, muscles rippling, tattoos.
I finally ask.
“So... what’s in the backpack?”
He smiles, and reveals his secret. 1/
But this story doesn’t begin here. And, to be honest, it’s not really about what’s in the backpack.
It’s about... well, you decide.
The day begins like any other. I’m rounding in the hospital. I print my patient list, and triage.
Rituals, structure, form, function. 2/
It’s about... well, you decide.
The day begins like any other. I’m rounding in the hospital. I print my patient list, and triage.
Rituals, structure, form, function. 2/
I’m noticing the words “COVID +” popping up more and more next to patient names.
Unbidden, a song pops into my mind.
“It’s the time, of the season...”
The Zombies. 1968.
What does it have to do with anything? Nothing. But now it’s stuck in my head.
All us zombies. 3/
Unbidden, a song pops into my mind.
“It’s the time, of the season...”
The Zombies. 1968.
What does it have to do with anything? Nothing. But now it’s stuck in my head.
All us zombies. 3/
As I walk the halls, I glance at room numbers and remember patients I took care of in those rooms.
The Intensivist sits beside me as I write my notes, and sometimes she asks me about them.
“Do you remember that guy in room 11? The one with the massive PE?”
“Oh yeah! Man.” 4/
The Intensivist sits beside me as I write my notes, and sometimes she asks me about them.
“Do you remember that guy in room 11? The one with the massive PE?”
“Oh yeah! Man.” 4/
Medicine, like life, is a slow accumulation of stories.
Stories we carry.
Human life has weight, has meaning, its own innate gravity that draws us closer to each other.
In this place, amidst strength and fragility, I can’t help but feel it.
The stories.
We bear witness. 5/
Stories we carry.
Human life has weight, has meaning, its own innate gravity that draws us closer to each other.
In this place, amidst strength and fragility, I can’t help but feel it.
The stories.
We bear witness. 5/
I see him later in the day. He’s getting better, and I’m grateful.
A man who’s younger than my usual patient. Powerfully built, gruff, quiet. Arms rippling with muscle, big hands with thick fingers, metal rings embossed with skulls.
Tattoos of dark visions.
I say hi. 6/
A man who’s younger than my usual patient. Powerfully built, gruff, quiet. Arms rippling with muscle, big hands with thick fingers, metal rings embossed with skulls.
Tattoos of dark visions.
I say hi. 6/
He doesn’t say much to me the first few days I see him. There are some patients I can never really connect with.
That’s okay, my job isn’t to magically always connect.
But I do try.
I sit down. I let silences grow. I ask questions. I listen. I observe. I speak.
I try. 7/
That’s okay, my job isn’t to magically always connect.
But I do try.
I sit down. I let silences grow. I ask questions. I listen. I observe. I speak.
I try. 7/
I notice a black backpack by his bedside. It looks military. Straps and many pockets, rugged.
I assume it’s filled with clothes, or personal possessions of some kind. I notice the way he has it up on a chair beside his bed.
It must be important.
It makes me curious. 8/
I assume it’s filled with clothes, or personal possessions of some kind. I notice the way he has it up on a chair beside his bed.
It must be important.
It makes me curious. 8/
One day I finally can’t take it anymore.
“So... what’s in the backpack?”
His frown dissolves, and the hint of a smile flickers across his face.
“I seen you lookin’ at it doc.”
“I’m curious!”
He laughs. A new sound to me.
He lifts the backpack onto his bed. 9/
“So... what’s in the backpack?”
His frown dissolves, and the hint of a smile flickers across his face.
“I seen you lookin’ at it doc.”
“I’m curious!”
He laughs. A new sound to me.
He lifts the backpack onto his bed. 9/
As he unzips the bag, wild guesses pop into my head.
Most, unfortunately, are stereotypes:
Food he’s not supposed to be eating.
Perhaps something valuable.
A weapon of some kind?
I’m nervous now.
He takes out several ...
... sketchbooks.
I blink.
He laughs. 10/
Most, unfortunately, are stereotypes:
Food he’s not supposed to be eating.
Perhaps something valuable.
A weapon of some kind?
I’m nervous now.
He takes out several ...
... sketchbooks.
I blink.
He laughs. 10/
“Not what you expected, huh bro?”
I’m ashamed of myself, “No. Not what I expected.”
He nods, looking down at the sketchbooks on his lap, “It’s cool, nobody gets it right.”
He opens the books one at a time, and starts showing me his art.
It’s exquisite. And varied. 11/
I’m ashamed of myself, “No. Not what I expected.”
He nods, looking down at the sketchbooks on his lap, “It’s cool, nobody gets it right.”
He opens the books one at a time, and starts showing me his art.
It’s exquisite. And varied. 11/
“This one is graphite. Most are pencil. Or ink. I didn’t have much in my life, I was alone for a long time, but I wanted to learn something good for myself. So I learned how to do this.”
It’s the most he’s ever said to me.
I sit and look at the images.
Quietly awed. 12/
It’s the most he’s ever said to me.
I sit and look at the images.
Quietly awed. 12/
Images of people, some real, some angels, some mermaids.
Flowers, of all breathtaking kinds and types. Some are stunningly realistic, some are more abstract and geometric.
Images of death, memento mori.
A teddy bear, “This was for someone special, she died.” 13/
Flowers, of all breathtaking kinds and types. Some are stunningly realistic, some are more abstract and geometric.
Images of death, memento mori.
A teddy bear, “This was for someone special, she died.” 13/
I ask him if I can take a photograph of one of the sketches. He nods, “Sure.”
I take the photo, and feel something lift inside me.
Here in this room, in this backpack, in this sketchbook belonging to an unassuming artist, I find a blossoming hope.
Life is this flower. 14/
I take the photo, and feel something lift inside me.
Here in this room, in this backpack, in this sketchbook belonging to an unassuming artist, I find a blossoming hope.
Life is this flower. 14/
I ask him what the flower means to him. He rubs his chin pensively, before smiling, “Freedom.”
I ask him if he’s ever thought about selling his work, “Nah, these are for fun.”
But he does do tattoos. Or he did, once. Maybe someday again.
He zips up the backpack. 15/
I ask him if he’s ever thought about selling his work, “Nah, these are for fun.”
But he does do tattoos. Or he did, once. Maybe someday again.
He zips up the backpack. 15/
Later that day I’m driving home.
I can’t help but think of the man with the backpack.
COVID has been looming large in my mind. I’m constantly worried, and growing numb.
But I’m still here, still alive, still learning.
Life is a flower.
And people blossom in amazing ways.
I can’t help but think of the man with the backpack.
COVID has been looming large in my mind. I’m constantly worried, and growing numb.
But I’m still here, still alive, still learning.
Life is a flower.
And people blossom in amazing ways.
