Boxing Day — Jessie Hammersmith
My stethoscope rests in a drawer
Alongside my craving for more
It’s been so long
the feeling’s so strong
Suddenly “work” doesn’t feel like a chore
My scrubs? That’s a whole other case
They’ve been worn at a break-necking pace
When the dirty work’s done
Though has truly been fun [my cat puked for effect while writing this line]
I need to take a seat
And clean my wary feet
Now I’ll gladly observe
Do what I can to learn
While we all continue the rat race
My peers? They are a dyin’
Scribbled lines? They be a dryin’
A reminder to all: you must heed the call to refuel when your spirit’s a fryin’
The pens they are a dyin’
Scribbled lines they be a dryin’
This is a reminder to all: you must heed the call
to refuel when your spirit is fryin’
About Poetry and Art and Music
I listened to Ada Limon read The Raincoat on The House Calls podcast with Dr. Vivek Murthy. If you recall from my other posts, Dr. Vivek Murthy was the US Surgeon General until January 2025. He was a guiding light to me and my healthcare colleagues, and I miss his presence tremendously.
I haven’t always written songs. I didn’t, I’ve tried, I sometimes try again… but I didn’t consider myself a “songwriter” until I read the book “How To Write One Song” by Jeff Tweedy.
has also provided doses of encouragement.The Raincoat by Ada Limon — Poet Laureate of the United States
When the doctor suggested surgery
and a brace for all my youngest years,
my parents scrambled to take me
to massage therapy, deep tissue work,
osteopathy, and soon my crooked spine
unspooled a bit, I could breathe again,
and move more in a body unclouded
by pain. My mom would tell me to sing
songs to her the whole forty-five minute
drive to Middle Two Rock Road and forty-
five minutes back from physical therapy.
She’d say, even my voice sounded unfettered
by my spine afterward. So I sang and sang,
because I thought she liked it. I never
asked her what she gave up to drive me,
or how her day was before this chore. Today,
at her age, I was driving myself home from yet
another spine appointment, singing along
to some maudlin but solid song on the radio,
and I saw a mom take her raincoat off
and give it to her young daughter when
a storm took over the afternoon. My god,
I thought, my whole life I’ve been under her
raincoat thinking it was somehow a marvel
that I never got wet.
Words as Medicine
Poets make medicine. They remind me that I, too, can make medicine. My stethoscope really does rest in a drawer, and my scrubs are on their way to a box. It’s a process, a fluid grief, as I transition away from direct/overt clinical work into my new role formally leading a team. I’ll still be using my nursing experience, and I’ll still be nursing (the verb, and the noun I suppose), but it will look very different than how it has the rest of my (almost) 16-year career. I’m in transition mode. I process with words.
My pen was drying up. I’ve had so many pens die on me over the last year. A sign? Sure.
The pen I use most mornings is actually refillable. It is honestly drying up, a visible, tangible reminder that I must refill my pen, my well, my vessel. Functioning, honed tools are a necessity so that I, too, can function — tools like my mind and spirit, hands and feet.
I will be reminding myself of that.
Happy Birthday, Leap Day Babies
Somehow, we humans have maneuvered a calendar that includes adding one day a year every now and again. My cousin was born on Leap Day, so his birthday is today and tomorrow. Happy Birthday, Kev! I love you <3
Take good care!
Love,
Jessie
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