In her touching poem Ode to My Hepatologist, Dr. Blei, Susan Zemelman shares her experience of care, loss, and gratitude for a doctor she will never forget.
By Susan Zemelman
Two things I remember
That my doctor told me:
He could get through Wednesday’s crossword
In the New York Times,
And he’d know my liver in his sleep.
Now he sleeps too well.
Doctor could not heal thyself
While my liver and I
Carry on.
Wednesdays I can tell you
“What Pizzaro sought”
And “Dixie Chicks, e.g.”
Thursdays, though, are harder,
Words I can’t remember or
Sports, I’ll never know.
Sometimes I think of him alive,
Stealing a moment between appointments
To enter a suddenly-remembered word.
Sometimes I think about how glad I was
To know that he and my liver were so
Well-acquainted.
Susan Zemelman from Evanston, Ill. , is a retired healthcare professional, having worked at Northwestern Memorial Hospital (Chicago) for eight years and then at various healthcare systems as a consultant. Her career as an educator also includes college administration and teaching and, most recently, work with English as a Second Language (ESL) graduate students at Northwestern University. She also is a published writer in journals including The Family Therapy Networker; Voices: the art and science of psychotherapy; The English Journal; North Shore Magazine and the Chicago Tribune. When not teaching or writing, she is traveling or cooking every interesting New York Times recipe that comes her way.
