Gremlin In Scrubs

We may not remember that feeling of fear

That stirred in our stomachs on our first day here.

Or the raw recognition of our own defeat

When we first held a heart that could no longer beat.

We may not remember the rods and the cones,

The ethmoid or sphenoid or palatine bones,

Each circumflex, neural crest, ramus or rectus,

Or each tiny branch off the cervical plexus.

We may not remember each page that we read

About trochlear nerves causing tilt of the head,

Or the pathways that every red blood cell must take,

Or which kind of fall leads to which kind of break.

We may not remember each sulcus or groove,

Each longus or brevis and how they all move,

Each pterygoid, coronoid, cristae or carpal,

Which tendons attach to the first metatarsal.

The dermatomes, myotomes, orbital veins,

Adductors, extensors or quadrants of pain.

Nights spent with books somewhere no one could find us

To learn just what ends at the pez ancerinus.

But no matter how long it has been since the days

Of Moore and Persaud or Netter’s and Grays,

We will not forget how we all got our start

And the honest investment of those who took part.

And we’ll surely remember the sacrifice made

for foundations of knowledge and truth that were laid,

How these generous strangers were brave to instill

A trust in our touch and a faith in our skill.

How their deepest respect for the field we adore

Will bind us, remind us to always do more,

And the way they inspired us all to pursue

Greater meaning and purpose in all that we do.