It's called a pan scan when the body won't tell. It's called octreotide when the blood untucks It's called nitroprusside when theįlushed like a cinema. Kin when they don't shy speechless from the gunk. ![]() It's called inspiration just before theĬalled jaw thrust when the head is prepared for the macintosh It's called gunk when they suction the trach. It's called fasting when radiology foretells like aīlood-blue mountain. It's called elevation when the eyes can see The fingernails thicken to spoons from lack of oxygen. When the lungs and vent jam wing against each other. It's called an awakening trial when the pleasanter drugs stop. Before I spoke with Laura, I asked her to read a poem from Little Pharma, called “Buried Abecedary For Intensive Care.” Here's Laura. She practices hospital medicine at the New York Presbyterian Weill Cornell Medical Center in New York City. Her writing has appeared in The Nation, The New York Review of Books, The New York Times Magazine, Poetry, The Washington Post, The Wall Street Journal, the Yale Review, and elsewhere. She's currently writing a nonfiction book that blends memoir with the history of medicine and the arts. Her poetry collection, Little Pharma, won the Agnes Lynch Starrett Prize in 2021. Today we speak with Laura Kolbe, a poet, physician and medical ethicist. ![]() ![]() You're listening to The Nocturnists: Conversations. Emily in Conversation with Laura Kolbe, MD
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