A theme park full of organs

Dear Reader,

I’m in my first month of junior doctoring as I write this. That’s surreal in and of itself, given that Patient History, and indeed, my love of poetry, was a five-year journey, birthed from my early years of med school.

Patient History is a poetry theme park of the things I couldn’t stop writing about. Poems birthed in 12am angst after my mother’s diagnosis of cancer. Bleary-eyed 6am verse inspired by a patient with dementia, words which tumbled out into my phone on the way to the hospital. Days and nights and hours spent carving into feelings I couldn’t carve away.

Poetry became, for me, that party in a prison. Learning, not to make light of difficulties, but to find light and learn to carry light with me through the tunnel. I leaned into my love of pop culture and sought comfort in metaphors relating to Finding Nemo, The Incredibles, and even Chan Brothers. My questions turned into graphical sequences and participatory poems, which, to me, resembled party games. From an eyeshadow palette to origami poem builders, I learnt that poetry, like illness, can live out in the most unlikely forms.

As in Taylor Swift’s now TikTok-famous verse, “I cry but I am so productive, it’s an art”. Medical school was a swerving, exhilarating pool of beautiful memories, but it was also pitted with valley seasons. Moments where the walls seemed to always be closing in. But it has taught me to be patient with this history of others and my own. And poetry? It’s shown me that we can turn the flotsam of life into something luminous.

And not high-brow luminosity, but light whose beauty captures you before you really understand why. Even if you’ve always found poetry too ‘cheem’ for you, I hope you find something in these words. Through the poetry activities and pop culture easter eggs sprinkled throughout the book, I hope that you learn to be patient with your own history, too.

One of the most gratifying things was seeing my non-poetry-reading friends asking after poems, and I had shown them early drafts of Patient History.

My friends, self-christened “Instagram readers”, excitedly asked if they could have a copy of the “diy origami poems” in your book, if they could play that “poetry card game you created”, if they could stick on some of the graphics from the “patient history souvenir card”.

“You wrote a poem about BTS and cancer??? Let me read it!”

“Finding Nemo in the hospital? I love that movie, let me read the poem!”

“Recapping my own life through gachapons? Is that poetry?”

I didn’t grow up with poetry, and my parents certainly aren’t poetry readers—they often look at my poems and laugh about how they “can never understand poetry”.

But one day, my mum, now in her fourth year of battling cancer, tapped me on the shoulder with a smile.

“Your poem really hit me, that one line ‘while waiting who knew remission was less / comma than parenthesis?’

“It’s true, the way cancer scars and never really leaves. That really resonated with me.”

She teared, and I did too. Perhaps that, for me, was the biggest win.

Readers, I hope you find Patient History to be that unlikely party in the prison, no matter what season you’re in. Poetry was therapy for me, and I am thankful for the opportunity to share a piece of that with all of you.

May this work bless you as much as writing it has blessed me.

Warmly,

Tricia

PS: A sneak peek of one of my favourite poems in the collection. Come join me for the ride~