UNHEARD EULOGY | May Ameri
a patient once told me that he was the one to find his son days after he committed suicide. he tells me he felt his chest crack open; he never seemed to recover after that.
a young girl tells me when her dad passed, he was scared, he told her he didn’t want to leave—i thought there would be more time, there are still so many books i haven’t read, he said.
when my father missed his own father’s death, he was months away from visiting. he laid down on his prayer mat thousands of miles away for hours. it was the first time i saw my father cry.
the second time was as he was delivering a speech about the death of Palestinian children.
in death, we hope to be let go gently, we hope to have someone to hold our hand. someone to mourn us, to know us.
under the rubble
they can’t breathe
children cry out in the dark
the fear of slipping away all alone
men, fathers, brothers, sons dig
for their own
in death, we hope to be let go gently, we hope to have someone to hold our hand. someone to mourn us, to know us.
no one holds them
there’s nothing left of them to hold
there are worse fates than death
a Rolodex of images flit through my brain:
a physician performing a C-section with no anesthesia on the floor of a hospital, the 5-year-old son watches on, gripping his mother’s hand
a first-year medical student forced to perform life-saving amputations, his fellow student uses a flashlight to help him see in the dark
an empty, ghostly run-down hospital, the only hint that there was ever any life—a crumpled whiteboard, written in faded blue marker, “Whoever states until the end tell the story. We did what we could. Remember us.”
i blink and i'm back. when i tear my eyes away from horrors on the small screen of my phone, i realize where i am. in a functional, well-lit hospital, i'm applying for my dream job, i'm moving on. my heart clenches with guilt.
in death, we hope to be let go gently, we hope to have someone to hold our hand. someone to mourn us, to know us.
i wish to know them. i wish to mourn them all.
May Ameri is an incoming ophthalmology resident and a fourth-year medical student at McGovern Medical School at the University of Texas Health Science Center at Houston. She is pursuing a medical humanities concentration and passionate about narrative medicine as a vehicle for connecting with patients and preventing burnout. She is equally passionate about bridging the gap between medicine, policy, and advocacy. As an immigrant and previous Albert Schweitzer Fellow and Graduate Archer Fellow, Ameri encountered the complex health disparities that affect minorities. Ameri plans to go into a surgical subspecialty and will continue to pursue narrative as a form of healing.