Michael R. Berman, M.D. @ mrbmd.com

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t h o u g h t s a n d m o r e. . . m y B l o g

January 1, 2010

On this first day of the Decade, I would like to take license
and excerpt a poem I wrote some time ago and share it with you today
with hope and promise for the years to come.

…For you this is what I long:
to breath the air, hear a song
walk beneath some sapling pines
search a dream, slow the time
see truths distant horizons hide
float on waves at even-tide.
know a softly spoken poem
call our earth beloved home…

November 26, 2009

Happy Thanksgiving! As we all enjoy our meals today, let us remember that throughout the world, "Hunger cries..."

May 24, 2009

My daughter Annie and her husband Seth's marriage Annie and Seth, May 24, 2009

Some favorite quotes and verse

"Each for himself gathered up the cherished purposes of life;

its aims and ambitions; its dearest affections;

And flung all with life itself the scale of battle." Anonymous

"The practice of medicine is rooted in a covenant of trust among patients, physicians, and society. The ethic of medicine must seek to balance the physician's responsibility to each patient and the professional, collective obligation to all who need medical care."
The Council of Medical Specialty Societies, 2000

"Medicus Nihil Aliud Est Quam Animan Consollatio" A Latin Proverb translating to:
"A Doctor is nothing bu the constellation of the soul"

“Dedicate some of your life to others. Your dedication will not be a sacrifice. It will be an exhilarating experience because it is an intense effort applied toward a meaningful end.” Dr. Thomas Dooley

"Are you willing to admit that probably the only good reason for your existence is not what you are going to get out of life but what you are going to put into it? To close your book of complaints against the management of the universe and to look around for a place where you can sow a few seeds of happiness?"

"Do you remember Dr Tom Dooley? He said he learned his formula for happiness the day a small boat pulled alongside his craft carrying his first close-up glimpse of SE Asia. On that boat were over 1000 refugees -- suffering from smallpox, terminal tuberculosis and diseases he couldn't even name. Many of the children on board were unconscious from the 115 degree heat. As the only doctor, Dooley attacked this great mountain of suffering with a feeling of hopelessness and despair. But before long, he said, a strange excitement began to grip him. A splint took the agony out of a broken arm, a boil could be lanced, some vitamins could help another. That day he learned he could be deeply, joyously happy. I've always appreciated his explanation for this happiness. He said he had learned a fundamental truth about himself: he was extra-sensitive to sorrow, and that when he did something about it, no matter how small, he couldn't help but be happy."

"Dr. Dooley held up in front of the camera a tiny, ill, starving child with a distended belly. Now, in the 1950s, such sights were never seen on television, or in magazines. It was shocking, and I recoiled emotionally. But then he calmly said, in essence,“When you look at this child you see something horrifying, but I look at this child and know that I have the knowledge and skill to make him well.”

-- Dr. Thomas Dooley, USN MD, 1954 - Supervised refugee camps to house fleeing N Vietnamise, l959 - Diagnosed, Cancer, Returned to Laos, 1961 - Died, age 34. From his final book, The Night They Burned the Mountain

"In the central place of every heart there is a recording chamber;
so long as it receives messages of beauty, hope, cheer, and courage,
so long are you young. .. Douglas McArthur on 75th. Birthday

"Be afraid of not growing old slowly,
Be afraid of standing still" Chinese proverb

We Are Seven
by William Wordsworth

A simple child...
That lightly draws its breath
And feels its life in every limb,
What should it know of death?

I met a little cottage girl-
She was eight years old, she said;
Her hair was thick with many a curl
That clustered 'round her head.

She had a rustic, woodland air
And she was wildly clad;
Her eyes were fair, and very fair;
Her beauty made me glad.

"Sisters and brothers, little maid,
How many may you be?"
"How many? Seven in all," she said
And wondering looked at me.

"And where are they? I pray you tell."
She answered, "Seven are we;
And two of us at Conway dwell
And two are gone to sea."

"Two of us in the churchyard lie,
My sister and my brother
And in the churchyard cottage, I
Dwell near them with my mother."

"You say that two at Conway dwell
And two are gone to sea,
Yet, ye are seven! I pray you tell,
Sweet maid, how this may be."

Then did the little maid reply,
"Seven boys and girls are we;
Two of us in the churchyard lie,
Beneath the churchyard tree."

"You run about, my little maid,
Your limbs they are alive;
If two are in the churchyard laid
Then ye are only five."

"Their graves are green, they may be seen,"
The little maid replied,
"Twelve steps or more from my mother's door
And they are side by side."

"My stockings there I often knit,
My kerchief there I hem;
And there upon the ground I sit
And sing a song to them."

"And often after sunset, sir,
When it is light and fair
I take my little porringer
And eat my supper there."

"The first that died was sister Jane;
In bed she moaning lay,
Till God released her of her pain
And then she went away."

"So in the churchyard she was laid
And, when the grass was dry
Together round her grave we played,
My brother John and I."

"And when the ground was white with snow
And I could run and slide,
My brother John was forced to go
And he lies by her side."

"How many are you, then," said I,
"If they two are in heaven?"
Quick was the little maid's reply,
"O master! We are seven."

"But they are dead; those two are dead!
Their spirits are in heaven!"
'T was throwing words away; for still
The little maid would have her will
And said... "Nay, we are seven!"

by William Wordsworth

To be yourself in a world that is constantly trying to make you something else is the greatest accomplishment.
~ Ralph Waldo Emerson

Say not, they die, those splendid souls,
Whose life is winged with purpose fine;
Who leave us, pointed to the goals;
Who learn to conquer and resign.

Such cannot die; they vanquish time,
And fill the world with glowing light,
Making the human life sublime
With memories of their secret might.

They cannot die whose lives are part
Of the great life that is to be;
Whose hearts beat with the world’s great heart,
And throb with its high intensity.

Those souls are great, who, dying, gave
A gift of greater life to man;
Death stands abashed before the brave;
They own a life death cannot ban.
Author Unknown

A Memorial Tribute at the Evening of
Remembrance, Yale New Haven Hospital,
June, 2008

I am honored to be able to participate in this service tonight as my heart reaches out to all here tonight who have experienced the loss of a child. While the death of a baby is a catastrophe and a tragedy which shatters good, secure and confident lives in a matter of moments, the sharing of feelings of such profound loss with one another at a service such as this and beyond can actually beget a healing experience.

One bereaved mother has put this in another way: : “Strangers we may be, but we are all connected by the loss of a child, and that makes us all soul mates.”

Like yourselves, countless mothers and fathers and those close to them silently grieve with little resolution over the loss of their pregnancies, newborns and children. Seeking reprieve from their sorrow, they cry and yearn for solace and hope, many times for years following their loss; cries that are but a muted weeping of despair as a child so longed for is not born, or is not born alive, or cannot be conceived. Pained by these losses, their lives seem devoid of hope. Yet they-you- prevail, for within each of us is a timeless, enduring spark of divine hope, a uniquely human greatness that permits us to challenge adversity and courageously face the unexplainable suffering of our souls and bodies. To realize the existence of this divine hope is a most cherished purpose, for with it our lives have promise and reason.

Infertility, pregnancy loss, neonatal illness and subsequent death are among the most painful losses we can experience, for they deny us a family and leave sightless our vision for immortality through generations of the future. Moreover, a child not born is likewise denied the delight to revel in the simple beauty and endless wonder of this divine hope. Memorial services such as this, ceremonies and tangible items of remembrance are vital for healing after the untimely death of the child, born or yet to be born. They give us permission to remember and cry publicly as well as privately. Memories are what remain of our lost children, invisible bonds between mother father and child, everlasting. Remembering and praising our lost children can make darkness, visible.

Perinatal loss entails a "unique bereavement" and is an "exceptional" type of loss, for a child is not expected to die before his or her parents. Across all cultures, the parent-child relationship is and has been the most enduring and significant. The natural processes of birth, life and death should follow in an orderly and rational sequence and through one’s lifetime. Any death but death from "old-age" after a "rich" and fulfilling life is premature. Yet when parents like yourself see their child die, or carry the burden of an unborn demise, they live with this disruption of said natural order forever. There has not been nor is there now one common and standard way to manage the recovery from such grief, for it’s shadow has been and will be indelibly imprinted in the minds and souls of these parents. Bonding between mother and father and child or expectant child occurs and must be recognized. Death tears this apart. The issues of mourning, of lost promises, of sadness and above all, of maintaining faith must be addressed. The impact of these losses must not only be recognized but must also be "main-streamed" into our society.

We are at the threshold of an era when solace and compassion for the deaths of these our smallest and most vulnerable of patients are being recognized more than ever before. I believe the days when perinatal loss is considered an unspeakable loss are waning.

Cameron
I no longer see the stars; I am the stars.
I no longer breathe the wind; I am the wind.
I am the sweet smell of honeysuckle after an
Evening rain.
I am the dew on the rose petals in early
Morning.
I am harmony and I am peace.
I am love.
In sorrow, my mother and father cry,
But they need not fear. For I am strong.
My heart is whole and in union with my soul.
I understand my fate and I smile.
For nature's will is my destiny
And my guide through eternity.

1990

June 10, 2008

For a friend and Colleague, Hal, who just died from a long standing illness

Tiferet

In prayer we plead return,

And in dream, awaken!

We fall to stare at gleaned grasses

Scattered about forgotten fields,

Singed by a senseless lot,

And thirst to cry forever.

Yet,

We will not be draped

In the blanket of loneliness called solitude.

For deaf of song and absent of vision

Of who we are and who are our children,

Its veil will descend, then disappear.

We are "alive together".

The margin between breath and breathless

Is narrow, like twilight and darkness.

Moments of simple thoughts

Become ageless memories.

There is triumph to taste,

Love to embrace;

Havens of hope to inhabit.

Soon, the curtains of chaos

Will rise with the setting stars

As memories of joy

Bond with joy itself

And we will smile once more,

At last to breathe a painless sigh

Of what is love.

Tiferet, in the discourse of Jewish mysticism

is one of the ten Sefirot and represents

beauty, harmony and truth.

ÓMichael R. Berman, M.D.
All rights reserved

December 31, 2008

Dear Friends and Family,

Aunt Ida has passed on. Just twenty-four hours before she fell ill, Mom, Bill, Debby, Nancy and I spent a happy day with her. Nancy, Annie, Stephanie and I were with her during her final hours. In death, Aunt Ida looked beautiful and at peace.

On behalf of our entire family, thank you for your kindnesses as Aunt Ida made her transition to Connecticut a year and a half ago. Some of you knew her, some of you have heard us talk of her, but you all knew about her.

We are a small family, now smaller, but we are extremely close. We will miss Aunt Ida's wisdom, her counsel and her love, but we will not miss loving her, for this will go on forever.

Following is a poem dedicated to Aunt Ida upon her death.

Please accept our sincere appreciation for your kind and beautiful, compassionate and comforting words

Egeria
A Roman muse, counselor and advisor

“It is in these moments that we gaze upon the moon. It is in these moments that Nature becomes our Egeria”

Lord Beaconsfield; Vivian Grey,III,vi

Today, the harvest is behind us

Yet as much, it lies ahead.

We plant our seeds even as the icy sun

Strains to warm the earth.

We prepare. We are sure the

Brilliance of the blossom will come to be

And the scent of the lilac tree briefly will penetrate

The early mist of springtime once again.

In this glory infinite, there will be

No longer mourning of what has been.

For I have loved and I love still,

A sister, a child and another- and theirs-

Who walk distant frontiers,

To torch and fade despair

Into transparent exile...

Silhouettes emblazoned heavenwards

As I watch and turn a smile…

…and watched as ponds

And serpentine streams,

Relentless in their ebb and flow,

Carved channels of ancient thoughts and dreams

Like fossilized intaglio.

Yes I have lived and I have known

And traveled on northern trails,

And western peaks and pastel fields.

I have sensed the scents of daffodils

And the melodies of songbirds.

I have reveled in the excesses of my heart;

The splendor of the day;

The quietude at night;

Countless raindrops on countless petals;

Sunrises splashed in pink and white.

Today, the harvest is behind us

Yet as much, it lies ahead.

Michael R. Berman
December 16, 2008

In Passing

How swiftly the strained honey

of afternoon light

flows into darkness

and the closed bud shrugs off

its special mystery

in order to break into blossom:

as if what exists, exists

so that it can be lost

and become precious

Lisel Mueller