Early morning,

Barely audible over the din on the wards:

Lub-dub, whoosh.

So faint that I will myself to hear it

Recognizing that this requires practice,

For practice makes perfect.

Evening,

Not at bedside, but

Over the static of the phone:

A crack, waver, tremble.

The sound of heartbreak,

So deafening that I will myself to listen

The words cut through the pain.

He’s dying, she says. Her husband, my grandfather.

A world away, really, and he is there.

And I am here,

Torn between two worlds

Stuck in a space between the space

Of heart and mind.

For I am training

To hear a patient’s heart sounds, not

To be there for loved ones;

My presence should be natural, intuitive.

Yet you are a world away.

I am the not-doctor who cannot hear your murmur,

Who cannot be there for you in your time of need,

And I’m sorry.

Yet I must press on, and I do…

For perseverance makes perfect.