“Please, doctor, can you heal me?”Įxcerpt from “Illness as Muse” by Rafael Campo, poet, essayist, and physician. Soon enough, my patients start to arrive, and the way they want me to understand what they are feeling only immerses me more deeply in language’s compelling alchemy: “The pain is like a cold, bitter wind blowing through my womb,” murmurs a young infertile woman from Guatemala with what I have diagnosed much less eloquently as chronic pelvic pain.
Of course, the next morning always comes and I find myself in my clinic again, the exam room speaking aloud in all of its blatant metaphors-the huge clock above where my patients sit implacably measuring lifetimes the space itself narrow and compressed as a sonnet-and immediately I’m back to thinking about writing.
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