A sad end to a life beset by tragedy. Sylvia Plath's son committed suidice last week. We had just read her poem, "Fever 103" in class a few weeks back, in which she mentions her "Hothouse baby in its crib,/ The ghastly orchid/ Hanging its hanging garden in the air,"
I don't know if I will be able to read that poem again.
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thoughts on the art of surgery, the science of poetry, and everything in between
About Me
- small hands
- nobody? not even the rain? ok, maybe the rain, but not many other colon and rectal surgeons have such small hands...