Here

The man at the end
of the hall, I don’t know him.
Nor will I, I fear.

He did not come here
but was brought against his will.
Misunderstanding?

Not a prisoner,
a patient, me his doctor.
We are together.

In this hospital.
Not a punishment, treatment.
A difference, I’m sure.

To him? He is here
in this small room at the end
of the hall, with me.

Roses

He paces the hall
with tissue paper roses
in his breast pocket.

Each day he makes them.
Carefully, he tears and folds.
Every rose, a choice.

What are they, to him?
Why spend each day crafting them?
I wonder. I care.

Something familiar?
Just a splash of color in
this gray and white place?

Maybe the roses
have some transportive power,
an instant escape.

Tomorrow

Pleasant and polite,
especially for a man
here against his will.

Each morning I visit
to see how he is doing.
He seems not to mind.

He asks how I am
and he seems to truly care.
We have a rapport.

He asks to teach me
To make roses from paper.
Tomorrow, we plan.

Today, there is court.
He requests discharge, declines
to take medicine. 

Today

The judge sides with us.
The man will receive treatment.
He cannot refuse.

How will this change things?
I worry our alliance
might just disappear.

“You still want to learn?”
I feared resentment; but no,
just kindness and grace.

I am no artist,
as the man could plainly see.
Still though, he taught me.

Paper by paper,
red and green, he helped me fold.
Until…there! A rose.

Wherever

He took medication.
Became stable for discharge.
We helped him, I think.

Winter weeks go by.
I return home, exhausted.
A long day on call.

That’s when I notice
the “forever rose,” still there,
Still a reminder.

A splash of crimson
gracing my coffee table.
Faded but alive.

I hope he is well,
hope he’s still spreading flowers,
wherever he is.

From the author: This series of five sets of five haiku poems tells the story of my experience treating a patient against his will on an inpatient psychiatric unit. Prioritizing a patient's treatment over their autonomy is an aspect of the field that makes many psychiatrists uncomfortable, myself included. This piece allowed me a chance to reflect on my experience and attempt to reckon with my discomfort. I was touched by the humanity that this patient showed in the face of his difficult situation. In these poems, I hope to highlight how much our patients can teach us about ourselves.

Jonah Lowenstein is a second-year psychiatry resident at Mount Sinai Morningside/West. He grew up in the Bay Area, California. He received his bachelors degree in biology with a minor in philosophy from the University of Chicago and received his doctor of medicine from New York Medical College. His particular interests within psychiatry include psychotherapy, transitional-age youth, and medical ethics.