On a recent trip to visit my parents in the Philippines, I found this painting hanging on the wall of their home. Its back bore my name and age - four years old, handwritten by my mother in her classic Catholic school penmanship. She gave us full freedom to paint “anything”

I was recently reminded of how amazing our hands are when I injured my left hand. It was difficult for me to do many tasks that I once took for granted As I was bemoaning my own plight one day, I was called to assist an MO to remove an

I look toward the sky As evening begins to gather… Layers of pale blue, soft gray, And rose spilling across the horizon, Colors so gentle They seem to beg me, Set it down. Set aside the fear that has wrapped itself Around me like a python, Tightening its grip Until

The text came through On the theme of Hands It popped up At Hands Cafe where I was Having the perfect lemon meringue tart With coffee Then because of a question How did you know about us That started a conversation Two sessions resulted They were Try Poetry workshops Facilitated

I discovered recently that I am a self-absorbed patient. I could be more charitable towards myself and describe it as the typical arrogance that youth afford us, but even so, I surprised myself. I try not to define myself as the daughter of a breast cancer survivor, and I

Six months ago, I was at Schiphol Airport, lining up at the immigration counters for the second time in four hours after missing my flight back to the UK. Standing next to me was a tall man. He had a durag on and multiple tattoos rippling in long lines down

Everyone who has spent time near a hospital knows the particular quality of its waiting. Time thickens. The clock on the wall seems to keep different hours in a waiting room than it does anywhere else in the building. You come to know the vending machine, the water cooler, the

Tick tock, tick tock, Each second I count, A strange hush falls all around, Feet tread lighter, And my eyes grow heavy As I await the first ray of dawn. Those under my care Rest in the sweet land of dreams Their steady breaths Become my lullaby. Tick tock, tick

以后谁照顾小妹？Who will look after Little Sister after I’m gone? The first time we visited Mr Koh’s home, he apologised to us before we even sat down. “很乱,” he murmured. Very messy. The flat was small and dim, crowded with the quiet accumulation of daily living. Plastic bags

This piece is part of In Common, a collaborative writing series where voices from across the healthcare community respond to a single shared word - Threshold That wobbly threshold. That space in between. Some call it liminal. Others say it is natural. I felt it with you, Jo, when you informed