Ars Medica <p><em>Ars Medica</em>&nbsp;is a biannual literary journal, started in 2004, that explores the interface between the arts and healing, and examines what makes medicine an art. <em>Ars Medica</em> remains one of a handful of medical literary journals in Canada and worldwide, in the rapidly developing international field of the humanities in healthcare.</p> <p><em>Ars Medica</em>&nbsp;allows a place for dialogue, meaning-making, and the representation of experiences of the body, health, wellness, and encounters with the medical system. Content includes narratives from patients and health care workers, medical history, fiction, creative nonfiction, poetry, and visual art. We also include sections on writing by and about children, and writing about international health. These are voices that are often silenced in healthcare.</p> en-US (Ars Medica Editorial Board) (Marilyn Bittman) Fri, 13 Dec 2019 00:00:00 -0800 OJS 60 The Memories of a Wound <p>The Memories of a Wound</p> Austin Alden Lam Copyright (c) 2020 Ars Medica Thu, 02 Apr 2020 09:30:14 -0700 Ars Medica August 2019 Chemistry Poetry Marjorie Maddox Copyright (c) 2020 Ars Medica Thu, 02 Apr 2020 09:28:30 -0700 pound of sand This is a poem regarding a pateint I saw in the emergency room. It is a tale that exposes the intimate nature of health and its impact on self-image. Benjamin Drum Copyright (c) 2020 Ars Medica Thu, 02 Apr 2020 09:26:11 -0700 Syllabus Short fiction about anticipation and preparedness, about our capacity to predict risk and readiness. Marcie S. McCauley Copyright (c) 2020 Ars Medica Tue, 25 Feb 2020 13:02:30 -0800 Moving Out <p>Moving Out is the eleventh of 12 stories in my collection: Watching the Girl You Love Walk Away with Charlie Manson: a year of grief in 12 stories. <br /><br />A week or two after the current American president was elected, I decided I needed to raise my voice as a writer (I've published two novels and a collection of poetry in addition to loads of online/print journal story and poetry publications). I began a new project: to write a story a month, with each story carrying a place-marker of where we are in the country. The stories are mostly about women, all about people of color, mostly immigrants, and are not political but in their telling they carry a reflection of the eighteen months following the election. <br /><br />A few months into my project, my oldest son – someone who was actively involved in the democratic process, worked as a reporter and political commentator for his university newspaper -- was killed in a car accident at the age of 21. This is not a manageable thing to have happen. I took a break from everything (in many ways I still do) and what brought me back to these stories was his voice. When I asked him if he was okay on the night of the election results, he said, “Ma, it’s like watching Charlie Manson walk off with the girl you love.” I had written him saying that into that first story of the collection, which delighted him even as he grieved. When I finally went back to the project after his accident, I wrote him into each story, not so much as a full character, but more of a someone wise and good and hopeful passing through. On a personal level, it was a chance to spend a little time with this most exceptional human who is my son; on a broader level, however, it was a way of preserving his presence, not just for me, but for the country he so dearly loved and wished to serve. As I look at this collection now, I am struck by the parallels in my own grief and what we are going through as a nation. <br /><br /></p> laila halaby Copyright (c) 2020 Ars Medica Mon, 24 Feb 2020 10:22:31 -0800