T

he palms of my hands inch forward, slow and 
steady, farther and farther away from my body. My 
eyes close, surrounded by darkness, with disso-

nant sounds that clatter and ring like hovering shards of 
fragmented glass occasionally colliding, I feel my hands 
quiver in space, this dimensionless zero-gravity place. I 
wait in this darkness, for some sort of cue, a sign, a voice 
that’ll tell me exactly what to do and what to feel.

Maybe a minute or so of this, and the space just beyond 

my hands that are stretched before me feel different — it’s 
charged with energy, some kinesphere crashing toward 
me, molecules vibrating as they bounce off the ridges in 
my skin. They feel warm.

And then I feel a touch. It starts on my pinky, the slight-

est, lightest brush, hardly palpable. It timidly presses 
into the outskirts of my palms, and then slowly shifts to 
the rest of my hand. The thumb is last. I feel a sense of 
warmth and humility, a sort of security in a place of loss. 
When his hands retract, I am left alone in the dark again.

Touch — it sounds sensual, weirdly sexy and uncom-

fortable at the same time, but what exactly is it? And 
do we have any idea how powerful “touch” is? I know I 
didn’t, and still don’t.

Last Wednesday, I participated in an event hosted by 

the Medical Arts program in the University of Michigan’s 
Medical School and hospital. It was a physician-dancer 
collaborative event, a first of its kind. My professor in the 
dance department invited me to demonstrate and perform 
at the function, surrounded by current medical practitio-
ners and physicians in training.

When I say I am a double major in dance and neurosci-

ence, 50 percent of reactions are a form of congratulatory 
amusement, and the remaining are a combination of con-
fusion, doubt and impossibility.

“Well that don’t make no sense, does it?” my Uber driv-

er scoffs. After the twinge of animosity fades, I usually 
force a laugh and say something like, “Well, there’s more 
overlap than you think,” and change the subject.

The problem is more widespread and disheartening 

than I had originally thought.

The arts and sciences are segregated in their own 

worlds, the practitioners siloed into their study they often 
forget the other’s presence, or publicly categorized as 
entities with no possibility for exchange and integration. 
The option for crossing over hardly even exists.

We are in a world where we are overstimulated by our 

senses and completely saturated with information that is 
handed to us in school and often spewed at us by society. 
To understand a person is to understand the world they 
inhabit, and the world they wish to be a part of. Trying to 
understand a person without their world, the context and 
background, seems to neglect the spokes of their wheel 
and the network that gives rise to the machine of miscel-
laneous nuts and bolts that makes up who she is.

On Tuesday, I stood in a room full of medical practitio-

ners. We did some collaborative movement exercises to 
tune in our senses and see the room from a new angle, a 
wider aperture, to understand a person from a non-tradi-
tional perspective.

We played with space — how do we enter a room, exit 

a room, move within a confined place? These are simple 
ideas that seem tedious and maybe not worth exploring, 
but confronting a patient is as much of an improvisation 
game as dance.

No, there is no music or spot-

light, chandeliers or dramatic fog, but 
there is an audience and a performer.

I remember waking up from my 

ACL reconstruction surgery in the post-
op room of the hospital. I can still feel the 
light hand that woke me up from my anesthetic 
daze. Despite the drugs that were circulating 
in my veins, I remember the flush of panic that 
nearly made me puke on the bedside table — did 
the surgery go well? What if it didn’t, what if I 
can’t walk anymore, what if they had to amputate 
my leg? I couldn’t begin to fathom the horror and 
grief.

I remember watching intensely, scrutinizing 

eyes following the doctor as he lifted his hand 
from my shoulder and walked around the table, 
noticing the distance between him and the bed 
rails, his posture and gait, the subtle nod that ges-
tures the nurse to walk this way, the tightness of 
his jaw, and the loose fists at his sides that brush the 
pockets of his white coat. He lifts up the sheets and I 
shut my eyes, because all I feel is fear.

My legs are still numb, my body is foreign and I 

am occupying a temporary container with my sloshy 
thoughts and medicated blood. It doesn’t matter that I’m 
sitting in a bed with carefully calculated and concentrat-
ed fluid bags hanging at my sides, or that the crash cart is 
around the corner, and defibrillators are ready to percuss, 
or that the abundance of surgeons here guarantees me 
life, even if I fall unconscious this instant.

I feel his hand on my foot.
It’s gentle and humble, the way my grandpa used to pat 

my knobby knees. When I slowly blink my eyes open, his 
eyes are at my level, I wonder if he’s squatting at the foot 
of the bed, and then realize he is sitting on a short stool to 
match my eye level. There’s a smiley face Sharpied on the 
big toe of my left foot, a little crooked so it looks smirky, 
and the doctor reassures me the operation was successful. 
I nod and muscle a smile on my heavy cheeks and let the 
darkness take me away again into the expansiveness of it 
all. His movements speak as loud, if not louder than the 
words of comfort that escape his mouth.

Maybe I am just a keen observer because of 18 years 

of analyzing body positions and their associated mean-
ings. But just like every novel and poem has an intended 
audience, why wouldn’t every physician? It’s not that 
the motions and gestures of pre- and post-operative care 
need to be choreographed or calculated to perfection — 
but that they can carry an enhanced consciousness and 
body awareness.

As patient-centered care becomes a central focus of the 

medical school curriculum and professionals are trained 
to be cognizant and empathetic in more complex ways, 
there is a necessity for spatial, tactile and body mindful-

ness that is both 

artful and rigorous.

When I stood across 

from a current med student 

and we played this simple hand 

game for heightened sensitivity, 

I was moved by the dedication and 

curiosity he rendered.
I could feel my silos overlapping like 

two waves crashing into each other, 
standing at the confluence where these 
two rivers cross. I was stunned by the 
possibility that maybe, just maybe, 18 
years of cultivating creativity gave me 
something to offer to him.

Maybe I could show him my safe 

space, the dance studio — even if it is the 
outpatient ward of a hospital — a play-
ground for adults, where every day, we 
create new movement, explore the inner 
workings of our bodies, and learn to use 
spontaneity as our shovel and pail. And 
this, the possibility of influencing patient 
care with a different type of conscientious-
ness, is the answer I want to give the Uber 
driver, the reason for my seemingly anti-
thetical pursuits.

But also, beyond the exercises and dia-

logues of how this specific form of art and science inter-
twine, I believe there is a fundamental understanding 
of empathy and lack of judgement that comes with the 
practice of music, dance, theatre, visual art and even lit-
erature.

There is immense bravery in delving into your imagi-

nation and then presenting it for display. There is dedi-
cation in the time and years of repetition that it takes to 
foster creativity and curiosity. Like flexibility, these are 
things that need to be practiced and reinforced to be as 
malleable and infinite as they were when we were young. 
There is fear in speaking your ideas and exposing yourself 
to vulnerability and criticism, and then incredible humil-
ity in learning to accept the arrows and fingers that are 
pointed directly your way.

These are not to discount the decades of training and 

learning that go into the life of a physician. There is a 
part of me that is more afraid of the things that lie ahead 
of this crossroad, the challenges and battles I do not yet 
even know exist. But needless to say, there are inherent 
values in the arts and sciences that are worth taking the 
time to share and explore.

And maybe this is the next step we take, as aspiring 

health care professionals, entrepreneurs and collabora-
tors, artists and learners, to better understand the people 
around us and our individual purpose in this changing 
world. Maybe this is how we get a little closer to under-
standing our existence and the short time we have to 
make a difference.

Wednesday, November 23, 2016 // The Statement 
 
7B

by Yoshiko Iwai, Daily Staff Reporter
At the Interface of Medicine and Art

ILLUSTRATION BY 
EMILIE FARRUGIA

