Don’t talk to me about facts and figures,
In a way that gives me medical jitters.
I understand evidence, really I do,
But you don’t make it easy, do you?
A bit less, please, jargonese,
And legalese, in PILs and SPCs*.
On paper so transparently thin,
It’s easily thrown into the bin.
Where’s the benefit information?
A risky business, this medication.
I don’t mean to poo poo your peer review,
It’s just… I don’t trust you.
Especially if you’re big pharma,
Face it: you’ve got bad karma.
Help us to talk to you,
We’ve much to offer, too.
Our words are woven,
With experiences, human.
Medical proof can only get better,
Working together, boxing clever.
Don’t talk to me, without my family,
They’re part of my thinking alchemy.
My brother, my sister, by blood or by water,
My mother, my lover, next door’s daughter.
That queue behind me?
I trust them, implicitly, even when we disagree.
And if I’m in a minority,
The queue is much much longer than three.
Don’t talk at me, speak to me,
Tell me a symptomatic story,
Alive with compassion and care,
Some science too, with creative flair,
One proven in life’s laboratory,
Not given to flights of fantasy.
“The plural of stories is culture”;
Testimonies lend us structure,
Narrative data to inform,
Metaphorical and evidential brainstorms.
Don’t tell me: drugs are the only medicine,
Fine fettle is more than a regular regimen.
A roof over my head, a warm comfy bed,
An honest job, that won’t make me sob.
Food in my bowl,
Food for my soul.
Perhaps most importantly?By Bella Starling
My other humans in relation to me.