Archive
Author: Alasdair Renwick-Hale
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Metaphor Is Not Imprecision
I remember sitting in a dim hospital ward late one Tuesday, watching a man try to find the words to say goodbye to his…
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Stories Teach by Showing, Not Stating
I remember sitting in a dimly lit hospice room late one Tuesday, listening to a man try to piece together the story of his…
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Writing It Down Slows the Thought Enough to See It
I remember sitting in a dimly lit hospital room in the late nineties, the smell of antiseptic heavy in the air, listening to a…
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Integrity Is Only Tested When It Costs
I remember sitting in a dim hospital room in the late nineties, the smell of antiseptic heavy in the air, listening to a man…
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Roads Built for Armies Carried Ideas
I remember sitting in a cramped, dimly lit hospital corridor years ago, listening to a man describe how his family’s history had been swallowed…
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A Full Room Can Be an Empty Place
I remember sitting in the corner of a hospital bereavement lounge during a particularly crowded charity gala—the air was thick with the scent of…
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Poetry Should Not Be Read Like a Legal Code
I remember sitting in a sterile hospital room in the late nineties, holding the hand of a man who was losing his grip on…
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The First Six Minutes Decide Whether Someone Returns
I remember sitting in a sterile hospital waiting room thirty years ago, watching a well-meaning administrator attempt to “onboard” a grieving family with a…
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Pressure Changed What Was Emphasised
I remember sitting in a dim hospital room in 1994, listening to a man describe the slow, methodical dismantling of his dignity. He wasn’t…
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Small Dishonesty Is Where the Habit Forms
I remember sitting in a cramped, fluorescent-lit breakroom during my final years as a chaplain, listening to a nurse describe how she had to…