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    <lastmod>2013-09-19</lastmod>
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      <image:title>Read Me</image:title>
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      <image:title>Read Me</image:title>
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      <image:title>Read Me</image:title>
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    <loc>http://jgascho.com/echo-poems</loc>
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    <lastmod>2022-01-23</lastmod>
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      <image:title>Echo Poems</image:title>
      <image:caption>43F, Left Atrial Myxoma Ripe peach, dangling down, two weeks late: will some farmer-doctor through cut through chest pluck it off in time or will the slender stem snap tonight?</image:caption>
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      <image:title>Echo Poems</image:title>
      <image:caption>Palpitations She thinks this flipping and flopping is her heart about to break, that she will drop like dad at 45. What we doctors fret about are aching chests, swollen legs, breath that’s gone in twenty steps. We pat her on the head, send her back to work, think to ourselves, go get a life. But tonight awake in my bed when the clock tolls two some demon may jump from my breast bone to my Adam’s apple and beat his drums wildly, and I will think it is the end.</image:caption>
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      <image:title>Echo Poems</image:title>
      <image:caption>34F, VAD Despite his vest the 32 took your father through the chest. They pierced your apex and jammed this pump inside, a thousand times as big. You live. ……. VAD: ventricular assist device</image:caption>
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      <image:loc>https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/55cdd1e0e4b0661487794298/1510135544265-RKD9CHIW8D89N4JPWDZ8/gift+of+life+image.jpg</image:loc>
      <image:title>Echo Poems</image:title>
      <image:caption>Suicide and the Gift of Life She shot herself, gun barrel to chin, aimed up and back. Surer ways to do what she had mind to do when she had mind. Her heart beats fine, unaware there is no need to feed her mangled brain with blood. Good enough that someone kept alive by pumps and drugs will get another chance. Had she known it might have changed her mind. Or then again it may have made her finally smile.</image:caption>
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      <image:title>Echo Poems</image:title>
      <image:caption>61 M, Systolic Click, BAV Whoever sent you for this test Was smart to think the sound she heard Was from a malformed valve: Two cusps instead of three. She’ll tell you when you see her next About what lies ahead: In fifteen years or so, An artificial valve. But will she tell you that the pipe Beyond the valve Could crack at any time? She will not know just what you want to know. Some facts I wish I didn’t know, like you. My valve’s bicuspid too.</image:caption>
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      <image:title>Echo Poems</image:title>
      <image:caption>Medical Examination Before the Football Season The doc runs through the guards and ends and monsters on the line in fifteen minutes time. He tells the quarterback to stand, then squat, then lie back down again, cold disk of stethoscope pressed against the chest as he listens, listens to the whishing sound of blood that slaps against a wall of muscle jutting out into the ventricle and now the boy worries not about his heart that could fibrillate away his life at any time but that he’ll never throw a pass again.</image:caption>
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  <url>
    <loc>http://jgascho.com/cornfields-cottonwoods-seagulls-and-sermons</loc>
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    <lastmod>2023-01-09</lastmod>
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      <image:loc>https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/55cdd1e0e4b0661487794298/1509970102796-MHA95YMFUFOUWEDZU4ZK/book+front+and+back+cover+l.jpg</image:loc>
      <image:title>Cornfields, Cottonwoods, Seagulls and Sermons. Growing Up in Nebraska</image:title>
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  <url>
    <loc>http://jgascho.com/home</loc>
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    <priority>1.0</priority>
    <lastmod>2022-09-18</lastmod>
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      <image:loc>https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/55cdd1e0e4b0661487794298/1590704510170-I8E6WYAZAD485L0IKGIA/Gascho+with+patient+portraits+2.jpg</image:loc>
      <image:title>Word &amp; Image: Joseph Gascho</image:title>
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      <image:title>Word &amp; Image: Joseph Gascho</image:title>
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    <loc>http://jgascho.com/pageor</loc>
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    <lastmod>2022-01-23</lastmod>
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      <image:title>Organs Poems (100 Words)</image:title>
      <image:caption>Skin Largest organ of them all yet only millimeters thick —or thin, depending on the site or state of mind. Water cannot penetrate but sunlight can, at least enough to make the vitamin that gets the calcium into the bone. And then there’s melanin— polymerized oxidized tyrosine—three different kinds—that give it color. How much better were there none or only one. No Civil War. No, better one, not none—for without it we’d burn too easily, die early melanoma deaths. And then there’s all its buried nerves, everywhere, but teeming in the fingers, face. The feel of a kiss.</image:caption>
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      <image:title>Organs Poems (100 Words)</image:title>
      <image:caption>Kidneys Stuck down below heart and lungs and brain, stuck behind (you bang your back, the ache you feel is them), relegated to the slimy job of cleaning up the place. They monitor and regulated the water level diligently—no sleep at night. Hard wired to the white and gray inside the skull but in a pinch can do their job alone. Unbeknownst to most they spew out juice that jolts the bone to make more cells to carry oxygen. Found out last fifty years you can make it if they die but only if you tie yourself to sterile catheters.</image:caption>
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      <image:title>Organs Poems (100 Words)</image:title>
      <image:caption>Lungs One is not enough the genes decree. Utterly dependent on the diaphragm. Their job to gobble up the unseen molecules of oxygen that waft their way to alveoli where they sieve through a wall that opens Sesame. And too, their job to harvest from the blood the gassy poison that would anesthetize the brain were it to fester in the salty plasma spew. Almost light as air. More than the heart, the altar for the breath of life but cannot flaunt their role — they load the hemoglobin cars that would stand still, the cells would starve, without the pump.</image:caption>
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      <image:loc>https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/55cdd1e0e4b0661487794298/1510493651739-C7W1C89ZBVM25JSZFREV/AV+Node+for+web.jpg</image:loc>
      <image:title>Organs Poems (100 Words)</image:title>
      <image:caption>AV-Node Guard of the gate leading to the ventricles. On duty day and night, she never sleeps. Her job to let enough but not too many charges through. If drugged or old sometimes the gate slams shut. And then some days she loses count, the hoards race in. Beat too slow or beat too fast may be too bad. She worries when the traffic’s slow (no fault of hers) or when the road takes another route, bypasses her. Big trouble when she goes berserk, births charges of her own, spews them out rapid fire. She must be stopped, but never fired.</image:caption>
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    <lastmod>2022-01-23</lastmod>
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      <image:title>Operating Room: Instruments and Poems</image:title>
      <image:caption>Chisel I dream of being gripped by Michelangelo, carving out the marble that it takes to bring to life the lips of Mary cradling her full-grown son. But I’d hate the sharpening block. I would guess Michelangelo would have gladly chiseled bone instead of stone even though when he was done no one but God would see his work.</image:caption>
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      <image:loc>https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/55cdd1e0e4b0661487794298/1510493051383-X3X3IAO788VWAJGOJO7L/gurney+wo+poem+for+web.jpg</image:loc>
      <image:title>Operating Room: Instruments and Poems</image:title>
      <image:caption>Gurney I do my best to make the ride into this place smooth as a new paved road and trust the pilot halts before I crash into a wall. I hope they've oiled my wheels although I've found a squeak or two will take a mind off of what will soon occur</image:caption>
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      <image:title>Operating Room: Instruments and Poems</image:title>
      <image:caption>Dilator Hard as steel, I am the one they use when vessels, ducts, the gut, clog up. They gently push me, pause, then push again, not heeding groans and shrieks of flesh that does not want to yield.And when they pull me back, what pleases me: (I have a plumber’s brain) the gush of backed up stuff flowing as it should.</image:caption>
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      <image:title>Operating Room: Instruments and Poems</image:title>
      <image:caption>Gloves Pleased at how I’m used, not by some criminal so none will know the knife was i\n his hand. Wish there was a way the surgeon’s fingerprints could be left behind to mark indelibly her masterwork.</image:caption>
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      <image:title>Operating Room: Instruments and Poems</image:title>
      <image:caption>Retractor Cool now but scalded in a pot last night I await the hands of one who’ll crank me open wide to pull and hold apart flesh so kidney, cancers, can be cut out. But what I dread: the times I’m closed and nothing's taken out.</image:caption>
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      <image:title>Operating Room: Instruments and Poems</image:title>
      <image:caption>Cautery Cut, sever, burn, destroy. And yet they feed and bathe me every night, beg me not to leave.</image:caption>
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    <image:image>
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      <image:title>Operating Room: Instruments and Poems</image:title>
      <image:caption>Drape In another place my job would be to cover antique cars, protect the fancy sofa during the birthday party for the five-year old, hide the private parts. Here I cover necks and thighs. Expose to light what must be cut away.</image:caption>
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      <image:title>Operating Room: Instruments and Poems</image:title>
      <image:caption>Operating Room Table They tilt me to one side to cut out cancer in a liver lobe. Or they jack up my head or drop my feet. It all depends.. They cover me with drapes but still the fluids stain my frame. I never flinch.</image:caption>
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    <lastmod>2023-01-11</lastmod>
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      <image:title>Patient Poems</image:title>
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      <image:title>Patient Poems</image:title>
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    <loc>http://jgascho.com/new-page</loc>
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    <lastmod>2019-08-31</lastmod>
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      <image:title>What is the Patient Thinking? What is the Doctor Thinking?</image:title>
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      <image:title>What is the Patient Thinking? What is the Doctor Thinking?</image:title>
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      <image:title>What is the Patient Thinking? What is the Doctor Thinking?</image:title>
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    <loc>http://jgascho.com/critical-workers</loc>
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    <lastmod>2019-08-31</lastmod>
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      <image:title>Critical Workers</image:title>
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      <image:title>Critical Workers</image:title>
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    <loc>http://jgascho.com/op-theater-new</loc>
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    <lastmod>2019-08-31</lastmod>
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      <image:title>Operating Theater</image:title>
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      <image:title>Operating Theater</image:title>
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      <image:title>Operating Theater</image:title>
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      <image:title>Operating Theater</image:title>
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    <loc>http://jgascho.com/new-page-3</loc>
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    <lastmod>2022-02-17</lastmod>
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      <image:title>About Me...</image:title>
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  <url>
    <loc>http://jgascho.com/new-page-5</loc>
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    <lastmod>2019-09-01</lastmod>
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  <url>
    <loc>http://jgascho.com/poem-1</loc>
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    <lastmod>2019-09-02</lastmod>
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      <image:title>Garden</image:title>
      <image:caption>Heart Attack ten years ago. at 72. They stented the widow maker. Chest pain last year. Stress test fine but walked only four minutes. Probably not the heart, but can’t be sure. Trouble finding medicine to hold down the cholesterol: muscle aches, a rash. Try yet another statin? / You say your garden beckons every day. “Don’t have to worry about decisions. A weed is a weed and it has to come out'“ / Let me come and help you weed.</image:caption>
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    <loc>http://jgascho.com/new-page-2</loc>
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    <lastmod>2019-09-02</lastmod>
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      <image:title>Jigsaw</image:title>
      <image:caption>Last Decision / 90, heart twice that. Five great - great - grands. Cut puzzles with your jigsaw in the basement shop every afternoon six days a week / Now in this ICU bolt upright, breath spent gurgling out pink, froth, blue eyes wide. Lasix, morphine, not enough. Ventilator. You wave us off: / Time— to— go.</image:caption>
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    <lastmod>2021-01-31</lastmod>
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      <image:title>Advent Then and Now</image:title>
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      <image:title>Advent Then and Now</image:title>
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