Medical school taught me the romance of life
And it changed everything.
“Why did you join medical school?” was a question that haunted me in Year 1 because my reasons weren’t conventional. I wasn’t here to help people or to ease their suffering. I wasn’t here to earn prestige or respect. Any other profession could give me that. My reasons were purely selfish. I was here to know.
I wanted to gain as much knowledge as I could on the subjects I loved — anatomy, physiology, and biochemistry. I wanted to understand my insides more than my outside. The plan was to graduate, to join a biochemistry laboratory and pursue research; a journey which would constantly push me forward on the path to knowledge.
To know as much as possible seemed vital.
I pored through scores of books during my pre-clinical years, looking for my way through the black and whites of the words. I would stay updated with the news, personalities, and topics of debate. I would keep up with ideas in economics, technology, business, and politics. I strove to be someone who not only knew medicine, but someone who also knew the world.
It was only when I started my clinical rotations in Year 4, did I begin to comprehend how much I did not know. There were days when I wouldn’t know the answers to any questions posed by my attendings; others when I wasn’t able to talk to patients because I just didn’t know how to. There were days I would come home crying because of how humiliated I felt at my incompetence in the hospital. That was a first.
My journey through Years 4 and 5 marked a lot of firsts, but none of them are etched in my memory with the hue of knowledge. Instead, they are painted in the colours of my feelings.
Meeting new people every day and stepping beyond my boundaries, unlocked a barrage of emotions that I had never felt with so much intensity.
Relief when I saw the return of a heartbeat after a patient had flatlined. Fear when I helped deliver a baby for the first time. Pain when I broke the bad news of a husband’s death to a distraught wife. Surprise when my treatment plan was accepted by the physician without any modifications. Anger when I bandaged a patient with suspected child abuse. Disgust when I saw how the system is rigged against patients without finances. Shame when I witnessed the struggles of women stuck in bad marriages. Pride when I made my first suture in the operating room. Love when I carried a new-born wrapped in a fuzzy blanket. Anxiety when I first counselled patients about lifestyle modifications. Happiness when I danced to ‘Baby Shark’ in the paediatrics emergency department. There has been every emotion on the spectrum, and sometimes the extremes have occurred over the course of a single day.
When the pandemic hit its peaks, there were waves of exhaustion at the hospitals. Healthcare professionals were overworked and stretched to their capacity; everyone was scared, and nobody knew the answers to all the questions. The staff extended their compassion and care to patients isolated from their families, parents who lost their children to the virus, the elderly who were as good as abandoned because of their functional disabilities, and angry patients demanding immediate attention.
On a personal front, I forced myself to socially isolate, even after the restrictions lifted, because of the risk of bringing the virus home to my family. I lost touch with some friends, lost progress on my hobbies and lost my motivation to keep up with anything. The mental fog associated with the pandemic showed me the best and the worst of what it meant to work in healthcare.
A contrast has been made abundantly clear through these years; healthcare teaches you a blend of cynicism and romanticism. The bitterness stems from how little you can do against the system, against the hierarchy and against the consequences of some costly decisions. The logistics of care sometimes become a burden, and the paperwork seems all-encompassing. We spend a lot of time stooped over outdated computers documenting progress notes, discharge summaries, and filling insurance forms. Some of it is essential and some of it is mere tedium and waste. It’s always you and your scribbled checklist of daily tasks against the world.
But there’s also romance all around us. Not the romance marked by fluttering hearts between two individuals as the word traditionally implies. This kind of romance teaches you to embrace your emotions and feel alive with every heartbeat you hear and breath you observe. Your heart learns to flutter at the smaller joys of life as you begin to feel the intensity of life all around you. It stays with you, moves you and changes you.
More than the knowledge I’ve gained, it is the emotional encounters with the patients that remain fresh. There were moments when I forgot to breathe, moments when I was punched in the gut, moments that took me to pinnacles of joy and moments which pushed me down the troughs of despair.
These individuals have taught me in every possible way. About this profession we call doctoring. About life. You remember and forget and remember again. Life isn’t a pursuit or a race to the finish line. Life is in the now. It’s in the honest moments that keep us vulnerable.
Now, as I stand on the cusp of graduation in my final year of medical school, my goals are humble. Knowing everything is no longer a priority. There’s only one goal superseding it all: to do good.
To every patient I’ve had the privilege of meeting over the last two years: Thank you for letting me be part of your story. Thank you for your teaching, for your lessons on humanity. Thank you for inspiring me, for keeping me grounded. In return, I will spend my career trying to do good by you. I will embrace the ‘I don’t know’ to look for answers. I will own up to my mistakes and right them. I will pull through long days despite my exhaustion.
There has been a change in the plan. I no longer want to pursue a career in traditional academia. I now plan to apply to internships and then eventually to a specialty programme, with the biggest question guiding me through — will this do good?
As I prepare myself to answer to the call of ‘Doctor’, I ask myself. Am I scared? Undoubtedly. Do I know my path ahead? Uncertainly.
But am I ready? I must say yes. It is time for this bird to leave the safety of medical school and finally fly.
