I’ve crossed off many “firsts” these past two weeks. My trip to northern Michigan with Zane taught me several critical anti-lessons: how not to catch Bluegill; how not to roast D.I.Y. bacon-wrapped weenies over a fire using flammable bamboo skewers; how not to prepare to hike the formidable Sleeping Bear Sand Dunes. Still, meaningful revelations crept up that week. I can quadruple pierce a wriggling nightcrawler oozing yellow grease on my finger. Horny dragonflies are dangerous. Bluegill bones easily slip into the throat. The bloody appeal of a well-buttered rare steak.
Most important, I learned—or rather was reminded—that there exists many things greater than me. Oaks, birches, redwoods. Mountains. Lakes. My love for Zane. Spaces where silence buzzes with life.
On Saturday I moved into my first solo Chicago living endeavor. It is neither my first apartment nor my first time living alone, but the combination of the two is nonetheless intimidating.
This 23rd year of existence has steadily inched me closer to true adulthood. I have a car that I can (mostly) confidently drive. I crane my neck and cut wheels in reverse with newfound ease. The concept of money and its relative availability fills me with anxiety. Responsibilities cling to me with leech-like fervor.
Next week will bring the most difficult challenge I have ever faced in my life. All the loans, the tears, the countless nights spent bathing my eyes in blue light, have led to this. On Monday, at the bright hour of 6 am, I make the painful transition from second-year medical student—from eager bookworm—to third-year medical student—the bait dangling from the edge of the hook, baptized in treacherous waters, broken in.
My weeks will be near sleepless—late nights, early mornings. Up to 80 hours of asking and answering, opening and closing, touching and feeling. Doing and undoing.
I have my supports: family, friends, Zane, my therapist, brain rot easily accessed on my phone. But nothing can change the truth of the matter: this will hurt. My body will suffer, put to the task of juggling its dual-role of person and machine. As will my mind. My feelings will get hurt. My confidence will take hits. I will see the unfiltered pain of mortality day in and out. I will watch life spill from their vessels, potentially under the shadow of my own hands. And there will be many times when I will not know what to do, when there is nothing to do.
And none of that matters. Because what I will do will be beautiful. I will advocate for patients, sometimes when no one else will. My hands will steady, find their mark. My foot will ease itself out my mouth, and my words will have power. I will prove how much I want to “help” people. I will make a canvas of the human body, and it will be as fascinating as it is disgusting—stinky, wet, textured, wild. So much can go wrong, but it won’t. And I will cherish how every moment changes me.
On the first day of orientation, our dean started off his presentation with four principles that will define this next year—the gifts of practice:
The Wonder of Learning
“Live as if you were to die tomorrow. Learn as if you were to live forever.” - Mahatma Gandhi
The “Ecstasy of Deeds”
“… there is an ecstasy of deeds, luminous moments in which we are raised by the overpowering deeds above our own will; moments filled with outgoing joy, with intense delight. Such exaltation is a gift.” - Rabbi Abraham Joshua Heschel
The Honor of Bearing Witness
Being a doctor is more than just caring for patients. It’s bearing witness to patients’ lives and the human condition.
The Pride and Affection of Camaraderie
Sharing the wonder of learning, the ecstasy of deeds, and the honor of bearing witness
In accepting these gifts, I will continue my therapeutic documentation of all that this year has to show me, giving special attention to the opportunities it affords me to bear witness of what it can and should mean to be human.
To my future patients, may I always remember that “patient” is a formality, a conditional. That over and above this is personhood. That I know what it feels like to be on the other side. That I came here to lay hands and truly see. That you have much to give and I have much to take in.