Medical School is extremely hard.
First, you arrive at medical school. A bright, cheery MSI.
And you are really, really excited to be here. I mean, possibly more excited that you will ever be for anything thus far in your life (unless you're already married, had a child etc.) You recognize that it is going to be hard but at the same time you think to yourself, "Well I got in, didn't I, hopefully the administration didn't make some huge mistake." Have I mentioned that you are excited. Tens of thousands of people didn't get in to medical school this year, but you did.
Then you get done with the lazy week of orientation, which you probably skipped half of anyway, and you arrive at your first class.
ANATOMY- Day One
Welcome to Medical School here at the Medical College of the United States. Blah. Blah. Study a little every day. Blah. Blah. This is going to be the most challenging thing that you have ever done. Blah Blah. This is the axilla. Blah blah.
Video begins:
"This is how to disect a human body..."
Professor: Ok class now we are going to go downstairs and begin disecting, there will be 6 people per cadaver.
You (thinking to yourself): This is great! I'm finally doing something that is interesting. No more boring stuff like General Chemistry for me!
And that first night you study better than you ever have in your life, because if you know one thing, it's that you don't want to be one of those 5 or so people that drop out (and you definitely don't want to Modify, which means that you end up taking 5 years to complete medical school instead of the usual 4.). And you keep studying every night for the next month, and on some levels it's actually fun (or at the very least tolerable).
Then the first test arrives.
And you pass! Not only that, but you do pretty well--not honors by any means, but since your main concern was just getting through, finding out that you are an "average" medical student is actually not all that bad.
So you keep studying, and studying, and studying, every night for the next few months. Not only for anatomy, but also for embryology and histology which are taken concurrently. And very gradually this sense of newness begins to wear off.
(to be continued...)
Friday, November 21, 2008
The Depths of Memory
Isn't it funny how a word, a place, or a stage of life can have so many associated feelings.
When we think of childhood, our mind doesn't immediately think of a top-down summary of how good or bad our childhood was, no, instead we immediately pick a single memory, a moment in time. The night when dad let us Trick-or-Treat until the wee hours of the morning, no matter how tired he was. The time that we went sledding down a 20ft high hill that seemed like Everest to us. Humans seem to have a knack for taking something that is irreducibly complex and forming a few overarching memories.
Equally surprising is that we can have a negative memory of a place where we had countless days of pleasure. But whenevere someone calls that place to mind, our first thought is that of sadness.
For me that place is Ludington.
Growing up, we would often travel up to Ludington to visit with my grandparents and other family members. A town of about 60,000 or so, Ludington is at once both beatiful and quaint. It has a turn-of-the-century downtown area, great beaches, and large swaths of natural forests.
When I was younger we would play wiffleball outside for hours on end, or go out for ice cream at the nearby dairy queen. Other times I would ride my grandpa's old 8-speed bicycle down a winding dirt path through the forest, a path the bike was definitely not made for. For me, Ludington was the place our family always went to.
Yet for some reason whenever I am reminded of Ludington, I picture it in the middle of winter; overcast and empty. But why? Why is it that a place that has been the site of so much enjoyment in my life become a place that I remember with such a sense of sadness and melancholy.
The more I thought of it, I realized that I have come to associate Ludington with death. The memories that I had of Ludington with both my parents are now tainted with the pain of divorce. The memories that I had with my granparents now are associated with the realization that they won't be around forever. Memories of riding grandpa's bike make me think of a time where I will no longer be able to talk to him whenever I want to.
But why is it that our brain puts that all into one feeling, one image. Maybe it's just easier. Maybe we don't really want to think off the hurt, so our brain puts out an imposing image to scare us off. I think it's one of the more interesting defense mechanisms that we have.
Once my grandparents leave Ludington, I don't think I'll ever go back there (alone at least). It's one of the most beautiful towns in Michigan, but for some reason I can't get passed the dark image I have of it.
When we think of childhood, our mind doesn't immediately think of a top-down summary of how good or bad our childhood was, no, instead we immediately pick a single memory, a moment in time. The night when dad let us Trick-or-Treat until the wee hours of the morning, no matter how tired he was. The time that we went sledding down a 20ft high hill that seemed like Everest to us. Humans seem to have a knack for taking something that is irreducibly complex and forming a few overarching memories.
Equally surprising is that we can have a negative memory of a place where we had countless days of pleasure. But whenevere someone calls that place to mind, our first thought is that of sadness.
For me that place is Ludington.
Growing up, we would often travel up to Ludington to visit with my grandparents and other family members. A town of about 60,000 or so, Ludington is at once both beatiful and quaint. It has a turn-of-the-century downtown area, great beaches, and large swaths of natural forests.
When I was younger we would play wiffleball outside for hours on end, or go out for ice cream at the nearby dairy queen. Other times I would ride my grandpa's old 8-speed bicycle down a winding dirt path through the forest, a path the bike was definitely not made for. For me, Ludington was the place our family always went to.
Yet for some reason whenever I am reminded of Ludington, I picture it in the middle of winter; overcast and empty. But why? Why is it that a place that has been the site of so much enjoyment in my life become a place that I remember with such a sense of sadness and melancholy.
The more I thought of it, I realized that I have come to associate Ludington with death. The memories that I had of Ludington with both my parents are now tainted with the pain of divorce. The memories that I had with my granparents now are associated with the realization that they won't be around forever. Memories of riding grandpa's bike make me think of a time where I will no longer be able to talk to him whenever I want to.
But why is it that our brain puts that all into one feeling, one image. Maybe it's just easier. Maybe we don't really want to think off the hurt, so our brain puts out an imposing image to scare us off. I think it's one of the more interesting defense mechanisms that we have.
Once my grandparents leave Ludington, I don't think I'll ever go back there (alone at least). It's one of the most beautiful towns in Michigan, but for some reason I can't get passed the dark image I have of it.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)