There comes a time, actually, many times over the course of a medic's training, from the MBBS to residency, where the medic develops some form of existential crisis. Often, it happens in the preclinical years, where one drowns in an ocean of knowledge, information that is both imperative to examination and paramount to practice, yet it is an ocean that knows no depth. One sits in a small life boat in the middle of the storm, textbooks weighing down the small vessel as waves crash and water seeps into the hull.
I have been thinking about this storm for quite awhile. Every year, we lose classmates. Some don't make it pass the year, some quit. I wasn't close to any of them, but to me, and perhaps, to me alone, knowing about the war that awaits, it feels as though we've lost brothers-in-arms. It is something to mourn, as one drudges through Pathology, trying to memorise the course of pneumonia and identify neoplasms on histology slides. Together with being far from home, and from loved ones, perhaps even the cross of being a traditional Catholic in a former Catholic country has worn me done, and I find myself wondering, what else could I have done?
Medicine has always been my first choice, since I can recall. I've never thought of pursuing anything else, and anything that would potentially upset my chosen career path were instantly abandoned. I fought a long, hard, and bitter battle to finally enter medical school, though, along the way, it has always been suggested that I am not inclined for medicine, given my poor academic history, and perhaps other paths were better than me. Humanities, it had suggested, might have been a better avenue for academic investment. Alas, I am stubborn, very, very stubborn.
Yet, now, my mind drifts longingly back to summer, to that month where I was interning at a kindergarten, the happiest days I had last year. I'd never wanted to wake up and go to school as much as I did in those 4 short weeks. It wasn't just the colleagues who shared interesting conversations over breakfast, but more importantly, it was the chance to work with the little ones. It's no joke, quite a tiring affair, enough though, it's only half a day. These small, precious children, who want to be loved and want to love. They have their own world, which they deign to share with you, but, they appreciate you, and they show it. It is a very simple, yet very profound life.
It is far away, far removed from the complex web of operations that is the hospital. Far from the endless things to remember, the patients to see, the tests to interpret, the integration of many different areas of knowledge. The exhaustion and lack of appreciation from incorrigible patients who will literally die, but very slowly, holding onto poor habits and vices. It does tempt one to wonder, what life would have been down the road of liberal arts? I could be young Thomistic lecturer somewhere, teaching literature, exploring the fascinating world of theology and philosophy. Soaking up culture in the various performances that I could attend, writing books. Though of course, there is hardly a place in the modern university for a Thomist. Or maybe, to do early childhood, and go back to the kindergarten...
It has been a horrible year so far. I broke my heart again, after just fixing it. (It doesn't get the 'never again memo', endured a few health issues, and had work piled on by the dump truck. That said, I don't think I shall remove my self from this career, disturbed for scrubs, and not leisurely suits. There is a deeper calling, it moves stealthily amongst the hardships, pain, and the long nights. It hooks onto your soul, in a soft whisper, reminding, that to love is to suffer.
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