I Think I Love My Knife.

SCALPEL. One word. Two syllables. Tons of action. For years now, I’ve dreamt of saying that very word and all the weight it carries. I’ve dreamt of how I’ll say it. I’ve dreamt of the confidence, the conviction, the tone when I say it. I’ve dreamt of the lives at stake. I’ve dreamt…The donning of the gloves and gown. The Attending and other Residents silently respecting and appreciating my glorious moment. The scrub tech stoically handing me the knife. I’ve dreamt. Since last year, I’ve slowly and begrudgingly been waking up to the reality of what it really means to be in medical school and what it really means to be a future physician.

As you all know, it’s already been a long road. Since last year, things have been even worse for me, even tougher for me. I have multiple theories as to why, but the theory that painstakingly springs forth at the moment? I’m tired. I did the absolute most to get into medical school and haphazardly burned myself out before the true work began. I now find myself reading at a slower pace, taking more time to learn new concepts, drifting during class, and fearing I may wake up from my dream…permanently. Can you imagine? Working almost half your life toward a particular goal? Day in and day out diligently working. Putting in the hours and sacrificing your livelihood, your relationships, and many days, your sanity. I’ve spent all of my 20’s and now into my 30’s working toward this one goal. And still, failed exams, sleepless nights, and barely getting by. I hear comments from my classmates half-jokingly asking what other professions they can acquire with a Bachelor of Science and ¾ of an MD. I sit in the corner and, dare I say it, listen for options. And then there’s the fact I’ve been in the OR…and it wasn’t all that. Perhaps it was the Attending who yelled at me for letting a surgical instrument fall from the table—a gynecologic medieval-looking torture device that came flying at my abdomen. Perhaps it’s the fact that we have to burn flesh (cauterize bleeds) to keep patients alive. Irony. Or perhaps it was the Resident most evil person I’ve met in life who told me not to scrub in because I almost bumped into an array of sterile objects. Or the time I was pushed and shoved around a tiny OR—all the while keeping my hands to chest for sterility sake—as I was made to feel like an inconsequential…well, student. All of this is how I feel as a student. Nothing like what I dreamed. The yelling, the hazing, the rejection, the constant criticism, the tedious paperwork were also things I did not envision. And then there are the days when you have limited human contact. People stop checking on me sometimes. I suppose it’s because it’s hard to relate to my lifestyle. I suppose it’s because people think, “You’re gonna be a doctor. You must have it all together.” Also, do you know how many guys hear “black female physician” and run? “Not only will she have a mouth on her, but she won’t technically even need me to provide?” I once went on a double date where my suitor sat in the kitchen with our mutual friend while I was in the living room. This man asked me a series of questions about my career trajectory and I watched as he and our friend calculated how long it would take me to finish school. He married a teacher.

So why do I get up and med school everyday? Because even though I hate it, I love it. I love the moments when I do get it right, when I do have the answers. I love the moments when I do pass an exam that I worked ridiculously hard to prepare for. I love when my patients leave out better than they came in and I’m able to be apart of their medical team. I love there’s a chance for me to create my own practice where the environment is positive and those around me can learn. I love that I get to handle human life—and in my future practice, two lives at a time—in the most precious, beautiful, and invasive of ways. I love the fact that this dream—oh this dream of mine!—has shown me I’m so much stronger than I ever imagined and that God, even though I get angry at Him for my arduous course, really can do Anything. I hate the yelling, the hazing, the rejection, the constant criticism, the (soon to be even more) tedious paperwork, the failing, the mountain of student loans (the government will repay…only when I’m a doctor), the man-hours. Is it humane to work 24 hour shifts and 12 hour days? But when I think about the parts I love, that somehow keeps me showing up every morning. That somehow keeps me from quitting. That somehow keeps me encouraging others to actually pursue this field. Similar to what Chris Rock said at the end of “I Think I Love My Wife,” I’m just trying to enjoy all the non-success I’m having. Ha! Kidding. That life-saving power. That influence. That God-ordained calling. That dream. And all behind a dispensable, yet significant piece of metal. What can I say? I think…well…I think I love my knife.

xoxo,

Anya