Meddlecine

Medicine misadventures meddling with my life (or vice versa) as a 20-something medical student.

[meddlecine]

Does it matter how you ruined it or just that it's ruined?

[meddlecine]

There is a deep, sinking feeling that I've felt before. One that tells me that you're no good for me, that you'll break my heart, and by staying, I'll be breaking my own.

I just never thought I'd feel it with him.

I should be happy he stayed. But somehow, I think things might've turned out differently if I'd crossed cities and left behind jobs and opportunities in pursuit of him. And maybe that's what scared him. Safer to stay here, because if he breaks my heart, at least I'll be surrounded by familiarity. Lessen the pain. Ease the guilt.

Because to me, this feels inevitable. When you feel like you're not enough, all endings seem inevitable.

After all, how can I not feel inadequate or like I'm not 'enough' when our whole relationship has been laden with out-loud admiration for others' beauty, interspersed with subtle suggestions of watching other women take off their clothes hidden behind humour, and sprinkled with reminders that there is no guarantee for how he will feel about me in the future?

And then I feel like I can only blame myself. You knew the flags were there, you saw them. He was still with his girlfriend when he got in the accident. Still together when we sat flirting at the wine bar. If he acted towards another woman now the way he'd acted towards me then... I would be crushed. I know he loves flirting with other people because he told me. And to me, that feels so deeply disrespectful of the relationship. He told me that he left an ex-girlfriend because he met someone else. This has happened twice now.

So how can I feel safe or secure when I feel like I'm one beautiful woman away from having everything ripped away? One late night with too many Negronis with colleagues after work. The threat of anything going wrong—a natural dip, a downfall moment, an argument—leading to solitude and blissful escape being found with someone who is not me. I am humiliated, desolate, and without the things that I wanted. I feel this deep, all-encompassing pressure to be everything, all the time. Be the best. The most beautiful, the funniest, the most thoughtful, the most charming, the most radiant, the most magnetic, the most impressive, be the one that any guy wishes he could have.

And so can I really be surprised that the tightrope I've been balancing on feels like it's wrapped around my neck?

[meddlecine]

OSCEs.

I sat there in the holding room, head rested back against the soft curve of the chair, eyelids drawn to signal that I was not interested in making any small talk. Truth be told, I could not think of anything worse than feigning politeness and discussing holiday plans for an hour with people I barely knew.

It was the last day of exams. A month of demanding, excruciating, painstaking cramming of knowledge which would culminate into a four assessment pieces. Late night study sessions online with friends, days spent in the park with books and papers sprawled out on picnic rugs, dreams of failing the year by half a percentage point (the exact amount I'd failed my midyear by). I regretted taking on so much extra work, naively thinking I'd catch up at the end of the year.

The only thing that's caught up is the year. With me. The content? No idea where that is, but I can tell you where it's not: my brain.

[meddlecine]

Too good to be true.

All I'd thought about was how perfect this beginning was. A scene straight out of a movie — after years of drifting in and out as acquaintances, you were sitting in a hospital room with a book beside your bed, looking up to see me walking in and greeting you instead. What started as an innocent checking in on a friend turned into nights sharing his bed, waking up to kisses and wishes of une bonne journée, and my heart flipping in my chest when I'd see him. Safe to say I had become absolutely smitten, which could only mean one thing: I was going to get my heart broken.

We meandered along the path that hugged the children's animal farm and wandered down to the river. After a chaotic morning, I felt an overwhelming sense of ease in René's presence. He made me laugh, and his accent washed over me like a sweet dessert wine. My aspiration of renting a rowboat and floating down the river were cut short when the attendant informed us that they'd closed at 4. It seemed like such a shame to let the sun dance off the river without oars piercing through. I spied out of the corner of my eye a garden party gathering, and recognised the girl in the white dress — it was the girl my ex dated just before he and I got together. As in, just before.

I stared for a second before admitting to René that I knew her.

"You should go and say hi!" he said.

I laughed it off, and gave him the very watered down spiel: she's the girl my ex dated just before he and I got together. Things had gotten messy. My ex had lied about how long they'd been broken up for (he told me it was several months. Reality? It was several weeks, at best) and I shared with René that I never would've dated that guy had I known about the short timeline. He prodded me as to why that was, and I told him: because how could they possibly be well and truly over their ex, and ready to date someone new? Wouldn't I simply be a distraction for their pain?

Now, one week later, René was sitting next to me in a dimly lit bar with one hand resting on my thigh and the other swirling a glass of Vermouth. I cosied up to him. It felt good, like things were moving in the right direction. Like things were getting to be more certain: that I was his, and he was mine.

We flirted and laughed and drank and I tried to take as many pictures with my mind as I could. A handful of fries sat in the bowel when he paused and looked down at the bar table top. The mood had changed; he was nervous.

"I have to tell you something," he began, "because of what you said to me last week."

My heart jumped up to my throat. This wasn't going to be good.

"I... actually just got out of a relationship."

I stared at my glass, tracing its edges. Whatever drinks I had drunk that night, their effects were immediately quietened by the surge of panic and adrenaline running through my body. His hand was still on my knee. I suddenly realised that I felt my legs shaking.

He sat there, nervously waiting for my response.

Eventually I built up the courage to say something. "When?", I asked.

He looked away again, "We, um... we were still together when I got in the accident."

My inhale sharpened and caught my lungs. They were still together when he got in the accident. As in... the accident! The same accident where I met him in the hospital room. The same one where he told me later that he'd had this intense, overwhelming, inexplicable desire to hold me when I said goodbye to him in the hospital. All whilst some other girl, somewhere else, was deeply worried about him because he was her boyfriend.

I was gutted.

"But," he looked up, his eyes earnestly staring into mine, "I promise that I didn't consider our coffee that following week as a date, it really was just as friends catching up". His voice insisted that he was being genuine. I believed him.

But what about the night market? The subsequent coffees at the hospital? The wine bar? Oh god, the wine bar. Where I'd dressed up and we'd flirted. The same night that I was convinced that he would kiss me. The same night that I was devastated when he didn't.

"And the wine bar?" I began, "The same week you left back to France?"

He broke eye contact and my heart sank. I already knew the answer.

"We were still together then, yes."

[meddlecine]

How do you know, when you're dating someone new, that you've gone past the point of no return? That is, at what point would you be devastated if they broke things off, or something or someone got in the way of you being together?

He kissed me on the cheek as I lay in his bed. "I just wanted to wish you une bonne journée" he said, giving me one more kiss before leaving to go to work. The mix of French and English made my heart jump and flip and flutter in my chest. I had finally spent the night at René's place and, despite dating for a little bit now, his exquisite tenderness would still catch me off guard, with me expecting that there must be some catch to his thoughtfulness. He is funny, kind, charming, clever, considerate, and I am becoming painfully aware that the more time we spend together, the deeper I'm sinking into this. Which means that if things don't work out, the more it's going to hurt. But I felt at such ease in his company that I couldn't possibly say no to seeing him. I was well and truly in the quicksand.

But this morning, after I'd made the bed, scribbled a note thanking him for last night (on some paper used to wrap up the cheese I got from the market... a 'cheesy note', if you will) and collected my things from his bedroom, I noticed a long, dotted red ribbon hanging from the door. My stomach twisted. Be rational, it's probably nothing. From a gift, maybe? I tried to justify it, but this was a guy who kept his apartment meticulously ordered and organised. Everything was there with purpose. I kept telling myself that it was nothing, but deep down, I knew that it wasn't. I knew, because an ex had done the same thing with ribbons from my hair. This ribbon belonged to a girl. To one for whom he had cared deeply. Or even worse... cared for still.

My heart sank. Maybe I am simply an in-between, a bridge, a bandaid. And that's when I knew: I had already passed the point of no return.

[dailydormer]

[delilahsdawson-deactivated20161]

This philosophy applies to SO MUCH. 

Agents want to love your book. Hiring managers want you to be exactly the person they need. The person on the other end of that blind date is hoping beyond hope that you’re their huckleberry.

[xylanase]

Applies to interviews too!

[worlds-within-worlds]

A+ philosophy.

[thisfuturemd]

This definitely applies to interviews as well! I really like this! Excellent tips.

[md-admissions]

TRUTH. This totally helped lift my spirits and turn on the charm during interviews!

[aprilsaysgo]

This was never emphasized enough during undergrad. They’re on your side! They want the process to be easy!

[insert-ridiculously-long-url]

That is the most motivating thing that I have come across my entire life.

[meddlecine]

As 2024 comes to a close... maybe something to keep in mind for 2025. :)

[meddlecine]

Trauma call.

Content warning: this post discusses suicide.

I stood nervously in the corner of the trauma bay, a giant sticker spelling 'observer' plastered across my chest. Friday night in the emergency department. I'd been in the ED for one week now, and had so far successfully avoided being mistaken for someone who actually knows what they're doing. Can I perform different clinical exams? Sure. Can I interpret the signs and make a diagnosis? Absolutely not. Sprinkle in an emergency and life-threatening situation and you have yourself a one-way ticket to heaven (or hell), my friend. Heaven for the patient, hell for me, that is.

"Trauma call arriving," someone began, "35 year old male 'AJ' jumped off a 15 meter bridge, attempted suicide. Airway patent, he's hypotensive and tachycardic, we've so far administered..." they continued to list off his vitals and the intervention and pain relief he'd had so far. How can anyone possibly take in all of this information and then figure out what to do with it? These scenarios were far more fast-paced than the cruisey, hand-held 'simulations' we undertook in the pretend ward room. There, we had the luxury of time (and knowing we couldn't really kill anyone): we could pause, think, take time to discuss, backtrack if we needed to. Here? Not anymore. This was a real person, with real time constraints, and very real injuries. I found myself taking a small shuffle back. The trauma bay was filling up with people far more qualified than me, and I was becoming very aware that I was taking up valuable space. Here to learn? Yes. But right now, my priority was staying well out of the way.

I mentally snapped myself back into the room as the staff held AJ's head firmly in place in the C-spine collar, discussing his airway and options for resuscitation.

"Don't worry about my airway! Just let me die!" he cried out. I bit my lip. This guy was just a few years older than me. He kept echoing his desperation to die, how he didn't need to be resuscitated, how he just didn't want to exist. "Life is shit, I want to die, life is shit, life is shit," he kept repeating over, and over, and over. The pain in his voice was haunting. I can still hear it to this day.

"We're not going to let you die, mate, we're not going to do that" someone said, gently rubbing his shoulder, "we're here to help you."

From my corner in the trauma bay, I looked at AJ and felt a mixture of confusion and surprise. I guess I thought that someone who jumped off such a height would look... worse? That they'd be deformed or 'obviously' injured in some way. AJ looked distressed, of course, but had no cuts, bruises, or obvious bleeds. But that didn't mean that there wasn't damage to his internal organs.

Once the trauma team had been through their ABCDE (a protocol used in emergencies to help stabilise a patient), AJ was sedated and wheeled off to imaging to work out the extent of his internal injuries. I stood outside the CT room with the surgical team, who were making the value of their time known with constant sighs and ongoing running commentary. I dared not ask any questions about the body parts appearing on the screen.

"Oh my god, why are they so obsessed with the lower limbs?" one surgeon complained as the radiographers moved the images across the legs, "Just show us what's going on in the abdomen already!" Their exasperated comments, unsurprisingly, did precisely nothing to speed up the process. A few more minutes passed, their impatience rising like hot steam (which was almost coming out of his ears at this point). "We just need to know if we need to take him to theatre or not. This is taking f o r e v e r" he growled, rubbing his temples. Eventually, to the satisfaction of the very impatient doctors, they got the all clear that there was no internal bleeding. The surgical team scurried off into the night, just as quickly as they appeared.

Shockingly (and surprisingly), AJ had sustained just two fractures: one in his back, and one in his leg. He'd make a good recovery. But his ankle was dislocated and would need to be popped back into place.

"You're the med student, yeah?" a voice asked. I looked up.

"I, um, yeah I am..." I hesitantly began.

"Want to put that ankle back into place?" he asked. I grinned. I followed the doctor back down to the trauma bay and he showed me how to hold the big toe and lift it up, explaining that he'd help hold other parts of AJ's leg to keep everything in place.

"Alright, on 3" he started counting. One, two... I braced myself and tightened my grip on AJ's toe, "three!". I yanked the two up whilst the registrar held his leg in place. No pop. No crack. Nothing. Was I not strong enough? (I should go to the gym more, I've been saying...)

"Did it work?" I asked.

"Great job," he said, "You got it."

Z, I learned his name, was a kind emergency registrar who took me under his wing that evening, "I figure if you're here at," he glanced at his watch, "midnight on a Friday night, you're probably pretty keen and interested." He was mostly right. It's true, I had been looking forward to my emergency rotation all year; partly because it's where all the 'action' is, and also because I could attend placement at hours that were far more accustomed to my body clock. A midnight shift? You got it. 7am ward rounds for surgery rotations? Torture.

I followed Z around, and he'd send me off to patients to grab a quick history and listen to me as I presented back to him. Any opportunity to teach, he'd take. As a student, when you find doctors like this, you stick to them like toffee in your hair. It was almost 1am and we'd decided to go and see one more patient together before I headed home.

JR was a middle-aged woman who'd come in with abdominal pain and feeling terribly poorly. I watched with curiosity as Z took the reins, crouching down by the patient's chair and listening with a genuine curiosity that I'd not yet seen in the emergency department. He'd ticked off all of the standard questions: when did it start, what does it feel like, how bad is the pain, have you noticed anything else, etc. That's where, so far, most people had stopped. But Z kept chatting with her.

"Who's at home with you?" he asked her.

"Just my son and I," she replied, "My husband is fly-in, fly-out... I only see him every 6 weeks." Z nodded in a way that suggested he genuinely cared about JR's answers. She took a deep breath and paused.

"Plus my son is special needs," she added quietly, taking another deep breath.

"That must be really hard," Z gently responded. JR nodded, twisting a tissue in between her fingers. "How have things been lately?"

JR began sobbing.

She'd had a workplace incident, was suffering psychologically, and was now struggling to care for her son. JR came in with abdominal pain, but clearly had so much else going on. Z's kindness, compassion, and empathy was so terribly moving. Did his consult take a few extra minutes? Of course it did. Was it directly relevant to the abdominal pain? Not necessarily. But both myself and this lady knew that it was because Z deeply cared about his patients. It was clear that he gained a beautiful insight into his patients' lives, even if he might never see them again, and could shape their care in a way that's beyond just the 'presenting complaint'. JR expressed her profound gratitude for Z's time and comfort. I told myself in that moment to never, ever, just see the presenting complaint.

As for AJ and the trauma call? Well, it's been a few months since this night took place. He got the help that he needs and is doing remarkably well, and is so, so grateful to be alive.

In the end, it all comes down to treating the whole patient.

[meddlecine]

French boys are the best medicine.

René and I got coffee the week after we bumped into each other at the hospital. He was funny, charming, and I learned more about him in those two hours than I had in the seven years that we'd known each other. At some point in our chat, he pulled out a small container from his pocket and admitted that he brought me something. (A ring? Haha, just kidding. That's second date material, obviously.)

The sweet Frenchman had brought me a small box of home-made cookies. I was touched but felt unbelievably guilty. The poor thing had no idea that I was deathly allergic to gluten (well, not deathly, but if I ate them I'd be guaranteed to be vomiting them up in no time). I bit my lip and thanked him, before admitting that as much as I'd love to eat them, I'd have to devastatingly decline. But his small kind gesture left me puzzled. Was this a date? Do friends bring friends that they've not seen one-on-one a small box of treats? Or, does this give off hints of romantic interest? Maybe it's a French thing. Although, none of the European boys I'd dated before had ever brought me things unless... unless there was romantic interest.

Well, I've seen him a few times now, and the more time we spend together, the more I'm convinced that he's interested (although whether it's genuine interest or just playful flirty interest I'm still trying to figure out). We hit the night market for wine and cheese, and last week we went out for drinks at a cosy and romantic wine bar. He outright said that some of his messages were him flirting with me, much to my delight. But now he isn't even in the country, and is instead back in France visiting his family for the first time in almost 5 years. I thought I might've gotten a kiss goodbye before his departure, but we got to the end of our date (I'm going to call it a date, because I'm pretty sure that's what it is) and after sitting and chatting in my car for almost an hour... it was a smile goodbye from both of our ends. I drove home disappointed that after such a promising evening, this was the note it ended on. He told me he'd be at the hospital a few days later for his final appointment before flying home for the month, and that he'd love to see me.

"Want me to bring you a coffee while you wait for your appointment? Or should we just hang out after?" I messaged him. Wasting no time at all, he said he'd be very happy to have a coffee now as he waited. "As long as it doesn't interfere with your doctor duties!" he insisted. Fortunately, being a medical student, my doctor duties are of little to no importance. And even better, today I had precisely none.

I turn up to the patient waiting area with a latte in one hand, and a long black in the other. Two days ago, post-no-kiss-at-end-of-date-disappointment, I wondered whether I did really like him or whether it was just the fact that he was handsome, smart, funny, and French. To be honest, it was probably a way of rationalising myself out of any disappointment. But when I spot René sitting there, absorbed in a book and oblivious to the fact that I was at the end of the room... I knew I couldn't rationalise my way out of this one. I had a major crush.

[meddlecine]

Broken arm, mended heart?

I protested my alarm for the 4th time that morning. I'm not made for these hours, I grumbled as I rolled over, promising myself that just a few more minutes would make all the difference (not that it ever has, but it never stops me from trying). I hadn't been to rounds all week, my 'morning brain' easily convincing me that I needed more sleep, and my being easily deterred for the team's lack of enthusiasm for having med students following them around. Still, I knew that I learned best (and at least learned something) when I turned up. "We should go, right?" I text the other med student on the team. "Yeah... probably," he replied. Accountability. I looked at the time... 5:40am. Shoot, I was going to be late.

I pulled into the carpark with 2 minutes to spare before rounds kicked off. I'd been late enough times to know that there was no way I could park, make my way through the corridors and up the elevator in time to reach the office before everyone left, so I decided to hedge my bets at running into them on the wards. Trauma rounds were the Goldilocks of rounds: not as fast as surgery (where we zipped from patient to patient with barely enough time to read the notes), but not nearly as slow as general medicine, a specialty infamous for its 4+ hour rounds. I raced over to the 5th floor ward, and figured the least I could do would be to print off the handover sheet which listed out a brief summary of each patient we'd be seeing that morning. Weary eyed and still waking up, I plopped myself on the chair in the area reserved for the doctors and logged on. My eyes began to glaze down the list of names when I suddenly inhaled sharply and my eyes widened in panic. I know that name. Oh my god, I know that name. I hesitantly hovered the mouse over his name. 'Cyclist versus vehicle, broken arm' the note read. My heart was racing. Is that him? Maybe it's not. Maybe it's just someone with the same name. I looked at the date of birth. December. He always held his birthday parties in December... it must be him. I printed the list and anxiously waited for the trauma team.

After finally catching the team, I nervously made my way from room to room. We'd been rounding for over an hour and still hadn't made our way to the guy I knew. I confided in the other med student that I knew someone on the list—what was I meant to do? Was I meant to hang back? It wasn't a sensitive reason for admission. We agreed it should be okay for me to say hi, but after, I'd step out of the room for the consult. Of course, both times we went to his room, he was in the shower. We made our way up to the 7th floor, and I clocked that we were on our way to the café to get coffee, a ritual signalling the end of the round. Normally this was my favourite part of the morning. But this time, I felt a pang in my stomach and realised that what I was feeling was disappointment.

I left the post-rounds coffee chat as soon as I could and hurriedly made my way down the flights of stairs to his room. I knocked on the door, "Coucou!" I sang a little French greeting as I walked in. My warm welcome was met with a look of confusion. He had no idea who I was, and I felt myself panic as I realised that maybe this wasn't a good idea after all. Sitting on a chair with his arm held up by a black sling, he was suddenly being spoken to in his native language by someone in an N95 mask and bright purple hospital scrubs. Of course, I'd be the last person he'd be expecting to see. We hadn't spoken in months, and I hadn't seen him in maybe two or even three years, except for once briefly bumping into him on the street. He didn't even know that I was at this hospital, let alone on the team looking after him. I pulled down my mask for a second and smiled, hoping that recognising me would bring some comfort. His face lit up in response. "No way!" he beamed back at me. I sat down on his bed opposite him, and we began chatting as if no time had passed at all.

René and I first met seven years ago, when he and his girlfriend had moved from Paris to my city to complete the final six months of their Masters degrees. I'd been put in touch with his girlfriend through a friend of a friend, and had promised to show her around and welcome her. She and I quickly hit it off, staying in touch even after she moved back home at the end of their stay. Her and René's return to France culminated in the end of their relationship, and within a year, René had moved back to Australia. Not expecting to stay in touch, I surprisingly learned of his return to the land down under after receiving an invitation to a house party he was hosting. He was the only person I knew, but I figured it would be a great way to meet new people. It was the first of several of his parties that I'd attend, with me always excited to meet new French people. I'd never catch René for more than a minute or so (just a hello and an introduction to some of his friends) which never surprised me. He was the host, and an elusive one at that. He would either be welcoming guests, tearing it up on the dance floor, or mixing up a concoction of drinks behind the bar. My time at his parties were spent mixing and mingling with his friends, which never troubled me. Now he was sitting topless in front of me in a hospital room, our first proper one-on-one conversation, and it felt like I was seeing him properly for the first time. He had kind eyes and a certain charm about him that only French men seem to possess, and I knew at that moment that I was in trouble.

"Can I get you anything? What about a coffee?" I offered him. He insisted he was OK and that he was simply happy to have my company. I felt guilty. René had been sitting without a shirt on this entire time, and I noticed straight away that he was very toned, and very tanned. I remembered him as being good looking, but I'd forgotten just how handsome he was. His dark hair was disheveled and his face framed perfectly with his glasses. He had a book on his bedside table with a jug of water, his belongings scattered out in a blue plastic emergency bag on the floor. I felt myself being uncharacteristically shy, like I was caught off guard by a high school crush. In a bid to maintain some sort of professionalism, I kept our conversation going with the strictest eye contact I'd ever maintained in my entire life—a true challenge for me, given that my eyes tend to wander around the room and up into the sky with my thoughts. To make matters worse, a few minutes into our conversation, I realised with a deep sense of horror that I didn't know if he even had shorts on. He could've just been sitting in his underwear. I was mortified. Finally, he asked if I knew whether he was allowed to go downstairs to the cafeteria at some point. I leapt into action and said I'd check with his nurse, knowing that I could use this as an opportunity to check just how clothed he was when I came back in. (He was in shorts, thank goodness.) He'd put his jumper on, and I offered to help him with his sling. After one workshop on putting on slings, it turns out I'd retained close to nothing. I tried to put it on backwards, and handed responsibility over to René who'd been shown the previous day how to use the sling. Any expectations he had about me being a good med student were surely dissolved by now.

"So when do you think you'll be going home?" I asked, wanting to shift the focus away from my dismal attempt of helping him put on his sling.

"Well, I think today... I'm just waiting to get one more X-ray to check everything," he replied with his perfect French accent. "When I'm out though, we should finally get that coffee we've always been talking about."

To be continued...

[meddlecine]

Fixing broken hearts in med school.

The hardest part about med school hasn’t been med school itself. (Although, I’m scrunching my eyebrows up as I write this, so maybe that’s not entirely true).  The hardest part about med school has been having a boyfriend.  Maybe that’s why I don’t have one anymore.

I moved out of our apartment in January, just one week before starting my second year of medical school. We agreed that me moving out would be best for the relationship. He would take over the lease, and I wouldn’t have to worry so much about money. Up until that point, I felt like I’d tried everything, from dyeing my soul every colour under the sun in the hope that he would fall back in love with just one shade. I tried, I really, really did. But the exhaustion from meticulously choosing every word and placating my tone in the anticipation of the next thing to go wrong, was unlike anything else. He wasn’t being rude, he insisted, just being honest. And if I couldn’t take it, then that was my problem.  I’d been seeing a psychologist, who eventually, after many sessions, shared that she couldn’t believe how much effort I was putting into this sinking ship. She suggested couples’ counselling. He refused.

Had it been going on for some time? Of course it had, but there was never a ‘good’ time to end things (is there ever?). What a laughable concept! “I’m a little busy this week, maybe we can break up next Thursday at 7pm?” To make matters worse and prolong the inevitable even further, I was always determined that there was something that I hadn’t tried yet. It didn’t matter though, because it kept happening over, and over, and over. No matter what I tried to change about myself, nothing worked. Not even the happiest of occasions could blunt the edge I was skating on: I was a bridesmaid for my best friend from school, and felt more alive and glowing than I had in months. But despite every determination to keep the makeup pristine, I couldn’t help let a few tears slip during the ceremony. The vows were beautiful, it’s true, but I think that part of me was quietly grieving as I grew to understand that the guy attending that wedding with me would never, ever love me in the same unconditional way that the groom loves my best friend. And I knew that he would never want to try, because he told me so. It didn’t matter how beautiful I looked that day on the outside. On the inside, I couldn’t help but feel my heart sink as it caught up to my head.

My spirit and self-esteem had been slowly pushed further and further into the ground to the point that I believed that maybe he was right. Maybe I am difficult, and stubborn, and dismissive, and unappreciative. In desperation, I reached out to an old ex of mine, a gorgeous Parisian lawyer who was always kind, honest, and made me laugh. He admitted that although it’d been a long time since we were together, there was no reason to ever justify such outbursts of anger, and assured me that I wasn’t any of those things that I’d listed above. “But of course, you’re not perfect!” he added. I smiled and raised my eyebrows at the message, grateful for his candour, all the while thinking that I probably could’ve done without the last comment. It’s a shame things never worked out with him; I can only assume he is happy with his life in France, as he very much deserves, but he at least serves as a sobering reminder for how I should be treated. I paused and cast my mind back. Our time together is a memory long gone now, but I still remember enough to know that I missed how I felt when we were together: calm, safe, my cheeks often aching from laughing at his quick wit. All things that I didn’t have now. His one small message of kindness after all these years made me realise how miserable I really was.

Because, when I thought about it... could I survive the next 3 years of medical school, plus my training with chaotically unpredictable ups and downs? I’d heard that medicine puts a strain on your relationships, but with or without med school, I don’t think I could survive this. Just a week prior, only a few days before my final exams for the year, we’d had a fight. Another one. No matter my attempts of resolution, they were met with jagged stares of contempt and crushing silence, and so finally, after three days of drowning in an ocean of anxiety, I pleaded for some kind of resolve. I couldn’t eat, sleep, or study from the stress-induced migraines, and was a complete mess at the idea that I would lose my relationship and fail my exams. “So it’s my fault if you fail your exams?” he scoffed. He told me to get over it. I patched things up as best as I could, determined to not let someone who could be so indifferent towards my feelings be my downfall. Miraculously, I passed my exams. But I knew that next time I might not be so lucky.

Moving out bought me one more month.  It sucks, but everything was clearly crumbling around me.  It wasn’t all bad—no one gets into a relationship with someone who’s like this at the start. There were many wonderful, fun, whimsical moments in the years we were together, and the guy I left isn’t the guy I first met.  In the end we just...  weren’t the right fit for each other.  So, I may be alone now, but I’m okay with that. For now, I love talking to the patients and hearing their stories, and I love seeing someone’s eyes light up when I ask them how they met the love of their life.

Hopefully one day I’ll get to share mine.

[fencingthings]

Academic validation is a drug and I am HIGH

[meddlecine]

So, about that blogging thing...

Hilariously (fittingly? shamefully?) I have not touched a journal nor have my fingers clacked away on a keyboard for my blog about med school since, well... the beginning of the year. This year’s goal? Document my med school journey in exquisite, nay, excruciating detail. Recreate it all for the reader! Do it for yourself! Remember it all!

Now that week 1 has passed (back in January) I’m pleased to inform you of my most recent blog update: graduating the year. Yep, clearly the daily/weekly med school adventure blog went extremely well. If anything, though, it sums up the year a little bit. In the beginning of the year, I thought this was all tooooootally manageable.

Ah, the beginning of the year. I’ll be so organised! I’d tried to convince myself. Medicine is manageable if you just make for the time for it. Oh my, so young. So naive! So full of hope!

And yet... today I got the email confirming that I had passed all of my first year exams. I’ve done it!

How? Well, to be honest... barely.

In hindsight, this year was ROUGH.

Just before starting med school, I’d gotten appendicitis. Then my grandpa, with whom I was extremely close, passed away. My job (who I’d convinced I could keep up with, sin problema) doubled—nay, tripled—the workload despite me cutting my hours in half. I failed my mid year exams. When recovering from surgery, I got COVID, and as a result, missed 5 weeks of my 2nd semester.

Walk in the park, right?

And yet, miraculously, (dazzled with a few tears and “I’m going to *sniffs* fail *sniffs* and have to *blows nose* repeat the whole year again!”)... I passed. It sounds like a dramatic proclamation, but to be honest, it wasn’t far off. Having failed one of the mid-year exams, the end of year situation was looking to be on verrrrrry thin ice. No matter what class I sat in I just felt like everyone knew more than me. Quite the humbling moment going from being the top of your class and colleagues to... the bottom. The pits. The dungeon! The silly corner. I felt like I’d turned up to a party where everyone got the memo about the fancy dress except for me. I was plain, boring, and unprepared.

The week before my final exams, my boyfriend and I had a huge fight. Again. He didn’t talk to me for 3 days—despite the fact that we live together—and in my distress, I couldn’t eat, nor concentrate on my studies. My stress migraines launched like rockets and I lay in bed in desperation. Desperate for an apology, or for a shot of inspiration to bring me back to life and get me back into the books.

Despite all of this, I still made it.

I won’t lie, it was tough. I quit my job, and have shifted to tutoring instead. I set my own hours and get paid more per hour (plus it’s way less stressful), but obviously less secure than a job with a company. But, it meant that I could dedicate far more time to my studies. I missed weddings, and parties, and weekends. Sundays were spent between tutoring and studying clinical skills with my study group.

But now, I can say it was worth it. I passed! Bring on second year!

[meddlecine]

You haven’t studied, and it shows.

“What caused the jaundiced appearance in the patient?” the consultant asked expectantly of me.

“Errrr,” I paused, trying to give off an air that I had at least one piece of relevant information inside my head. The 5 other med students in my group stared nervously at me, probably grateful that they weren't being asked this question themselves. Or maybe they were nervous that I couldn’t answer such a simple question.

I looked up towards the ceiling as if that’s where the answer would be. (Spoiler alert: it wasn’t.) An uncomfortable amount of time had passed in silence, and disappointingly, the answer still hadn’t magically appeared in my mind. Eventually, I looked back at the consultant and muttered, “I’m not sure, sorry,” as if he didn’t already know that I had absolutely zero idea.

Without any acknowledgement, he fired out the next student’s name. “Right, Oliver, what’s the answer?”

“Excess bilirubin,” Oliver confidently answered without missing a beat. Damnit. I did know that one.

The cycle of questions continued over and over and over, the consultant either being so skilled at hiding his disappointment in my lack of ability to answer a single question today, or, he simply did not care. For weeks now I’d been prioritising my job and clients over my studies, and today, it showed.

We headed back to the elevator. “One last one for today,” he began. Oh gosh. Here we go. “What food is high in potassium?”, he asked. Finally, something I could answer.

“Bananas!” I spat out, beaming with pride that I could show that I had a glimpse of knowledge. Still counts as a win, right?

But... lesson learned. So, here’s a question that you can all answer. How should you never, ever turn up to the wards?

I’ll tell you: completely unprepared. 

Take it from someone who just spent the whole day feeling woefully out of her depth. Let’s hope that I manage to get my act together before our next placement day...!

[meddlecine]

Week 1, done!

Hoooooo boy. Week 1 of med school is done, baby!

(Only 200ish weeks to go... Plus training. No big deal 😂)

And what a week it’s been!!

The night before my first day I couldn’t sleep. A chaotic mix of nerves, excitement, and feeling like I’m cluelessly walking into something.  It was 1:30am by the time I finally made it into bed—knowing what a sloth I am in the mornings, I wasn’t leaving any task to my morning self.  Clothes picked and laid out?  Check.  Snacks packed? Check. Bag sorted? Check. I excitedly glanced at my stethoscope case sitting in my cupboard, wishing that I needed to take it to my first week of med school.  Patience, girl. Patience!

6:15am and my alarm buzzed, stirring a very groggy and very nervous self into reality. Day 1 is here. Day 1 is here! Had I slept? Not really. Was I going to drink too much coffee today? Perhaps. Were the coffee and adrenaline going to make me an overexcited bundle of energy? ...It’s a strong possibility. (But I am totally here for it!)

I flew out the door (being on time is not my strong suit) on my way to grab coffee with a few new classmates. There’s a bunch of us coming to med school ‘later’ in life (i.e. not straight out of undergrad/pre-med) and we’d met up this past weekend so we all knew someone on the first day.  There’s a REAL collection of characters—and I’ll get to them at some point, because I find the characters in med school so far absolutely fascinating. Anyway. On my way! Well, naturally, I took the wrong tram, and when it should’ve turned right, it turned left. Shit, shit, shit, I was going to be late! I jumped off at the next possible stop and awkwardly switched between a fast-paced walk and a light jog (mainly because I’m so unfit) with my bag plopping around and lunchbag swinging on my arms.  It’s summer here, and it was already hot. So... looks like I’ll be turning up to day 1 a certified hot, sweaty mess.

I got to coffee with the other group of girls just in time, and we walked up to the lecture theatre together. More familiar faces! More friends! I was glad to have a friend I knew from a previous course, although a little nervous as they can be pretty, well... assertive and, I guess kind of intense at times. I stood there mentally crossing my fingers, hoping that my new friends and old friend would all get along. (So far, so good).

Before we knew it, we were sitting in a poorly-ventilated hall with over 300 students. Yep. In the middle of a pandemic. Some students weren’t wearing their masks (hello! Aren’t you medical students?! Shouldn’t you know better?). No surprise that throughout the week we got a bunch of emails notifying us of positive COVID cases in our cohort. I’ve dodged COVID for this long. Ironic if medical school is my downfall.

But for a moment, I got to forget all of this as giant, bold writing proudly beamed up onto the screen: “Welcome MD Class of 2025″.

We’re gonna be doctors!!!

[meddlecine]

Having a moment.

I’ve just had a moment. I’m half an hour into an anatomy lecture, trying to make sense of the cadaveric images and CT scans on the screen (which so far, is me pausing every few moments and scribbling over screenshots) when I let go of my pencil and let it hit the desk.

Because right in that moment... it hit me.

I’m actually studying medicine.

Pinch me, pinch me, pinch me!

[meddlecine]

My future in an email.

After 5 GAMSATs, 2 undergraduate degrees, 2 overseas moves, and 3 career changes, I sat staring at my computer frantically refreshing my inbox in the hopes of receiving a life-changing email. It had been 2 hours since other aspiring hopefuls had started receiving their offers, or the cruelly dreaded EoD (email of death). I refreshed my inbox again and... nothing.  I crinkled my eyebrows down and let out a big, dramatic sigh. I guess the good news was that I hadn’t gotten rejected yet, but... I also hadn’t gotten in anywhere either.

The longer it went on, the more scattered I felt. Maybe I didn’t submit my application properly? Maybe I didn’t get in anywhere, and I was going to get my rejection email right as others were getting their champagne-popping-worthy messages instead. It looked like the offers were being released in batches. School 1 at 10am, school 2 and 10:32am, school 3 at 11:04am, and so on.  My lowest preference school had already released their offers, and I’d gotten nothing. I crossed my fingers, telling myself that this could be good news. After all, it might mean that I get an offer for a school higher up on my preference list!

My 5th school came out... 4th preferenced school... 3rd... and still nothing.  And oooooh golly did the stakes feel like they were getting hotter and higher with each passing moment. My 2nd preference released their offers... nothing. Oh my god, this means it’s all nothing. It’s all or nothing now.

Two hours later, it arrived. The sender? My first preference. Subject? “Outcome”. That can’t be good, right? ‘Outcome’ is the signal to let you know that you made it this far, but not quite far enough. I didn’t care. I just wanted an answer—heck, needed—an answer for it to be over with. Applications had started 6 months earlier and this meant that I could finally plan some part of my life—if I didn’t get in, maybe I’d go live overseas for a while again? I’d always liked the idea of London. Yes, that would do! Med school, or London. Med school, or London. I practically chanted this phrase over and over to remind myself that if I didn’t get in, this was not the end. It’s just a ‘not yet’.

Breath held, I clicked on the email as fast as I could move my fingers. My heart thumped and eyes darted around the screen like a kid storming around the room after an afternoon of sugar and red cordial. I could barely concentrate or register a single word in the email.

It didn’t matter. I saw the one word that I needed to: “Congratulations”.

That was 3 months ago, and tomorrow, I start my first day of med school as a woman in her late 20′s. Let’s see what kind of mischief I’m getting myself into!