"My journey began in a bathtub. I was four years old, sitting happily in my swim trunks. I was immersed in bubbles, playing with a box full of plastic sea-creatures. In retrospect, it is remarkable that this is my first memory, because I would subsequently spend much of the next eighteen years in a (slightly) larger pool. Some children are terrified of the water, but for me there could not have been anything more natural. Once I learned to swim, I never looked back.
My journey began in an operating room, the summer after my junior year of high school. This memory is as hazy as my first, but not because of my age. I was in more of a trance. As I watched Dr. Pereles from a corner of the room, fully decked out in scrubs, mask, and face shield, I was in complete awe of the man and the trade. I had asked to shadow Dr. Pereles after my sister underwent her second shoulder surgery. Now he was explaining an ACL reconstruction, but the words went in one ear and out the other. As much as I tried to listen, my focus was on the intricacies of the surgery. As before, I did not know this was the beginning of a journey; it would be a while before I realized what it meant.
There is always a high point. Mine was a few months ago at the swim meet against Virginia, Carolina’s biggest rival. The stands were packed (an uncommon event in the swimming world), and the energy was palpable; I just fed off the crowd. I was truly in the zone as everything came together. Three best times, three wins. Carolina was victorious for the first time in ten years. It was the apex of my swimming career. Such are the moments for which an athlete lives.
There is always a high point. Yet again I was standing in a corner, this time a smaller room, made for smaller patients. The patient was one of the smallest of all, a newborn girl. The first-time, single mother held her with a worried expression. There was nothing out of the ordinary, just a routine one-month appointment, but mom was grilling Dr. Coleman. Jenna sneezed. She did not eat as much yesterday. She has a rash. What is wrong, doctor? Dr. Coleman was brisk, but gentle, assuring her that all was well (and yes, we can take care of that rash). But it was that look - her loving, caring, concerned look that prompted me to exhale… “yes”. This time it was the human connection that was palpable, and I think these are the moments for which a physician lives.
For every peak there is a valley, and mine came only a month after the Virginia meet. It was our conference championship, the last races of my college career. As captain, I had spent the last eight months pouring my heart and soul into preparing and motivating my teammates. We were ready, and expectations ran wild for our first chance to win the conference since ‘98. But my own races fell short; it seemed I had nothing in the tank. I barely scraped any points for the team, as my performance spiraled downward over four long days. I felt as though I had let down my teammates, my coaches, and my friends.
For every peak there is a valley, and it happened in the operating room only three days into my six-week surgical internship. Day One I had never been so proud. I worked a twelve hour shift for the first time, learned how to sew, and began my training as Dr. Fullum’s “laparoscopic cameraman.” I had just finished my freshman year of college and I was in the field! Day Two was even longer, and I felt like a machine. On Day Three, I crashed. I felt queasy during our M&M meeting having forgotten to eat breakfast. Halfway through the first scheduled gastric bypass, I was sweating so hard my face shield was opaque with condensation. The room started spinning and I had to excuse myself. What was wrong? I wanted to be a doctor. I felt as though I had let down Dr. Fullum, the residents, and the nurses…
People often ask me, “So, how does it feel to be done?” I smile, because it reminds me of what a great coach once told our team after a loss. He said, “In the end, you won’t remember the races you’ve swum, or how fast you swam. You’ll remember your teammates, because they’ll be the ones who will laugh at your wedding and cry at your funeral. They are your brothers and sisters, your family, and your best friends.” So how does it feel to be done? I wouldn’t know, because I believe my journey has just begun.
This paragraph should be empty, as my medical journey has only just started. However, it is my dream to continue. These vignettes are mini-illustrations; I know the highs will be much higher, and the lows so much lower. But if I have learned anything from swimming, I have learned that you cannot just love the results. You must also love the process in order to be successful. I have learned how to learn, and I wish to do so for the rest of my life. So whether I am in the field as an EMT, or at my lab bench synthesizing new drug analogs, my experiences have taught me that learning never ends. A few years from now, people will hopefully ask me the same question, “How does it feel to be done?” And I believe I will be able to smile in the same way, knowing that my journey has only just begun."
This blog began with jubilation. I wanted to begin this journal of my medical education with its actual starting point: an acceptance. Until I held that letter from Emory in my hand, I was still premed, another college student praying that one day some school would find him worthy to become a physician. Now poised to begin the long journey to an MD, I can only feel excited and hopeful for the years ahead of me.
