Welcome to Medical School

Medical school. It is serene. It is calming. It is maturing. It is a life lesson.

We have all crammed ourselves into the auditorium for orientation. In the front row, dead center, is the student. Dressed properly. Carrying that aura of I know what I got myself into across his chest, half way between the shirt pocket of the Perry Ellis Portfolio dress shirt and the shiny black leather belt, holding up his pants and adorning itself with his ID. It’s the card he worked so many years for. The one that says MEDICAL STUDENT. His name is emblazon across the bottom, right next to the most mature smile of his life. Learning calculus, learning about photosynthesis, doing that elementary volcano science fair project. They are all now worth it. To be sitting there, knowing that in four years he will be awarded the right to tell every flight attendant that his name is Something Something, MD. What he doesn’t know is that behind him sits the lackadaisical liberal, in flip flops flopping against his heel, shorts, an "I love Greenpeace" t-shirt, and a bicycle helmet attached to his bookbag, which undoubtedly contains The New York Times and the last album released by The Who. Welcome to medical school.

Welcome to that beautiful girl. Yes that one. Single. The one who knows she’s a six in real-life, but it’s only a matter of time before she becomes a ten in the eyes of her classmates. Around her, sit the guys, wishing they went into Wall Street. Wishing they continued their immature futures as young adults. Like their friends. That’s the common thread in medical school, your friends. There are your best friends. There are medical school classmates. And in no time, they all become one. Singular. Absurd you say, but that’s the truth. It’s an experience. It’s an aging process. It’s maturation. It’s self-pride combined with an ounce of self-loathing. It’s an amalgam of joy, fear, and sadness. It’s the life we all chose without knowing.

“Welcome to medical school.” The words I have longed to hear for the last twenty-two years. The dude in the fourth row no doubt waited at least thirty.


To be continued ... I hope.

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