Or,
Whether tis nobler to suffer the slings and arrows of outrageous med school, or to take up arms against a sea of troubles and, by dropping out, end them.
Last night, a trio of med students was gathered in a study room, attempting to scale the precipitous slopes of Mount Pharmacology. Frustrated by his lack of progress up the sheer face of that peak, S--- turned to his friend K--- and asked if she ever wondered if med school was worth it. K--- replied that she often wondered if med school is worth it on a global level--whether doctors, as a group, really need to go through this demeaning process in order to become skilled physicians. I think she's got a point, but trying to reimagine the entire medical education and training system is well beyond the scope of this blog. S--- clarified that he meant it in a more personal way. Did she ever wonder if it was worth it for her? K--- said something that I've thought many times: I really look forward to being a doctor, and I think I'll be a good one, but med school sucks. S---, apparently, has more doubts about whether this whole ordeal is worth it. He often wonders whether he will actually reap rewards as great as the magnitude of our current suffering.
Med school is a massive investment--financially, emotionally, time-wise. In the American system, it requires students to give up $200,000+ and four years during the prime of our lives. Med school means a whole lot of dreams get deferred and all your gratification is majorly delayed. We probably won't know for another 20+ years whether our investment paid off. But we still need to be able to reassure ourselves in our dark moments that it is worth it. If there's a possibility that our effort's won't pay off, then maybe shouldn't we be thinking about dropping out to pursue a different dream?
Sometimes, I think about how easy it would be to get some dayjob for which I am ridiculously overqualified. I could earn enough to pay the rent, to pay for food, to pay for a life in which I'm unburdened of the med school stress-albatross. I could have a real social life, have hobbies, could enjoy the cheap, normal things which I love but don't have time for: cooking, reading, writing, art projects. I could work retail, or get some office job. I was a hell of a lot happier being the copy-and-file bitch who hung out with her friends after work and wasn't rich but had no problem paying the bills, than I am being stressed, broke, and lonely.
See? It's easy to start spinning out these alternate scenarios in which life is simpler, easier, happier. But then I remember that I'm already massively in debt. No way could I afford that life anymore, not while also paying off my loans. Not in this economy. So, I stick around. Because I have no other choice.
It sounds a little fatalistic to suggest that anyone should become a doctor out of lack of other options. But it is also true, in a bigger way than might be immediately evident. I thought about all this before I was in prohibitively deep debt. I had a few weeks of mini-crisis before first year started during which I questioned my decision to attend medical school. I wasn't positive this was the right thing for me to do, and I felt it was my last chance to make a clean break--to get out before I got in over my head. I made an active choice then (or was it actually passive? Who knows.) that the MD thing was my only option.
Like many other people out there, I've long had fantasies of becoming a rockstar. True, I'm not a very good singer; I was never going to be the next Kelly Clarkson, or Matthew Bellamy, or even Julian Casablancas. But I am a musician. If I had felt compelled to pursue music in any sort of serious way, I could have. I love music, I love playing, I love performing. My parents would have supported me (I actually think my mom's a little disappointed that I didn't become a profesisonal musician). I've got a bit of talent; certainly enough to make some kind of career in music if I had any real determination. But I wasn't determined. I never joined a band or started one, I never tried to write a single song. I never let myself try because the prospect of failure overpowered my minimal ambition.
It's the same with writing. I love to write, and I have made it a major focus of my academic and personal life. Yet I never wrote for the school paper or did any other resume-building activities. I went out on a limb for my writing a little more often than I did for my music: I entered contests here and there (I never won). I cared enough to risk rejection every once in a while, but I never went the extra mile. I never made a real go of it, never put my theoretical desire to be a Writer to the test.
I am arguably better-suited to being a musician or essayist than I am to being a doctor. I am definitely a better performer and writer than I am a med student. I have some natural talent in music and letters, and I enjoy them a whole lot. On the other hand, I am an organizational disaster with no study skills who gets zero pleasure out of the academic rat race. And yet, I've chosen to attend med school.
Despite the fact that it is, in the short term, so much more challenging, and less rewarding, I have decided to sink huge sums of (borrowed) money and years of my life into the pursuit of an MD. The threat of failure looms large, and the consequences if I fail are gigantic. The simple fact that I persevere in the face of all that must mean that this is what I really want. During those panicky weeks leading up to the start of first year, I had the option to not go to medical school and instead pursue some other career. My parents would have been totally cool with that. I did not get a retail job, though. I did not start taking guitar lessons (my primary instrument, the flute, is not very rock 'n roll), I did not apply for jobs at magazines, or try to get my foot in the door at a publishing house. Instead, I took the path of most resistance. I must have done so because medicine is my truest, strongest ambition. I must have chosen med school because deep down I know that it is worth it.
Right?
Either that, or I'm a masochist.
Still, you can't but help but occasionally get sidetracked down a path of wishful thinking, dreaming of what could have been. In the words of the immortal Skee-Lo, "I wish I was a little bit taller. I wish I was a baller. I wish I had a girl who looked good; I would call her. I wish I had a rabbit in a hat with a bat and a '64 Impala."
