I survived boards!
To sum it up as concisely as possible, preparing for my Step 1 exam was like diving into the ocean, and I ended up going for a longer swim than I anticipated. Long story short, I took boards in September instead of during the summer, which is partly why I’ve been away from blogging for so long.
I also wasn’t sure where to start writing again. Which is why this post if being written in December, long past the reasonable timeframe for using my I’M-STUDYING-FOR-BOARDS-AND-CAN’T-WRITE excusplanation (my latest neologism: a cross between an excuse and an explanation. I coined it specifically for this post). 🙂
Since I’ve taken time off for research before starting my clinical rotations, I had the flexibility to extend my study period, and that’s what I ultimately did. For some reason, saying I took additional time almost feels like a confession. I suppose part of me feels a little guilty for having the opportunity to study longer (other med students may not have schedules that are so accommodating), and part of me wonders if I should’ve felt ready sooner. However, a friend passed on some advice from his sister (a medical resident) that helped to ease my decision: take the time you need, and take the exam when you feel ready. It’s okay not to rush it.
I think it’s unlikely that any student ever feels completely ready for boards, but at least it’s possible to feel that we’ve done everything we can with the time and resources each of us have. For me, this was the right choice even if it did mean doing a lot of swimming and diving (figuratively speaking, of course, since my real-life water skills fall into the category of barely-good-enough-to-not-drown).
I finally came up for air after my full day at the Prometric testing center, only to realize that life was waiting for me above water like a clamoring flock of seagulls. To be honest, part of me wanted to just go back into the water and turn into a mermaid. Over the last several years, the life of studying (for college, the MCAT, med school, and finally Step 1) has become a familiar ebb and flow around me, and it’s comfortable in its own odd way.
Well, I guess it’s time to get pushed out of that comfort zone. I’m done with my preclinical years, and there will be no more quarters to define the pace of my life, or daily lectures and midterms, or labs where curiously-shaped cells make faces at me through the microscope lens.
Now I’m gearing up for my clinical years. I still have a few months to prepare myself, but it’s daunting for me to think about functioning as part of the medical team. I’ve had opportunities to participate with patients throughout the first two years of medical school, but it was always briefly, as if our interaction were a haiku of three lines instead of an essay of three hundred. I’ll still have supervision and guidance, but my responsibilities and expectations will be greater, including the expectations I place upon myself.
One thing I’ve been thinking about is how to connect with people on a personal level, because that is important to me. Sometimes medicine can feel very mechanized, and with the pressures of being a clinical student, I can see myself losing sight of the more ephemeral aspects–the very things that make this pursuit worthwhile. I’m worried that in trying to navigate wards and find my way around, I’ll lose some of myself.
And maybe I will for a little while, as I try to orient to the life of a clinical student with its early hours (on some rotations) or intense schedules (on others). But I also have faith that I’ll be able to find myself again if I do. Beneath my white coat (which still feels like a costume when I wear it), I’m an artist and a writer. That, I think, will help me find my way home to what I care about: the story, the healing art of listening, the release of telling, the feeling of having been seen and understood. That’s my hope, at least.
I was surprised by a rain shower today as I left a meeting at the hospital. I found some leaves with pearlescent water droplets reflecting the diffuse light, and the constellation of spheres made me think of a universe in miniature. Maybe this is what souls look like, with droplets of memory and experience coalescing to reflect the light and shadow of who we are inside?
My imagination is getting the best of me.
But I like to think that if each droplet were a little world of its own, and if I were as small as an ant, I’d be able to see and appreciate each one. And when we meet people, that’s really what we do, isn’t it?
Each of us has our oceans, and each of us is a universe of our own.