Writer-in-Training
University of Illinois College of Medicine
Karishma is a Class of 2018 medical student at the University of Illinois at Chicago. She majored in English and Psychology at Northwestern University and hopes to go into surgery.
“Hello there,” I thought upon meeting my first patient in medical school. I did not get a response. Not that I was expecting one; my first patient was, as are most medical students’ first patients, a cadaver. She was draped with a bed sheet. Even when we began making the first cuts on her back, we kept her covered from the waist down.
My classmates and professors tell me I overthink it. “You overanalyzed the problem.” “Stop mulling it over.” “Just focus on the buzzwords and you’ll rock the exam.” “Jump through the hoops and move on.”
On the day of my white coat ceremony, I felt like a pretender. I squirmed in the rigid, wooden seat, staring at the gilded columns and towering proscenium of the hall, wondering when I’d be found out. I imagined them calling me to the stage, slipping on the coat, then seeing me in it and saying, “Well, that doesn’t look quite right.”
The nightmare begins like any other. At first, everything seems familiar. But slowly, you realize something is not right — something is out of place. Outside the window, clouds black as night gather, lurching forward like a hurricane. The thunder is so intense you feel the electricity pulsate through your chest. An impending doom consumes your emotions. The room seems to press in on you like some scene from “Alice in Wonderland.” Then the words creep in.
For me, hepatitis B booster shots feel pretty much as pleasant as being sucker punched in the arm. You can imagine that it didn’t inspire much elation when I scrolled through my calendar to see, spelled out in big red letters, a reminder for “Hep B #3.” Now, as I reflect, this reminder feels like a victory of sorts.
When I opened up the gurney for the first time, I expected to be overcome with this profound, epiphanic wave of emotion. I thought this would be one of those slow motion, cinematic, defining moments in my training. I thought I would be solemn. I thought I would be grateful. I thought I would be curious. I wasn’t.
The first year of medical school is deeply rooted in science and facts. During this time, my peers and I endeavor to fill our minds with copious amounts of information about every inch of the human body. When the tests roll around, our task is simple: choose the right answer. When I began medical school, I believed all aspects of the medical profession revolved around this fundamental task.
Looking out and seeing the beautiful colors that surround me, I always used to feel bad for those not able to experience the power of the colors of the world. See, I was born without sight. No ability to distinguish red from white. For the longest time I thought I had missed out on something and I was mad at my creator for not giving me such a blessing.
The cramped section of nursing home floor space reserved for dining held thirteen weary souls, with seemingly no room to spare for conversation or levity. It wasn’t a tense atmosphere, but leaden, as if gravity had taken an interest in the nightly special. It was the kind of heavy silence that swallows the background noises of clattering cutlery, coughing and ringing telephones.
Methods for letting blood out from a patient’s body to cure them of disease were described in ancient Ayurvedic texts from India as early as the 7th century B.C. and the practice was employed by civilizations such as the Mesopotamians, Egyptians and ancient Greeks. This treatment was based on the system of medicine known as ‘humorism,’ which posited that an excess or deficiency in any of the primary bodily fluids directly influenced a person’s health.
“Chuvash polycythemia,” Sue declares. “That’s going in my 30 percent bucket.” We are studying for our upcoming molecular mechanisms test, as part of the semester-long course intended to introduce us to the basic functions of molecules, cells and tissues. In this integrated curriculum, all the names have changed, and the organization of the material is promised to magically improve our comprehension and recollection of such details.
In the pursuit of dreams, we are taught to never lose sight of our goals. It is impossible to accomplish any meaningful ambition without a devotion to discipline and the acceptance personal sacrifice. This creates tunnel vision, which is ideal for reaching a destination, but burdensome for those close to you. It is easy to forget those who hold us up, push us forward and who at the end of the day just say, “I love you, no matter what.”
Medical Student Editor
University of Washington School of Medicine
Eric serves as a medical student editor at in-Training and he attends the University of Washington - Class of 2017. In the past he has worked in EMS and international community health. As for the future, a career caring for the community is in the works. He believes writing is an essential expression of human ideas, passion and intelligence. Eric is a husband and father of three.
