Writer-in-Training
Rowan University School of Osteopathic Medicine
Alison Toback is a third year medical student at Rowan University School of Osteopathic Medicine. Prior to that, she graduated from Drexel University with a BS in Biological Sciences and an MPH with a concentration in Epidemiologiy and Biostatistics. When she isn't studying or running around a hospital, she enjoys spending time with her husband and daughter, knitting, and eating dessert. She has a blog entitled Simply A, where she writes about medicine, motherhood, mental health, and other things that don't start with the letter M.
Congratulations, you’ve started medical school! The dream you have had since you were nine years old is finally coming to fruition. You’re going to be a doctor! Just … not in 2012, when you think you’re going to graduate. In 2018. I’ll get to that later.
My palms were sweaty as I slid on my blue gloves and boot covers, feeling excited and anxious at the same time. “I’ve delivered hundreds of babies,” Dr. Johnson said. “I think I can give you this one.”
The entirety of the third year of medical school is an act. If you want to be a good medical student, you are what your team wants you to be. Amenable, pliant, easygoing — even when inside you are a bitter angry little thing who’s tired of being pushed around.
Given my time constraints as a third-year, I thought that maybe I could change things up — instead of going to an activity to help alleviate stress, I could ask someone older and wiser than me for tips on how to de-stress. And who better to ask for advice than my 79-year-old grandmother?
I first met you at age 13. / You hid behind a / camouflage of naivety.
As a first-generation Singaporean American, I sometimes think about the stark contrast in richness between the age-old historical narratives of Asian countries and those of acculturated Asian Americans.
Monopoly, Risk, Parcheesi — I love them all. Board games have been an integral part of my life since I was young, and I attribute my childish competitiveness to the number of times I was beaten in these games in my childhood.
I slide through the door swung open by the janitor. It closes with a metallic shudder.
And what does it mean now? To be accepted? To be initiated, congratulated and nudged toward a curriculum made jokingly infamous by well-meaning administrators and by a culture which treats such consuming endeavors as medical school like abstract forms of busyness?
As a budding third year just starting out on my clinical rotations, I’ve recently learned the value of a home-cooked meal — there’s only so much take-out Chinese, microwaveable pizza rolls, and leftovers from last week’s lunch that my tastebuds will tolerate. It was only when one of my friends pointed out that it’s been a couple of weeks since I’ve eaten a vegetable that I realized I needed to make changes in my life: specifically, culinary ones.
On the first day of my neonatology elective I met Aaron, a one-day-old infant born to a mother with a history of intravenous drug abuse. The mother was reportedly attending a methadone clinic during her pregnancy to address her opioid addiction, but her urine drug screen was positive for fentanyl.
A sketch from fourth-year medical student Leor Arbel of the University of Central Florida.
Contributing Writer
University of Central Florida College of Medicine
Leor Arbel is a fourth year medical student at the University of Central Florida College of Medicine and a voracious doodler.
