From the more serious, such as Long Walk to Freedom and Open, to the more light-hearted, such as Bitter is the New Black and Bossypants, I find these life reflections educational, inspiring, and entertaining. At various points, I can usually relate to some feeling or perspective that the author has written about, though I am not the president of South Africa, a professional athlete, a sharp-witted acerbic published author, or a television and movie star. I suspect the success of these writings depends on the ability of the general public to relate to them as well on some level.
I turned 45 the other day. It was around this time that I started reading my latest memoir "In Stitches" by Anthony Youn. I could say that it was because it was my birthday and I was in a reflective mood that I found this memoir more poignant than most. However, this particular memoir is about an American individual born of Korean immigrant parents who grows up in a Caucasian small town and goes on to become a doctor. Did I mention that my parents were Korean immigrants, that I grew up in a Caucasian small town, and that I'm a doctor? Even his parents' background story, poor farm boy meets beautiful daughter of an educator, is the same. Yep -- my father grew up on a farm, my mother grew up in Seoul, and my grandmother was a teacher. I can't decide if the similarities between our lives are uncanny or cliched. Either way, it was a bit unnerving.
As a start to my lazy birthday morning, I rolled over and picked up the book from my nightstand, reading where I left off from the night before: Tony begins medical school. As I read about his first days of school, I did something I very rarely do these days. I began remembering. Especially since my children were born almost 5 years ago, reminiscing has taken the farthest of back seats in my mind. There are meals to make, parties and play dates to schedule, classes and lessons to attend, and many happy new memories to create with my beautiful children. Looking back at my life experiences is not a big priority these days. Honestly, I just don't have the mindshare for it.
But on this particular day, Dr. Youn's memoir with its uncanny parallels of my own life's course was too overwhelming to ignore. Despite myself, I started remembering my past. Like young Tony, I remembered the anxieties and insecurities of my early medical career, glossed over all too often by embarrassing bouts of false bravado and drunken debauchery performed by both myself and my fellow neurotic classmates. There were the obvious kiss-ass students whom Tony refers to as "gunners" in his book; we called them "squids". I remember the intense studying and test-taking stress especially surrounding the first part of the National Boards. It was a grueling examination, just as Tony describes in his book. Every few years a medical student committed suicide at my school; during my tenure, it was a guy who stabbed himself multiple times. He was a year ahead of us so none of us knew him but there was rampant fevered speculation amongst my classmates regarding the gory details.
My worst night of call as a medical student was during an obstetrics rotation: four women delivered at the same time in the middle of the night, one C-section and the others by vaginal delivery. With the delivery rooms and the O.R. occupied, one of the women almost delivered in the hallway. At the end of the ordeal, after the entire call team threw each other high-fives and pats on the back for jobs well done, I waited until everyone left. Then I collapsed at the nurse's station and sobbed. There were outlandish encounters with supposed mentors and teachers; on one psychiatry rotation, the attending physician tried to get me to seduce my fellow classmate in a mandated episode of role playing, apparently for his own entertainment. We tossed around the requisite acronyms; terms and phrases like GOMER, AMFYOYO, the "O" sign, and the "Q" sign were bandied about even amongst those of us who had NOT read "House of God" (present company included). As medical students we were routinely treated with contempt, usually with a pointed look of disgust accompanied with the directed comment, "You know what they say -- shit rolls downhill." And we were at the bottom of that hill.
My worst night of call as a medical student was during an obstetrics rotation: four women delivered at the same time in the middle of the night, one C-section and the others by vaginal delivery. With the delivery rooms and the O.R. occupied, one of the women almost delivered in the hallway. At the end of the ordeal, after the entire call team threw each other high-fives and pats on the back for jobs well done, I waited until everyone left. Then I collapsed at the nurse's station and sobbed. There were outlandish encounters with supposed mentors and teachers; on one psychiatry rotation, the attending physician tried to get me to seduce my fellow classmate in a mandated episode of role playing, apparently for his own entertainment. We tossed around the requisite acronyms; terms and phrases like GOMER, AMFYOYO, the "O" sign, and the "Q" sign were bandied about even amongst those of us who had NOT read "House of God" (present company included). As medical students we were routinely treated with contempt, usually with a pointed look of disgust accompanied with the directed comment, "You know what they say -- shit rolls downhill." And we were at the bottom of that hill.
But we also developed a camaraderie amongst ourselves akin to sharing a foxhole in hostile territory, something to which Dr. Youn also refers in his book. Despite our instinctively competitive natures, we helped each other make it through the hard times, studying hard and partying harder. We coped the best way we knew how.
Fast forward about fifteen years. I thought that when I had my children, they would be a hiccup in my career, a small insignificant speed bump that would have little-to-no effect on my medical career and ambitions.
I was wrong.
Now there are very few, if any, who would use the word "doctor" or "physician" to describe me at first glance. Little wonder. Most days I schlepp around in whatever feels most comfortable and won't impede my rapid response requirements for my demanding little progeny. Hungry? Let me whip up some mac 'n cheese. Bored? Let me rummage through the art box for some sidewalk chalk. Which book did you want me to read? Which stuffed animal is lost? You need a change of underwear/socks/shirt/entire outfit? No problem. Most days I feel like a perpetual motion machine. Mind you, it's not all bad but it's also not all good either. My first and foremost title is "mommy." I know this and I am comfortable with the shift in roles. It didn't happen overnight but then my children are almost five years old. I've had time to get used to it. I still work part-time but on such a diminished schedule that it is clear my primary identity is as a mother to my adorable, frustrating, strong-minded, sweet, infuriatingly independent boy/girl twins. The "doctor" part of me takes a back seat -- waaay in the back.
I don't regret my choices, although I certainly didn't foresee them fifteen years ago when I was sweating through my first medical school lecture. If you had told me then that my medical career would fall so low on the priority ladder of my life, I would have laughed. A maniacal hysterical sleep-deprived delirious laugh. I would like to thank Dr. Youn for reminding me of who I was and for the elucidating and entertaining trip down memory lane.
This post was inspired by "In Stitches." I received a complimentary copy as a member of the online book club From Left to Write. All opinions expressed are my own. You can read other posts inspired by "In Stitches" at From Left to Write on book club day Tuesday August 9th.
Fast forward about fifteen years. I thought that when I had my children, they would be a hiccup in my career, a small insignificant speed bump that would have little-to-no effect on my medical career and ambitions.
I was wrong.
Now there are very few, if any, who would use the word "doctor" or "physician" to describe me at first glance. Little wonder. Most days I schlepp around in whatever feels most comfortable and won't impede my rapid response requirements for my demanding little progeny. Hungry? Let me whip up some mac 'n cheese. Bored? Let me rummage through the art box for some sidewalk chalk. Which book did you want me to read? Which stuffed animal is lost? You need a change of underwear/socks/shirt/entire outfit? No problem. Most days I feel like a perpetual motion machine. Mind you, it's not all bad but it's also not all good either. My first and foremost title is "mommy." I know this and I am comfortable with the shift in roles. It didn't happen overnight but then my children are almost five years old. I've had time to get used to it. I still work part-time but on such a diminished schedule that it is clear my primary identity is as a mother to my adorable, frustrating, strong-minded, sweet, infuriatingly independent boy/girl twins. The "doctor" part of me takes a back seat -- waaay in the back.
I don't regret my choices, although I certainly didn't foresee them fifteen years ago when I was sweating through my first medical school lecture. If you had told me then that my medical career would fall so low on the priority ladder of my life, I would have laughed. A maniacal hysterical sleep-deprived delirious laugh. I would like to thank Dr. Youn for reminding me of who I was and for the elucidating and entertaining trip down memory lane.
This post was inspired by "In Stitches." I received a complimentary copy as a member of the online book club From Left to Write. All opinions expressed are my own. You can read other posts inspired by "In Stitches" at From Left to Write on book club day Tuesday August 9th.
