The Long Dark Tea-time of the Soul

"I may not have gone where I intended to go, but I think I have ended up where I needed to be."
~Douglas Adams

My parents had good intentions. They wanted to spare their children the knowledge of want, of struggle. In their minds, the surest way to secure our future well-being was through university education. They attributed the level of success they had attained thus far to hard work and diligence. They themselves had earned their master’s degrees, and in my father’s case, two. But it was not merely enough to have a degree, for not all degrees ensured economic autonomy. And so, from an early age we learned the mantra “doctor, dentist, lawyer…”

Although the memory evades me to this day, my parents would fondly recall how, at the age of two years old, their precocious first-born had announced that she would be “a doctor by day and a dancer by night”. Ridiculous as it seems now, as an elementary school child, I felt an obligation to fulfill my toddler promise.

And so, when asked what I wanted to be when I grew up, I would dutifully reply, “A doctor!” I knew little of what being a doctor entailed. I had a vague understanding that being a doctor was desirable: it was a respected profession that would bring a guaranteed income. It also aligned with one of the most sacrosanct of Christian virtues: the devotion of one's life to helping others. This would bring me to my second naïve assertion that I wanted to become a doctor because I wanted "to help people!”

Once I started school, it became clear to my parents that I had an aptitude for scholastic achievement. They took this as a sign that my future in medicine was merely an eventuality. They did their part by limiting distractions, such as stipulating that I could not go out with my friends to the movies on a school night, and barring me from dating until I had graduated from high school.

As a reward for having earned enough entry scholarships to cover six years-worth of post-secondary education at my parents’ alma mater, I was conceded the privilege of being able to stay out until midnight and to date. Faced with these new freedoms, I became less inclined to focus on my studies. I had rationalized my choices at the time by telling myself that I had never had to study very hard to get high marks and university would be no different.

Competition to get into medicine is fierce. Science courses are often prerequisites for application to medical schools. Furthermore, one's GPA in the prerequisite courses, in addtion to one's overall GPA, is often weighted heavily. Some people, desperate to attain GPAs competitive enough to garner medical school interviews, would resort to cheating. I witnessed a number of these episodes, alternately feeling disgust when I learned of these people's subsequent acceptances into medical school and anger that I could offer no proof of their dishonesty. Occasionally, I would feel regret that I had not chosen to cheat, too, for at the end of the day, they were now on a sure path to becoming physicians - and I was not. In the final year of my degree, I was told by the Faculty of Medicine Admissions Officer that my GPA would not be competitive. I accepted this and did not apply. (Years later, I discovered that there had been others who, undeterred, had applied with the same GPA and had gotten in.)

I had completed my degree, but I felt lost. For the first time, I faced the possibility that I did not have the ability, nor, perhaps, the true inclination to do what was required of me to become a physician. This pursuit of a career in medicine was how I had defined myself for most of my life. I began to wonder, had it not been drilled into us “doctor, dentist, lawyer…”, would I have become a musician or a dancer instead? A rebellious thought emerged: I will never know. And I became angry; angriest with myself for the choices I had unthinkingly, but ultimately made. I resolved that I would no longer live based on what others wanted for me, of me. I would no longer allow myself to feel belittled or have my decisions derided. I made a list of things I hoped to accomplish. I would be fearless. It was not too late.

I moved out of my parents’ house, despite threats that I would be disowned. In the culture of my parents’ homeland, children did not move out until they were married. I was now flagrantly disregarding that tradition. Up until that time, I had known but one responsibility: going to school. My parents, they said, spared me the tedium of doing chores and contributing to the family household so that I could focus on academics. Yet how had I rewarded their sacrifice? By turning in a lacklustre performance. How would I support myself, they asked. What would I eat? Who would cook for me or do my laundry? How would I pay my bills?

I had asked myself these questions. With my new-found resolve, my brain had a ready reply: What I don't know, I'll learn. Whatever it is I'm searching for, I know it cannot be found in my parents' house. I left my university diploma at the bottom of a box in their basement. It represented my folly for not taking responsibility for my life, for accepting advice unquestioningly, for living someone else’s dream, for not trusting myself in knowing what was best for me.

I needed to become self-sufficient. I had a dilemma. I had spent my summers between semesters volunteering at the hospital and doing biochemical and microbiological research. Like my diploma, I wanted to keep anything that had even the remotest connection to my education buried in the darkest corner of my memory. But what else was I fit for?

It turned out that I would never be without a job for long. I worked in a downtown shop selling retail women's clothing. I became a bank teller (which I can truly say is not my calling). I worked in customer service and then became a computer sales associate. Certainly there were some who found my situation comical. One of my former high school classmates, a guy who had barely completed high school, laughed mockingly when he heard that I had spent four years to get my B.Sc., only to earn $8.25 an hour tallying up purchases like his at Future Shop. Later that week, I would pretend I was stomping on his head during my flamenco dancing lesson, the imprint of my heels blotting out that smug expression. I felt better.

Eventually, I earned enough to travel. I went to England, where I lived for several months with my cousins. There, I immediately signed up with a number of hiring agencies. As a temporary office worker, I did everything from putting labels on deodorant bottles for Proctor & Gamble to secretarial work for a number of companies, including a law firm, a transportation consultancy firm, and British American Tobacco. Somewhere along those four years of university, I had acquired the ability to type over 92 words per minute. I had also gained knowledge in using various word processing and spreadsheet programs in both the Windows and Macintosh platforms. Who knew? As a result, I was able to command a salary higher than most office temps. This afforded me many a trip to London and the museums I loved (London is but 30 minutes away from Woking by fast train) and weekends in Paris with my sister. It also gave me the chance to wander through excavated lost cities, watch pastel Oia sunsets, and blush with pleasure to hear Greek shopkeepers praising my "beautiful eyes", in hopes that their flattery would move me to purchase the trinkets they purveyed. (It did.)

Had I gotten into medicine right away, I would never have known that I possessed other marketable skills; that I would be all right, even if I never became a doctor. I wouldn't have learned to flamenco dance or explored the Parthenon or wandered through the gardens of Versailles. I would also have never known how much I truly missed and loved working with patients and learning about the newest medical developments.

When I returned to Canada, it was with the intention that somehow, I would find employment in the health care field. This was not my parents' dream, this time. I moved into a studio apartment, closer to the university. I spent two years in the Faculty of Nursing, taking extra courses in addition to an already full course-load (a full course-load, at the time, was defined as taking a total of 30 credits encompassing the Fall and Winter terms). This included a Ph.D.-level course in my second year.

A back injury incurred by attempting to catch a falling patient forced me to reconsider my career in nursing. At that point, I had achieved the highest GPA possible at the university (a 9.0 on the now defunct stanine scale, equivalent to a 4.0). The deadline for application to the Faculty of Medicine had passed, but it was not too late to apply to the Faculty of Pharmacy.

Things fell into place. Although it had been a particularly competitive year, I was accepted into the pharmacy program. I maintained my high GPA. I became a published author. These experiences gave me the confidence to apply to medical school. I told myself, It's all right if you don't get in. Just apply. At least you will be able to say you tried.

Not only was I accepted to medical school, that same year, I got married to a handsome, gentle, and witty man. I felt like someone had handed me the moon. In my joy, I thought, After all I’ve been through, medical school can’t be much more difficult.

Ah, naïvete. If I had worked hard before, it was nothing in comparison to what I would face in medical school. A classmate of mine, a former lawyer, once told me that medical school forced him to work at least six times harder than he had ever had to work in law school at McGill. I believe it. I’m told that residency, particularly the residency that I’ve chosen – general surgery – will make my clerkship experiences (clerks are medical students in their final year) seem like a walk in the park. I was never one to choose the easy path.

And so here I am, on the cusp of beginning my five-year surgical residency. The prospect of finally being able to do what I truly love scares me at times. Wish me luck.

"It's never too late to be what you might have been." ~George Eliot