grabthemoments

This weekend I did something momentous.

Six years after my sojourn in medical school, I was forced to confront my age-old notes once again. They had stayed undisturbed in a corner of my closet for years. I graduated from medical school, did my obligatory house-officer years, became a medical registrar, took my fellowship exams, became an advanced trainee, and went on a life-changing six month trip through the world, and they did only one thing. They stayed in their same old spot.

Well, it turns out the universe has new plans for them. Due to circumstances beyond my little sphere of control, they have been asked to move. And so it was, that I had to pay them a (final) visit. As I flicked through one dusty module after another (in the process of dumping them into a big black bag), it was as if I was savoring the moments in the gray corridors of what used to be the old Grafton medical school for one last time.

I need to digress at this point. I need to make a confession. I’m not one of those people who were born doctors. I’m also not one of those people who forever wanted to be a doctor. In fact, when I joined medical school I wasn’t even sure I was making the right choice (even though I assured my medical school interviewers I knew exactly what I was doing). Yet, here I am, six years after my graduation, making life and death decisions on a regular basis, deciding on the fates of people in a matter of minutes, and almost taking my title of ‘Dr.’ for granted.

What changed? When did it change? How did I become a ‘doctor’?

Granted, at the end of medical school I had made up my mind about the ‘wanting’ bit. I was pretty sure by the end of my clinical years that I wanted to be a doctor. But even by the end, the title sounded hollow to me. Like an empty barrel, I felt like my degree just made a loud noise, but did not have much substance. Looking at my writing back then, I’m not sure I’m too surprised.

My family is essentially financial in background. One of my cousins in India practices medicine. But we were oceans apart. Apparently, my great great grandfather was a doctor. The key word – ‘was’. Unfortunately both time and space separated me from him during this life. To be frank, for most of my medical school years, I wasn’t really sure of what I was doing. I wasn’t sure I identified with the term ‘doctor’, and wasn’t sure I ever would.

Today I walk around hospital, a stethoscope swinging from around my neck, referrals grasped loosely in my hands, and nonchalantly go about the business of life and death, freedom and incarceration, hope and despair, as if I could not possibly think of doing anything else with my life. True, there are moments (sporadically), where I pause to reflect on my role, and the suitability of my actions. But for most of the time, it’s ‘business as usual’, the ‘doctor’ in me, treating the ‘patient’ in others.  

Once again, the jack-in-the-box questions – What changed? When did it change? How did I become a ‘doctor’?

Was it my medical school teachers who lectured me tirelessly through the six years at the University of Auckland? Has it been my seniors through all the clinical years who have helped me ‘learn the ropes’? Or perhaps the multitude of nurses and allied health professionals who have assisted me on timeless occasions as a house officer and registrar?

Could it be my colleagues who worked with me through my fellowship exams? Or alternatively my wonderful mentors who supported me through some of the most difficult times in my career?

I’m not sure I can pinpoint any one person, event or time.

Yet, it happened. Somewhere over the six years, I’ve gone from being a naive medical student, to being a ‘doctor’. If someone challenged my claim to the title today, I bet you I’d put up a fight. And it would be a bloody good fight.

Just like nature’s sculptures by the seashore are shaped by the countless waves, wind and weather, so I feel it has been with my clinical journey. Countless individuals, events and words have made me the man I am today. And for that I am most grateful.

So, this passage in a way, is a message of gratitude. I wish to thank all those who have made this day possible.

My teachers in medical school; my mentors, consultants and other seniors throughout the years; the nurses and other indispensable supportive professionals; the understanding families of my patients; and most of all, my lovely, persevering patients themselves.

I still remember the day I had struggled through my fourth year OSCE to arrive late that evening on the ward. A woman lay on a bed, suffering from some disease I don’t even remember anymore. But I’ll tell you what I do remember.

I remember her smile, and I remember what she said. She said to me, most tenderly, ‘You have a good bedside manner. You will be a good doctor. I know you will be, don’t you stop believing that’.

I wish I could go back and thank that lady for her words, for it has been the patience and perseverance of people like her that have made me the doctor I am today. It is the patience and perseverance of people like her that drive me to get up from bed every day and return to the battlefields that are the wards. And it is the patience and perseverance of people like her that I would like to hand down to everyone I meet…

Today and forever

~

A.R.D

© Aritra Ray 2016