For the most part, we all came to med school to learn how to care for patients. To help people. To make them feel better. More comfortable. Less pained. Even those who came for the fast cars and the easy money, snapped to reality really quickly and either left, or realized that they actually want to help people.
And we all came in, for the most part, bright-eyed and excited. Hungry to be getting out there to make an impact on the world. I mean, most students can tell you everything about their first patient. First and last name, age, date of birth, what they presented with in the ER, the complete differential, and possibly even how many dogs and cats they have. It's because we're hungry to help, hungry to finally be able to touch someone's life. And so that first patient is super special, because it's validating. This is, after all, why we came to medical school. For the patients.
But somewhere along the way, we got a little bogged down. Bogged down with studying and tests and just trying to get by. We got a little jaded, and a lot more pessimistic, and now people talk about getting out of med school because it'll be an end to the studying and the lectures and...well, it'll be an end to the pain and suffering.
Maybe I'm just generalizing. I should go back and correct the last couple of paragraphs so that they only apply to me. Because I'm sure there are people out there that don't feel this way. And I can only write what I've been feeling. And that's how I've felt. To suddenly have my entire life worth be defined by a single unit test, once every five weeks, is not validating. To have everything I do in life, lead up to just a single 3-hour test, is not why I came to med school.
I came to med school because I want to help people. No matter how cliched that line might sound, it's the truth. I genuinely want to help others. And the thing is, if I knew a better way to do it rather than through medicine, I would. If I could bake fantastic pastries, I'd hand them out on a street corner. If I could enunciate and express myself clearly so that I could teach arithmetic to a classroom for thirty rowdy intercity kids, I'd be making lesson plans right now. If I somehow could learn to roll my R's and figure out the points of tildes and accents, I'd be a translator. If if if. If only.
Today I had my first humanities seminar. It's a really small class with only six students, and it's entitled, "The Spirit of Healing." Not going to lie, I totally thought it was going to be about religion and death and how to deal with patients in those contexts. But it wasn't. It was about being a med student. It was reaffirming.
It was about how you need to be compassionate to be a good doctor. No matter how much med school might try to suck the soul right out of you, you can't let it. You're in it for the right reasons. Because you care. And, the class made me feel so much better about myself as a student. It made me feel better about myself as a person. Because while 'the care of the patient starts with the care of the patient,' to really be able to care, you need to care for yourself. You need to care for the care-givers. Only then can you actually truly start to care for your patients.
So in the end, the unit tests are not what matter. The PBL evaluations don't make a difference. The leadership roles and popularity contests mean nothing.
What matters is your relationship with your patient. And how you treat them as a person will make a huge difference in their medical treatment. It's about having heart. And at the end of the day, I know that I have a good one. I care. And that will ultimately make me a good doctor.
Forget the exam scores. I am not studying purely for that pesky little thing called boards. If I end up in North Dakota for residency, it will be okay. Because the things that count usually can't be counted. I will be useful, I will be compassionate, and I will be a competent doctor, no matter where I end up.
At the end of the day, I just have to remember - the things that count can't be counted.
3 years ago
