Blank Notes

College is full of opportunities, but as much as I knew the first day that freshmen dorms are cramped and hot, I knew I was not going to med school. It wasn’t just that it would be too costly or another four years of school seemed too masochistic. It was entirely because, as the daughter of two surgeons, I didn’t see how getting screwed by the American health care system was worth four years and $300,000.

My dad was on call at so many hospitals and at so many odd hours that he managed to develop double pneumonia twice while I grew up, unknowing, because he always smiled when he came home. When he came home. I have seen my mom cry when she overheard me mention that I was incapable of double-knotting my shoelaces in less than ten seconds because she was never around to teach me. She feels guilty. I wear slip-ons.

I was selfish. And I wasn’t about to apologize for it. I was also ignorant.

I’m diabetic, asthmatic, shockingly allergic to haywood (to the alarm of the PA who administered my skin test), I have a vitamin D deficiency, I’m just depressed enough to need therapists every once in a while, I’ve torn a labrum, got anemia that prevents me from donating blood, and I have pityriasis alba which I self diagnosed as vitalaigo resulting in a Michael Jackson (bless his soul) freak out. I carry needles, apply crèmes, shoot up nasonex, inject insulin before bed while I brush my teeth, take Benadryl to go to sleep. From an evolutionary standpoint, I should be dead. Realizing this, I began to become a little more appreciative of the care I’ve received. I’ve heard peers complain about how much they hate doctor’s visits; how much they hate doctors. But I’ve been blessed to have great doctors as I’ve stumbled upon more and more displeasing diagnoses.

And in retrospect, I’ve been blessed to have doctor parents. Earliest memory? My mother skimming a dead rat out of our pool and dissecting it in front of my sisters and I. I’ll never forget what water logged rat entrails look like (kind of like spaghetti in watered down spaghetti sauce). As much pain as I was in, I was fascinated when my dad injected my foot with lidocaine to extract a particularly well-stuck splinter. And I’ve always enjoyed the ethics questions my mom brings home from work as over dinner conversation: An elderly woman has a terminal diagnosis. How do you tell her she’s dying? Do you even tell her at all?

In short—I know what I’m getting into when I say now that I want to go to med school. Of all the things I lack—a functional pancreas, an understanding of skin diseases—resolve is not one of them. I know now that there’s more to life than getting yours. I know now how doctors can maintain pride even as they operate in a stressful occupation. I hope that everyone goes to college to eventually help people. I could help others doing any number of things. But I want to help people directly. I understand the importance of good doctors—as doctors and as people.

And I’m confident that I have the skills to be a good doctor. I am a clear and concise communicator; partly because of the many rhetoric courses I've taken at Colgate. I have a long history of working hard to achieve self-set goals. For over fifteen years I participated in a sport that only rewards intrinsically motivated individuals. I am also compassionate. I selflessly help friends with homework and edit the papers of siblings. I also get carried away in personal projects. When I found out that the rats I was observing freshmen year for a neuroscience experiment would be killed after the experiment, I canvassed all my friends to save as many as possible. But probably most importantly, as a diabetic, I have the additional benefit of possessing empathy for people dealing with chronic issues.