what do you mean "why medicine?" ?

Tomorrow is the first day to submit primary applications for the 2011 medical school application cycle. In observation of this occasion, today's feature is both inspired and brought to you by round two.

It's cold and rainy and I'm happy- unmissable signs that I write you from Seattle where my mind, body, and spirit are delighting in the much needed break from Southern California. Playtime has been highly self-regulated however, as I'm here in effort to isolate myself from the "real" life distractions that make conquering the MCAT a la carte, an unrealistic endeavor. And though I recognize it to be a full-time gig, I also find that I am made more efficient by taking the time once every so often to keep mindful of the ultimate motive behind my mental exhaustion - the prospect of becoming a physician.

But why?! !

The personal comments section of the primary medical school application begs this very question, and it too, was the first of those asked during the first (and only) interview I was granted last autumn. Those who have had the misfortune to experience me during a time of emotional crisis, can attest to the value I place on self-actualization and introspection. Even so, I can't help but feel a bit less than dubious toward the suggestion that I am equipped with the adequate insight to faithfully explicate such a personal inquiry, mediating naivete and flippancy, AND within the confines of a character limit. You see, pursuing an acceptance to medical school has come to dominate my existence so profoundly, that posing the question "why medicine?" might as well request that I elucidate the meaning of life - and from the mouth of a twenty five year old, an attempt to answer would at best come across cliched, at worst, arrogant, and in any case, foolish. Following my pattern of self-defeating behavior however, I will opt to elaborate.

Shopping malls terrify me and consumer culture annoys me. In fact, I find the prospect of debt so burdensome that I would rather live, still, with my mother and escaped from the immurement of financial crisis, than with exercised stronghold over my social integrity. As a young adult, I lament the economic consequences of these sentiments not having been shared by more, but as a former seventeen year-old and imminent undergraduate, boom times and a cultivated bank account once sufficed to distract me from the irony that was my high school summer-job.

Nearly a decade ago, I worked to improve the lives of women by selling shoes at the Nordstrom Anniversary Sale. While I cannot say enough good things about the company itself, I am unabashed to express my then hatred for this job - perpetuated less by the irremovable scent of foot on my hands, than by the dissonance engendered sensing myself contrived. Not easily defeated, I craftily learned to reconcile this imbalance by refusing to "sell" and instead, casting a diffident line into the pool that surrounded the Jimmy Choos and Christian Louboutins – shoes so great, they sold themselves.

I can draw parallels between my experience (not)selling shoes, and the esteem with which I regard medicine. Articulating the allure of a career in the medical field is about as redundant as highlighting the aesthetic benefits of a two thousand-dollar-pair-of-heels to a shoeaholic with a recent inheritance... be it shoes or a prospective career, I'd be hard convinced that advertising does anything but belie value where quality is implicit and necessity inherent.

But really, why medicine?

In an instant, I can bullet such career perks as intellectual challenge, livable income, job flexibility, and the cross-cultural perception of doctors as noble and necessary; but the weight of medicine's appeal resides in my faith that it couples more meaning than anything I can yet comprehend. It will only be once my brain has reached the terminal end of the convoluted road that leads to its very own heart, that I will be able to respond: "this is why medicine"... and so then, will it also be revealed the meaning of my life.

Sarx

The Greek root sarx refers to "flesh as it has been cut from the body" and is the underlying sentiment of sarcasm. Admittedly, I have been chastised for indulging in this kind of cheap humor at the expense of another, though I still tend to view sarcasm unequivocally acceptable when directed at oneself. Self deprecation my friends, is the lesson of the day.

So as not to alarm anyone, (and by anyone, I mean my Mom or Dad who are the only ones still feverishly checking this blog even after six months of my writers block) let me preface the following by making clear the purpose of this entry as comedic relief. I possess neither intent to carve additional slits into my body nor be launched from any tall balconies; and besides, prescription drugs suffice to numb the pain at least for the time being.

Now, where was I? Oh, yes yes. I have been thinking, and it's become my belief that were there a formal committee dedicated to inducting worthy candidates into its privileged caste, I'd by now be maintaining a prominent leadership position in the Loser Hall of Fame. I'm not quite sure when I transitioned from bad-ass, to bad, to ass, but insidious (dis)evolution aside, this is me now: nearly 26 years old and fallen from grace.

I scribble these pages from the same bedroom once flanked with Backstreet Boys pinups, glow in the dark stars, and high school dance photos; in the same pink stucco suburban cookie-cutter home I grew old; and so, with the same mother who has never ceased to lose sleep over the frequency with which I remember(forget) to take my vitamins. We have had at least three sets of next-door neighbors come and go, but alas, I remain the same-nearly 26 and still living at home. That said, I had recently felt a kernel of hope in anticipation of the (morally debasing shroud that cloaks my happiness letting-up) springtime finale of my 2.5 year stint at the local community college, though this was soon thereafter negated by the realization that in spite of my 6.5 years as an undergraduate, I am still one semester deficient of English Composition by most academic institutions' standards. Anyway, I too have been putting my other skills to test outside of the classroom by working as the Manager of a local rowing club; this is my self-affirming way of saying that people rely on me for things like maintaining a sufficient supply of Simple Green and MRSA-grade disinfecting wipes. And don't you be fooled by those advocates of mine who chalk all this up to being a "temporary means to an end". While my return to university (ahem, uhhh, community college) WAS only meant to be two years, it will be at minimum three and a half years given my having been rejected from every single graduate program to which I applied (except of course the two whose committees were too appalled by my application to formulate any response). In either case, neither 2 nor 3.5 years is temporary by any standard, and especially not when it comprises 1/5th of life as you know/remember it. Ok, ok, things aren't really THAT bad. On the bright side, at least I've only gained 10 pounds since high school and have been able to strike some relative success in the dating scene. In fact, about eight months ago I went out on a single date with a handsome fella who I met on the internet; though I reckon I may have been too jaded to make for good company because in spite of our four hour rendezvous, I failed to notice that his left limb had been missing from the elbow onward (and yes, it had been MIA for the entirety of our date). Suffice it to say he never called again, nor did I.

Thank the heavens above for Mom, Dad, my therapist, and of course, Kate Bush & Peter Gabriel, for affording me the zest to keep truckin'... and with that my friends, I leave you with this little gem courtesy of the 1980's. Now off to wash down my Cymbalta with a tall glass of pre-bedtime self-affirmations.