I asked my cousin (and if you’ve been following this blog you’ll know that my cousin is also a classmate of mine) this question, “If someone were to pay you to leave medical school, and you could never come back, how much money would it have to be?”

She thought for a while, and, instead of answering me with a straight answer, she asked me how much it would take for me to walk away.

I quickly replied, “$100 million.”

I’m not sure if she laughed or chuckled. My memory is a bit hazy on that part. But she said she’d probably do it for a “little less.” But upon pressing her about what “a little less” meant, I think she said $50 million. She did say, however, that she’d probably always wonder “What if?’ about staying in medical school.

Ideally someone would offer me $100 million to take and I could stay in medical school too. But if the condition was that I walk away and never return to med school… Well, I don’t think I’d have any qualms about that.

Does that make me any less of a medical student? Does it reflect poorly on me?

I wonder because I asked another classmate the same question. Her reply was a lighting-fast, “You couldn’t pay me to leave. You’d have to kick me out.”

Her answer left me speechless. Well kind of… I did manage to say, “Oh… that’s cool.”

I recently had a conversation with my cousin (who also happens to be my classmate). The conversation was sandwiched between a couple hours of studying about ischemic heart disease, vascular disease, valvular disease, and congenital heart diseases. We were preparing for a Pathology lab where we were scheduled to do some “team-based learning.” (These team-based sessions involve working in groups of five to figure out a diagnosis based on a small clinical vignettes. Once the diagnosis is obtained we usually have to figure out the mechanisms leading to the condition.)

The conversation took place right after I showed her a sample test that applicants to the San Francisco Police Department can download at the department website. The first few sections were really simple and we skimmed through right through it. It felt easy. (At least the first sections felt easy. There was at least one section towards the end that looked pretty tricky.)

I’m not sure who first verbalized it, but we noted how it had been a long time since we had walked into an exam feeling fully confident in what we knew and of what the outcome would be. So far in medical school it hasn’t mattered how much I have spent preparing for an exam. I have never walked into a test site feeling like I know everything as well as I should. Maybe that one student that keeps scoring between 98-100% knows how that feels, but I sure don’t. And that is a very frustrating thing.

Usually there are two kinds of conversations I listen to. The first, of course, are the conversations I am involved in. That’s easy. The second, however, are conversations that I overhear.

I wouldn’t call myself an eavesdropper. But sometimes I just can’t help it. People get all excited and into their conversations that it seems they think they are the only ones within earshot. Or maybe they just don’t care if other people hear.

One conversation I was in recently went something like this:
Me: Hi. How’s it goin?
Classmate: Great. I’ve learned so much today! [said enthusiastically with a smile]

Now, at this point I was walking into lab in the afternoon after 4 hours of lecture that morning. I was wishing I didn’t have to be in lab. I felt like my usual self — thinking about all the material that I still needed to know.

And as I stood there walking into Anatomy lab, I felt really jealous. Why didn’t I feel the same way? Why don’t I feel the same excitement over learning? Why am I just tired and feeling like there’s sooo much things to learn?

I’m truly glad for my classmate who said this.

If only I could feel the same way…