Four Years After

 

Note: Wrote this for the college magazine. Four years ago I initially wrote it for a blog post and then sent it to the college magazine, now I wrote it for the magazine and will be posting it on this blog.

It is a well-established fact that getting into a medical college is not a piece of cake," I wrote in Raigzaar about four years ago, as a public-places-white-coat wearing, brimming with enthusiasm first-year student. Now, from the vantage point of pristine copies of Harpers, Guytons, Robbins, and Davidsons, I modify that statement: "It is a well-established fact that getting through medical college is not a piece of cake."

Nobody prepares you for the overwhelming sense of unpreparedness that engulfs you in your final year. Exiting Lecture Hall 1 just as my seniors did four years ago, I search for a glimpse of my naive self in the sea of first-year students. Back then, my seniors seemed to have everything figured out, exuding confidence and knowledge. They never confused Bruzdinski with Kernig, nor considered axillary lymph nodes as mere figments of imagination invented as alibis to practice tickling on patients. They were probably the experts who discerned Grade 1 murmurs with ease. As for me, I often wonder if the faint pink hue on my male patients' nails is mehndi or a subtle sign of underlying kidney injury, a perplexity that eludes the many proficient doctors otherwise monitoring the patient. And the conjunctiva remains a mystery—should I search for pallor in the pink part on the inside of the lower eyelids or the slightly pinker area beneath the globe? Or perhaps it's the more inferior part of the eye? They say, "You are who you surround yourself with." Well, one of my friends once held a stomach model during Abdomen stage and proudly called it a bladder.

One constant struggle throughout my medical college journey has been arriving on time for the first lecture. There's no valid explanation or external blame—whether it's a wonky circadian rhythm, occasional hypersomnolence, traffic, roads, or skyrocketing petrol prices. We've all experienced the guilt-ridden entrance into the lecture hall, hugging the side wall, desperately wishing it would envelop us and transport us to the farthest row, away from the risk of inadvertently catching fragments of the ongoing lecture. Amidst this, I've developed immense respect for our teachers. I've witnessed classes where rows resembled graveyards, heads slumping onto backpacks, while the teacher diligently expounded obscure mechanisms of diseases aaa-currence. It's been five years, spending countless hours with friends, yet we must continually catch up on national politics during class, all the while knowing the teacher is periodically glancing in our direction. After all “Darr kay agay jeet hay".

The canteen remains a perpetual disappointment. Nestle should consider paying dividends to our college canteen, for it is the sole source of nourishment there, apart from the occasional samosa my friends coerce me into buying. To those fellow juniors and classmates who dare to purchase more than Nestle products, I salute your resilient microbiota. You are the living embodiment of the hygiene hypothesis. Relaxation spaces are nonexistent; benches to sit on are an elusive dream. Students perch on stairs, wander through corridors in repetitive loops, speeding up or slowing down based on their desire for privacy in their conversations from other overtaking groups. Perhaps the administration should invest in traffic lights within the corridors—common rooms seem redundant after all.

Nevertheless change has permeated into our college. When I encounter alumni or reminisce with juniors, it becomes evident that things have shifted. The exact cause eludes definition. Perhaps it's the aftermath of the post-COVID world or individual factors at play. The college has changed, for better or worse. It now requires greater inertia to accomplish tasks. People seem more focused on their individualistic expressions. Events like the literary week, which were once prominent highlights of the academic year, now receive less than a week of attention. Even places like Crush Hall have been vivisected and rechristened into examination halls. Speaking of change, I too have undergone transformation. I believe I've become more tolerant, and hopefully tolerable. This growth is partly a result of the extensive exposure to human nature that we, as medical professionals, experience. However, the majority of this change can be attributed to the incredible friends I've made along the way. They are extraordinary human beings (you know who you are), and their presence has made it easier for me to embrace and appreciate other individuals, as well as love and accept myself. This newfound perspective ignites a desire within me to become a better doctor—a compassionate healer who can genuinely alleviate the suffering in this world plagued by complexities and sorrows.

As I lay down my pen to rest, a somber feeling envelops me, knowing that this journey is coming to an end. Amidst the ups and downs, there were moments of joy, mingled with questionable lows. Yet, one memory stood up vividly right now: sitting with my friends in M-II ward, transforming the manometer gauge of a sphygmomanometer into a makeshift spirometer. We take turns blowing into it, and amidst the laughter, someone accidentally sucks in, causing the needle to do a 180. It's a moment of pure delight, a respite from the professor's anticipated arrival and the weight of patient histories waiting to be taken. In that instance, tears of joy fill my eyes, my belly aches from laughter, and I realize that every single second of the past five years has been unequivocally worth it.