When I told my big brother of my plans to got to medical school, he said to me, "That's great, Vieve, but it will come at a cost." My thought: Well, duh.
I am face-to-face with a few of those "costs" right now. In one week, I'll be moving to Texas without my family. My belongings are in an incredible state of disarray, and I feel a bit overwhelmed by the prospect of finding a home to purchase before school starts on July 31. Monday will be my last day at the job I've thoroughly enjoyed for the past three years. These are just a few of the most evident "costs" that my brother was referring to. (The pain and suffering of biochemistry earlier this year was yet another one.) Having just turned 39, I've been thinking lots about embarking on this daunting intellectual and physical journey so late in life. Frankly, I think medical school will take more out of me than someone 17 years younger.
As hard as change is, I can't help but think of what it would cost me to not go to medical school. What is the cost of burying a dream? How do you even begin to measure that? I can quantitatively asses the price of tuition, the expense of moving, the lost wages of leaving the workforce and quitting before being vested in the pension plan, the cost-of-living difference for my family, et cetera, et cetera, ad nauseum. But this really isn't about measuring the economic opportunity costs. It is about living my life, and staying put also has its price.
I was reminded of this last week when I ran into one of my colleagues in the hall. We worked together on a couple of projects a year ago, but I haven't seen her much lately. "Aren't you leaving for medical school soon?" she asked. I smiled a toothy grin and told her I would be gone in less than two weeks. She just shook her head and told me, "I'm so jealous. I wish I had done that when I was your age." Sharon is in her early 60s. All my doubts about what this venture will cost me and my family just seemed to disappear.
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