Don't Panic

Do you notice the word "panic" in the title? Kind of lets you know what's on my mind. The "don't" is almost a waste of letters. "Panic" is what tends to stand out. The brain is like that sometimes; focusing in on only one thing. This week has been a great time for me to take a step back and a look at the big picture.

Eleven days ago I took my biochemistry exam. This exam covered material that was presented during a 3-week block of classes. It included everything that was covered in my semester-of-pain known as Chem 3250 (a.k.a., "biochem 1") and oh-so-much more. We had two quizzes during that 3-week period that led me to believe that I was doing ok. On test-day, however, I left the computer lab wondering if I would make it through this semester alive.

I fell far short of passing this test. It was horrible. I cried. Not so much the sobbing, out-of-control crying we women folk know from time to time, but the type of crying where you just want your tears to stay put inside your head, and they simply won't.

Let me tell you, my friends, my experience in anatomy disabused me of the existence of curved grades in med school. Invariably, there would be a couple of exam questions that were "problematic" and the block director would have the tests regraded to reflect a different answer choice. There were no across the board increases in test scores. If the correct answer was "B" and the professor later said, "Hmm. Both 'B' and 'C' could be correct answers," then only students who had answered "C" got those extra points. When my high-scoring friends told me that we'd probably get a few points back, I knew it wouldn't be enough to save me.

Then something happened one week after the exam.

Statistics.

More precisely: bimodal distribution. Ever heard of that? Think of a bell curve with a gigantic dent right where the peak should be. As a class, we either got it, or we didn't. Rumor has it that the lower end of the distribution was so low that a record number of students had no hope of passing this block even if they scored 100% on the up-coming histology exam. Least you think us to be a bunch of dummies, our class' entering stats (MCAT & GPA) were the highest on record for the school. We also scored higher on the anatomy exams relative to the class ahead of us. Changes from the curriculum department left us with less time to cover more material, and that left a lot of us hurting.

The block director allowed a regrade; that gave me an additional 3.3% (or three questions). Eh. But then he did something even more magical. He curved the grades. I am now in the land of "barely passing." I had no idea how good it would feel to be here.

Yesterday was Thanksgiving. I am infinitely thankful to be a medical student, at my medical school, with my classmates, in my new home town. My children, my sister, and three other students gathered together for dinner last night. I felt surrounded by love and support. I am awe-struck whenever I reflect on how much my life has changed in such a brief period of time. Sure, I have moments of panic, but it is short-lived compared to the happiness.

Life, Love, and Letting Go

A few months ago, a physician's wife told a group of married students, "Half of you will be divorced before residency is over." Most of the people at the table looked appalled that she would say such a thing. I just shrugged my shoulders. I knew that was me.

Let me start off by saying that medical school did not cause my marriage to fall apart. I did not become consumed with the magic of medicine, letting all else in my personal life fall by the wayside. I was, in essence, presented with a choice between my marriage and medicine, and I chose me. Medicine isn't the metaphorical "mistress" breaking up my marriage. Treating it as such ignores the fundamental flaws in my relationship with my husband. Medical school is a stressful time. A healthy relationship will be able to withstand the stress. As I've said before, you can find balance as a medical student, but things that are wildly out-of-balance will become even more-so.

Examining the lack of balance in this most intimate of relationships is uncomfortable. There were multiple start-and-stops on my path to medical school over the past five years as my husband professed his support while his actions said otherwise. In the conversation we had before he moved out of the house, he discussed his feelings of resentment over moving to this new town for "no reason." (Yes, my kids are our kids.)

I've had my moments of sadness and regret--sadness that we couldn't resolve our differences and regret that I stayed with him so long. My kids are sad, too, but they aren't dummies. They know that their dad and I have divergent worldviews. We've separated before, including the first month of anatomy when he was working in a different city. They missed him then because he was over 800 miles away. Now they just miss him.

I believe, dear readers, that I'm not the only person in a situation like this: Someone who dreamed of doing something big, but had her life tied to a person who felt that following dreams is selfish and fool-hearty. I believe we all have moments of clarity and vision. I had a strong premonition 18 months ago that if I were to become a doctor, my marriage would end. I thought we would probably split when I was in residency and our youngest child was in high school. Months ago, I found myself wondering if I wanted to legally change my name back to my maiden name before I graduated, even if we were still married. I suppose you could say it felt somewhat inevitable to me.

No, I don't think I am living a self-fulfilling prophecy. I simply think I knew my husband well enough to know that the likelihood of the experience being shared between us (as in "we're in this together") would be slim to none. That feeling played a large part in my backing off from MCAT prep as I "tried on" the notion of not going to medical school. Then I got my MCAT scores and realized how incredibly badly I wanted this. "This" wasn't just medical school. It was so much more. It is so much more.

Happy Medium

Last night I was chatting with a classmate who told me he was worried about grades in classes that we haven't even begun. To this, I laughed.

I really do believe that every one of us in medical school has something to prove. Of course, what that "something" is varies widely. Making it through is a challenge, and no one would do it without some kind of internal drive. That drive has pushed us to the top of our undergraduate classes and being high-performers can make us--collectively--quite unbalanced.

Another one of my classmates let me in on his master gameplan. He has been scrubbing in at surgeries to shadow in the OR and has already begun working on a research project. He's young, incredibly bright, and has very few other commitments in his life. What he is doing is working for him as he preps for an extremely competitive residency. As his friend, my only hope is that he doesn't burn out.

Medical school is not impossible, but it really is an excellent venue for someone to go completely insane. You can push yourself as hard as you can imagine, and still feel like it isn't hard enough. For instance, in the past two weeks, we have had lectures that covered all of the material in the biochemistry class I took last year. There is no way I will know everything that my professors have taught (or, more precisely, included in their PowerPoints), but I have plenty of friends that are currently trying their damnedest to do exactly that. Trying to achieve the improbable just isn't my style.

My experience in anatomy was a terrific exercise in balance. I studied, but I also lived my life. At the end of the block, I took the national "shelf" exam for anatomy. Our scores told us how we ranked nationally. Statistically, my performace in anatomy was average. The thought of being "average"--even when the comparison group is current US medical students--was devastating for some of my friends. I don't mean to come across as apathetic, because, believe me, I'm not. I didn't pack up my life just to fail. I just know that there are other areas of my life where "average" won't cut it and failure will cost too much.

My kids are my everything and they only have one shot at this childhood thing. I wasn't home as often as I liked during anatomy, but I tried to make myself as available as possible and connect with the people I love. This is hard to do when you feel the stress of an impending exam! I warned them that with a major test a week away, I might be leaning a bit towards crazy. They are beginning to get the hang of it, and they are doing quite well. Last night, we roasted marshmallows and ate s'mores in our backyard. My 13-year-old turned to me and said, "You...are...incredible! I love you, Mom." Yeah, I will gladly take "med school average" in exchange for that any day.