Bittersweet Symphony

It’s three in the morning Sunday night. All the festivities have finally come to an end. Maggie (my roommate) and I just had one of our late night cuddle on the bed with the pooches chats- one of my favorite things over the last year. In the span of an hour, we talked about families, friends, current loves, lost loves, the Holocaust, car alternators, vodka, Stolat!- the Russian celebration song- that was actually a Latin medical song. We discussed our relationship, the graduation ceremony, made an itinerary for Maggie’s busy last day in San Antonio tomorrow, and, most importantly, talked more about the uncertainty that lies ahead of us: me driving a U-Haul alone through murky swamp lands of Louisiana; Maggie preparing for her move in just 48 hours- unsure of where she will be one month from now and with whom she’ll be able to have late night bed talks. :(

Although I didn’t think I would be nervous coming up to the ceremony, when my dad and I were walking into the building, he asked me if I felt nervous. I stopped, looked at him, and said, “I feel like I’m going to vomit.” It was not so much the fear of tripping up the stairs or not getting a loud applause, it was the fear of what this day embodies for me. No longer can I say, “Sorry, I’m just a student; let me get someone who knows what the hell they are doing.” I am supposed TO BE that person who knows what the hell they are doing. But, though I have MD behind my name now, I don’t feel any less nervous than that first day of high school when I was 15—and I DEFINITELY don’t feel like I know what I am doing.

Now that it’s finally quiet, the fam is home, the booze has all dried up, I realize how much I am going to miss my friends and my life here. Medical school definitely sucked, don’t get me wrong. However, bonding together through something so incredibly painful and anxiety-provoking, while simultaneously rewarding and fulfilling, has been one of the best experiences of my life.

I look upon this new phase of my life with excitement and terror, ready for a new life and reluctant to leave my old one (hence why I keep pushing back my final departure date from Tejas). But I look upon the friends I have made over the last six years in Texas with only one feeling: overwhelming sadness.

It’s unfortunate with great beginnings comes the loneliness of seeing the end of what once was a great beginning.

The Second Happiest Day of my Life

Thursday, March 18, 2010 was the infamous Match Day. This is a day when fourth year medical students across the country find out at 11am central/12pm eastern standard time where they will be spending the next 3-7 years of their lives. Four years of tears, sweat, blood, overnighters, and angst, all accumulated into one moment. This moment was shared with 500 of my closest classmates, their friends/family, and my dear friends Lauren and Cory from Houston.

Coming up to that point, I honestly did not feel all that much angst. My first choice was Washington Hospital Center, which was not the most competitive of all the places to which I applied. I also had a fairly reassuring email from the residency director after I emailed her to let her know her program would be my top choice. So, I felt fairly confident. But, the moment I opened that letter onstage and saw the words, "Congratulations, you have matched!" with "Washington Hospital Center" typed just below, I felt an explosion of exhilaration and relief. Finally! After four years of feeling inadequate, always being almost, but, not quite there, I had finally accomplished exactly what I wanted to accomplish, no more, no less.

That euphoria of the second happiest day of my life reminds me of the happiest day of my life, Christmas Day, the tenth calendar year of the life of Alexandra. All year I had been begging and pleading with my parents for a battery-operated car with a shift stick. Christmas came and went that day, with no car. I had received some great presents and was satisfied, but not elated. I thanked my parents and quietly took my presents upstairs to my room. A little while later, my mom called me downstairs. She had our new Polaroid camera in one hand and an undeveloped picture in the other. She said, "I don't understand how to work this thing, the picture is all blurry." I told her she needed to wait for it to develop and proceeded to shake it (Hey Yeah! Shout out to Outkast!). I looked again at the picture and saw it was a picture of our courtyard with a gray, battery-operated Purego jeep sitting outside the window. I then, naturally, looked up to my mom and said, "I don't get it?" She frantically pointed out the window, at which point everything became clear- that courtyard had my Purego gray jeep with a shift stick. I started screaming and jumping up and down then ran for the door. All those months of wishing, hoping, begging, had come to fruition and that initial disappoint that Christmas morning I would yet again have to face another year without my Purego jeep, only served to further augment the euphoria I was feeling at that very moment.

I drove that car a good 50,000 miles around my pool, ran many a carpool, went to many a grocery store/shop/restaurant, and lived my perfectly normal imaginary life with my baby Betsy Wetsy named Beth, in the car seat next to me.

That euphoria I felt match day, though I am still incredibly excited to start this new phase of my life, has dissipated some and lent itself to a new feeling: scared shitlessness. I am excited yet concurrently terrified to finally have real responsibilities, to finally have the power to make decisions that could have potential life and death consequences. There isn't much I can do now, except hurry up and wait, and then bust my ass to do the best that I can come July 1. In the interim, I will dabble in Europe (the next several blog entries) and then will benefit from a prescription of Valium as July 1 approaches to curb the anxiety over the new life I am about to lead.

Best to all,
Alexandra