Med School Quotes

No. I mean, med school is THE greatest challenge, right? I want to see if I can make it." "This isn't about a challenge.=," he says, a flash of anger in this eyes." "This is about finding what you love to do: doing something that makes you happy.

The one who wanted to be an artist now has their sights set on med school.

The knuckles of his hand that had Shaw's name inked across them caught my eye. I pointed to them. "You have her with you forever already, a ring isn't going to make that much of a difference, bro." "I need to wait until she's done with school next semester. She needs to graduate and focus on starting med school. I don't want her worrying about me or a wedding while she does it. Honestly, talking to Lando made me start thinking about it. God, forbid something happened to me or to her. I want everyone on the planet to know how much she means to me. How she changed my life and made me want to be a better man for her and her alone.

What I mean is that those thoughts, they're human. And just because you turn out differently than everyone's imagined you would doesn't mean that you've failed in some way. A kid who gets teased in one school might move to a different one, and be the most popular girl there, just because no one has any other expectations of her. Or a person who goes to med school because his entire family is full of doctors might find out that what he really wants to be is an artist instead.

I imagine him grown up and finished with med school, patients lying on the operating table—reaching inside people’s rib cages, fixing their broken hearts.

So what's your major? Have you figured it out yet?" Yeah, biology. I'm hoping to go to med school. How about you?" Elementary education." She could have told me she was majoring in shit-eating with a minor in injecting guys with AIDS blood while they slept, and I would have thought it was the greatest, most noble thing in the world.

If you took organic chemistry in college, you’ve experienced the Dip. Academia doesn’t want too many unmotivated people to attempt medical school, so they set up a screen. Organic chemistry is the killer class, the screen that separates the doctors from the psychologists. If you can’t handle organic chemistry, well, then, you can’t go to med school.

more than half of med school students are women.

Hi there, cutie." Ash turned his head to find an extremely attractive college student by his side. With black curly hair, she was dressed in jeans and a tight green top that displayed her curves to perfection. "Hi." "You want to go inside for a drink? It's on me." Ash paused as he saw her past, present, and future simultaneously in his mind. Her name was Tracy Phillips. A political science major, she was going to end up at Harvard Med School and then be one of the leading researchers to help isolate a mutated genome that the human race didn't even know existed yet. The discovery of that genome would save the life of her youngest daughter and cause her daughter to go on to medical school herself. That daughter, with the help and guidance of her mother, would one day lobby for medical reforms that would change the way the medical world and governments treated health care. The two of them would shape generations of doctors and save thousands of lives by allowing people to have groundbreaking medical treatments that they wouldn't have otherwise been able to afford. And right now, all Tracy could think about was how cute his ass was in leather pants, and how much she'd like to peel them off him. In a few seconds, she'd head into the coffee shop and meet a waitress named Gina Torres. Gina's dream was to go to college herself to be a doctor and save the lives of the working poor who couldn't afford health care, but because of family problems she wasn't able to take classes this year. Still Gina would tell Tracy how she planned to go next year on a scholarship. Late tonight, after most of the college students were headed off, the two of them would be chatting about Gina's plans and dreams. And a month from now, Gina would be dead from a freak car accident that Tracy would see on the news. That one tragic event combined with the happenstance meeting tonight would lead Tracy to her destiny. In one instant, she'd realize how shallow her life had been, and she'd seek to change that and be more aware of the people around her and of their needs. Her youngest daughter would be named Gina Tory in honor of the Gina who was currently busy wiping down tables while she imagined a better life for everyone. So in effect, Gina would achieve her dream. By dying she'd save thousands of lives and she'd bring health care to those who couldn't afford it... The human race was an amazing thing. So few people ever realized just how many lives they inadvertently touched. How the right or wrong word spoken casually could empower or destroy another's life. If Ash were to accept Tracy's invitation for coffee, her destiny would be changed and she would end up working as a well-paid bank officer. She'd decide that marriage wasn't for her and go on to live her life with a partner and never have children. Everything would change. All the lives that would have been saved would be lost. And knowing the nuance of every word spoken and every gesture made was the heaviest of all the burdens Ash carried. Smiling gently, he shook his head. "Thanks for asking, but I have to head off. You have a good night." She gave him a hot once-over. "Okay, but if you change your mind, I'll be in here studying for the next few hours." Ash watched as she left him and entered the shop. She set her backpack down at a table and started unpacking her books. Sighing from exhaustion, Gina grabbed a glass of water and made her way over to her... And as he observed them through the painted glass, the two women struck up a conversation and set their destined futures into motion. His heart heavy, he glanced in the direction Cael had vanished and hated the future that awaited his friend. But it was Cael's destiny. His fate... "Imora thea mi savur," Ash whispered under his breath in Atlantean. God save me from love.

By the end of medical school, most students tended to focus on "lifestyle" specialities - those with more humane hours, higher salaries, and lower pressures - the idealism of their med school application essays tempered or lost. As graduation neared and we sat down, in a Yale tradition, to re-write our commencement oath - a melding of the words of Hippocrates, Maimonides, Osler, along with a few other great medical forefathers - several students argued for the removal of language insisting that we place our patients' interests above our own. (The rest of us didn't allow this discussion to continue for long. The words stayed. This kind of egotism struck me as antithetical to medicine and, it should be noted, entirely reasonable. Indeed, this is how 99 percent of people select their jobs: pay, work environment, hours. But thats the point. Putting lifestyle first is how you find a job - not a calling).

When I was a real girl, my mother fed me her glass dreams one spoonful at a time. Harvard. Yale. Princeton. Duke. Undergrad. Med school. Internship, residency, God. She'd brush my hair and braid it with long words, weaving the Latin roots and Greek branches into my head so memorizing anatomy would come easy.

(Orthopaedics is basically reserved for the med school’s rugby team – it’s barely more than sawing and nailing – and I suspect they don’t ‘sign up’ for it so much as dip their hand in ink and provide a palm print.)

I thought back to med school, when a patient had told me that she always wore her most expensive socks to the doctor's office, so that when she was in a patient's gown and shoeless, the doctor would see the socks and know she was a person of substance, to be treated with respect. (Ah, there's the problem - I was wearing hospital-issue socks, which I had been stealing for years!

For the first time, she dropped the bravado, looking so genuinely unsure of herself that Jude almost squeezed her hand. The sudden rush of empathy startled her. Was that what it was like to be this girl? An unwise choice earning you sympathy, not scorn, a single moment of doubt forcing a practical stranger to affirm that you were, in fact, special? “No one gets into med school either,” Jude said.

I don’t think most people realize—and there’s no reason they should—the amount of demeaning garbage you have to take if you want a career in the arts. I mean, going off to med school is something you can say with your head high. Or being a banker or going into insurance or the family business—no problem. But the conversations I had with grown-ups after college… “So you’re done with school now, Bill.” “That’s right.” “So what’s next on the agenda?” Pause. Finally I would say it: “I want to be a writer.” And then they would pause. “A writer.” “I’d like to try.” Third and final pause. And then one of two inevitable replies: either “What are you going to do next?” or “What are you really going to do?” That dread double litany… What are you going to do next?… What are you really going to do?… What are you going to do next?… What are you really going to do…?

not to these heads-up-their-asses med-school quacks.

I told him if he pulled my tuition I would gladly get a job as a stripper to pay my way through med school, and he hadn’t liked it one bit.

I can’t overstate how little I knew about myself at 22, or how little I’d thought about what I was doing. When I graduated from college I genuinely believed that the creative life was the apex of human existence, and that to work at an ordinary office job was a betrayal of that life, and I had to pursue that life at all costs. Management consulting, law school, med school, those were fine for other people — I didn’t judge! — but I was an artist. I was super special. I was sparkly. I would walk another path. And I would walk it alone. That was another thing I knew about being an artist: You didn’t need other people. Other people were a distraction. My little chrysalis of genius was going to seat one and one only.

Why are you so surprised? Joss Whedon is a god. I never would have made it through med school without Netflix and Buffy the Vampire Slayer.” “Buffy?” Wren said the name like she was talking about one of her best friends. “All six seasons?

The pharmaceutical companies that fund med schools don’t want this fact realized, and therefore the information is suppressed. Many pharmaceutical companies and doctors make money by treating symptoms rather than causations. When causations are understood, cures are oftentimes a given. Cures don’t make money. Why was Aspartame released into the population despite evidence of the damage it causes while Donald Rumsfeld was CEO of Searle? Why do you think George Bush was on the board of directors for Eli Lilly9 drug manufacturing? To counteract the mass genocide he perpetuates? Why do you think politicians are so healthy and live so long? What do they know that they aren’t telling us? I’m not saying this is all a conspiracy to thin the population, but pertinent health information should be public knowledge rather than deliberately suppressed. If this information were taught in schools, unethical drug companies would loose their control on the world.

It’s so funny to me that just because they weren’t there for my struggles, they think they don’t exist. I’ve overcome a lot in my life. I’ve survived not feeling enough in my mom’s eyes. I’ve cried over plenty of boys. I’ve shed literal blood, sweat, and tears during my med school journey. I’ve suffered heartaches and growing pains. I’ve needed my mom and sister to be a support system more times than I can count. The problem lies within the fact that I never felt they could fulfill that need. I never felt important enough to them to ask.

I thought back to med school, when a patient had told me that she always wore her most expensive socks to the doctor’s office, so that when she was in a patient’s gown and shoeless, the doctor would see the socks and know she was a person of substance, to be treated with respect.

It wasn't uncommon. Treated, bipolar disorder could be managed quite well in most cases. Two of my med school professors had talked openly about having it. But for some people, the medication made them feel flat. Gray. The mood swings and mania were the price they paid for a life full of color.

You steamrolled your way into my life and reminded me how good it feels to let go a little…to fight, to play, to laugh. I don’t think I’d really done any of that since I started med school. My life became very objective-based, and then I met you and…” “And I taught you the meaning of life?” “You snuck your underwear into my laundry just to make me mad. And you eat a million milligrams of sodium every day. And you wanted the Frosty mug just as much as I did.” A laugh spills from my mouth. “None of that sounds like a lesson you’ve learned.” “Exactly. You don’t teach me lessons—you help me rest.

For a while, I thought I needed to have some over-the-top gol, something comparable to the Olympics, but ..." He stops. Runs his thumb over my lower lip. "I want to spend four years in med school, fully knowing that it'll be hell. Do a fellowship and residency. Corpse stuff, sure. I want to travel to places that don't have a fucking pool. See my family more than once a year. Sleep in. Go on hiking trips. Stay home for long weekends and have morally bankrupt amounts of sex with someone I'm in love with. Kinky, vanilla, I want it all. I want to adopt rescue animals with her. I want to take care of her, and watch her be cold in Sweden, and marvel every day at how much smarter than me she is, and ... Scarlett.

The young doctor should look about early for an avocation, a pastime, that will take him away from patients, pills, and potions.

You went to med school at Hopkins,” he says with quiet wonder in his voice. “Undergrad at Tufts. I’m so proud of you, Mace.” My eyes go wide in understanding. “You rat. You Googled me?” “You didn’t Google me?” he shoots back. “Come on, that’s step one post-run-in.” “I got home from work at two in the morning. I fell face-first into the pillow. I don’t know if I’ve brushed my teeth since this weekend.

You know that stuff about trusting your first instinct when you make a decision? They never say that to me. Taking meds to get along in school is pretty much a license for people to say, “Everyone follow your instincts, but not you.

Ebook readers might cause problems. This has become a controversial topic as more and more people use and love ereaders. A close friend of mine doesn’t go anywhere without her Kindle and will probably be buried with it. A Wolf, she was dismayed when I shared the findings of a new Harvard Medical School study:23 reading an ebook in the hour before bed delayed sleep more than reading a print book under normal lamplight, and it also increased sleep inertia the next day.

The desire to simultaneously wither, die and crap my pants is compelling, but so is the desire to maintain a fleeting iota of dignity. I’m hallucinating, badly, and either my high school health teacher said something about not mixing prescription meds and alcohol or those Lorazepam were past their expiration date.

The ceiling is actually the jungle that keeps most people away from the hidden treasure. And if you’re ready to work on the skills category of your Career Savings Account, this is a tremendous gift. Author Seth Godin calls it the “Dip.” He says, “The Dip is the set of artificial screens set up to keep people like you out. If you took organic chemistry in college, you’ve experienced the Dip. Academia doesn’t want too many unmotivated people to attempt medical school, so they set up a screen. Organic chemistry is the killer class, the screen that separates the doctors from the psychologists. If you can’t handle organic chemistry, well, then you can’t go to med school.”2

All my life, everyone has used my 'ilness' as an excuse to take my choices away. I've been locked up, told what to eat, who I can be friends with, where I can go to school. They even forced those damn meds down my throat." She paused, breathing hard. "It's my life. Even if I'm sick, I'm the only one who should get to choose what I do and how I do it.

As she took her husband in her arms, Rosie also took a moment to savor the smell of him, the feel of his hand in her hand, the way in which he was hers, for sure and forever. She remembered the high school years when she didn't have a boyfriend and the college years when she had one but he was mean to her and the first years of med school when she was sure she'd never be in love again, and she remembered the feel of the wall on her back at the middle school dances when her friends got asked and she didn't and the boy she liked chose someone else, and she felt how it was all worth it if it earned her, if it won her, if it resulted, karmically, narratively, miraculously, in Penn at last, Penn forever, Penn who was always and only and always hers, certain as sky.

Things changed after that between me and Mark. I stopped being mortified that people might mistake me for one of his acolytes. I was his Boswell, don’t you know. I interviewed him about his childhood—his father was a psychiarist in Beverly Hills. I cataloged the contents of his van. I followed him around at work, sitting in while he examined patients. He had been a bit of a prodigy when we were in college. After his father developed a tumor, Mark, who was pre-med, started studying cancer with an intensity that convinced many of his friends that his goal was to find a cure in time to save his father. As it turned out, his father didn’t have cancer. But Mark kept on with his cancer studies. His interest was not in fact in oncology—in finding a cure—but in cancer education and prevention. By the time he entered medical school, he had created, with another student, a series of college courses on cancer and coauthored The Biology of Cancer Sourcebook, the text for a course that was eventually offered to tens of thousands of students. He cowrote a second book, Understanding Cancer, that became a bestselling university text, and he continued to lecture throughout the United States on cancer research, education, and prevention. “The funny thing is, I’m not really interested in cancer,” Mark told me. “I’m interested in people’s response to it. A lot of cancer patients and suvivors report that they never really lived till they got cancer, that it forced them to face things, to experience life more intensely. What you see in family practice is that families just can’t afford to be superficial with each other anymore once someone has cancer. Corny as it sounds, what I’m really interested in is the human spirit—in how people react to stress and adversity. I’m fascinated by the way people fight back, by how they keep fighting their way to the surface.” Mark clawed at the air with his arms. What he was miming was the struggle to reach the surface through the turbulence of a large wave.

A liberal arts education teaches you how to think – I read that somewhere. The hard facts you learn are secondary to that. The big thing you take away from school with you is how to induct and deduct in a constructive way.’ ‘That’s good,’ Harold said. ‘I like that.’ Now his hand did drop on Fran’s shoulder. She didn’t shrug it away, but she was unhappily conscious of its presence. ‘But it isn’t good,’ Peri said fiercely, and in his surprise, Harold took his hand off Fran’s shoulder. She felt lighter immediately. ‘No?’ he asked, rather timidly. ‘He’s dying!’ Peri said, not loudly but in an angry, helpless way. ‘He’s dying because we’ve all been spending our time learning how to bullshit each other in dorms and the living rooms of cheap apartments in college towns. Oh, I could tell you about the Midi Indians of New Guinea, and Harold could explain the literary technique of the later English poets, but what good does any of that do my Mark?’ ‘If we had somebody from med school –’ Fran began tentatively.

What are you making?" "It doesn't matter. I'm only cooking so that I can smell something besides you." There was that edge in his voice again. He turned up the fire and poured oil into a skillet and water into a pot and then he lined up the jars of spice that Louise kept on the countertop: parsley, oregano, bay leaves, pepper, and thyme, and mini branches of herbs, including basil and dill as well as some lemons and fresh cloves of garlic. He added them to the oil. His plan worked- the kitchen filled up with new odors that did not quite overcome my own, but were certainly gaining ground. "The ancient Romans wore bay leaves on their heads for virility," he said. "You don't need any," I said. "Borage is used to induce abortion. We learned that in the first year of med school." "I don't need any." "Arabs believe that cardamom builds good feelings among friends." "We don't need any other people in our lives." "I'm showing off, you know." "I know. Keep going." "Let's see. Curry powder should always be browned in butter. Fenugreek is hairy and it'll make you dream of sex. Ginger makes men horny, but not women. Lavender should be spread on the bedsheets. Not yours, of course, we don't need to add any more scent to your bed, but it can also be used in making soup." "I'm impressed.

I’d like to extend a hearty fuck you to the national news media. This is for spending more time talking about my emails than all policy issues combined. . . . This is for constantly saying I “am flawed” or “have flaws” . . . motherfucker, name one!!! My fucking charity that gives HIV meds to poor people? Are you for real with this shit? And the Monday morning quarterbacks right now? You’re gonna criticize my campaign?? Bitch, I won the popular vote and I was running against America! Last toast: undecided voters . . . honey, if you were undecided after the Mexican rapist speech it means one thing: You needed me to be perfect. . . . You know, back in 1965, I ran for class president of my high school and lost to a boy who told me, “You are really stupid if you think a girl can be elected president.” Well, I put in fifty years of tireless, grueling work, and now, at long last, that little boy has been vindicated.

metastases has become talk of a few months left. When I saw her in A&E, despite obvious suspicions, I didn’t say the word ‘cancer’ – I was taught that if you say the word even in passing, that’s all a patient remembers. Doesn’t matter what else you do, utter the C-word just once and you’ve basically walked into the cubicle and said nothing but ‘cancer cancer cancer cancer cancer’ for half an hour. And not that you’d ever want a patient to have cancer of course, I really really didn’t want her to. Friendly, funny, chatty – despite the litres of fluid in her abdomen splinting her breathing – we were like two long-lost pals finding themselves next to each other at a bus stop and catching up on all our years apart. Her son has a place at med school, her daughter is at the same school my sister went to, she recognized my socks were Duchamp. I stuck in a Bonanno catheter to take off the fluid and admitted her to the ward for the day team to investigate. And now she’s telling me what they found. She bursts into tears, and out come all the ‘will never’s, the crushing realization that ‘forever’ is just a word on the front of Valentine’s cards. Her son will qualify from medical school – she won’t be there. Her daughter will get married – she won’t be able to help with the table plan or throw confetti. She’ll never meet her grandchildren. Her husband will never get over it. ‘He doesn’t even know how to work the thermostat!’ She laughs, so I laugh. I really don’t know what to say. I want to lie and tell her everything’s going to be fine, but we both know that it won’t. I hug her. I’ve never hugged a patient before – in fact, I think I’ve only hugged a grand total of five people, and one of my parents isn’t on that list – but I don’t know what else to do. We talk about boring practical things, rational concerns, irrational concerns, and I can see from her eyes it’s helping her. It suddenly strikes me that I’m almost certainly the first person she’s opened up to about all this, the only one she’s been totally honest with. It’s a strange privilege, an honour I didn’t ask for. The other thing I realize is that none of her many, many concerns are about herself; it’s all about the kids, her husband, her sister, her friends. Maybe that’s the definition of a good person.

MY PROCESS I got bullied quite a bit as a kid, so I learned how to take a punch and how to put up a good fight. God used that. I am not afraid of spiritual “violence” or of facing spiritual fights. My Dad was drafted during Vietnam and I grew up an Army brat, moving around frequently. God used that. I am very spiritually mobile, adaptable, and flexible. My parents used to hand me a Bible and make me go look up what I did wrong. God used that, as well. I knew the Word before I knew the Lord, so studying Scripture is not intimidating to me. I was admitted into a learning enrichment program in junior high. They taught me critical thinking skills, logic, and Greek Mythology. God used that, too. In seventh grade I was in school band and choir. God used that. At 14, before I even got saved, a youth pastor at my parents’ church taught me to play guitar. God used that. My best buddies in school were a druggie, a Jewish kid, and an Irish soccer player. God used that. I broke my back my senior year and had to take theatre instead of wrestling. God used that. I used to sleep on the couch outside of the Dean’s office between classes. God used that. My parents sent me to a Christian college for a semester in hopes of getting me saved. God used that. I majored in art, advertising, astronomy, pre-med, and finally English. God used all of that. I made a woman I loved get an abortion. God used (and redeemed) that. I got my teaching certification. I got plugged into a group of sincere Christian young adults. I took courses for ministry credentials. I worked as an autism therapist. I taught emotionally disabled kids. And God used each of those things. I married a pastor’s daughter. God really used that. Are you getting the picture? San Antonio led me to Houston, Houston led me to El Paso, El Paso led me to Fort Leonard Wood, Fort Leonard Wood led me back to San Antonio, which led me to Austin, then to Kentucky, then to Belton, then to Maryland, to Pennsylvania, to Dallas, to Alabama, which led me to Fort Worth. With thousands of smaller journeys in between. The reason that I am able to do the things that I do today is because of the process that God walked me through yesterday. Our lives are cumulative. No day stands alone. Each builds upon the foundation of the last—just like a stairway, each layer bringing us closer to Him. God uses each experience, each lesson, each relationship, even our traumas and tragedies as steps in the process of becoming the people He made us to be. They are steps in the process of achieving the destinies that He has encoded into the weave of each of our lives. We are journeymen, finding the way home. What is the value of the journey? If the journey makes us who we are, then the journey is priceless.

The problem here is pain. Filling out the appropriate paperwork to drop out of med school is a straightforward and obvious action; breaking your parents’ hearts is not. Asking a tutor out on a date is as simple as saying the words; risking intense embarrassment and rejection feels far more complicated. Asking someone to move out of your house is a clear decision; feeling as if you’re abandoning your own children is not. I

After poring through them, Marty told his son quietly, “This is not the science that I learned in med school.

Bitsy seems unimpressed, even when I describe the big campaign. "You sound like Whitman," she says, slow and monotone. "Work, work, work." I don't react. Instead, I reply by asking about her husband, Whitman Strayer II, a med-school dropout turned venture capitalist who now helps Oxford's elite decide what to do with all their money. "He's fine." She adds nothing more. "Still traveling a lot? Last I heard he was partnering with investors in Atlanta? Birmingham? Dallas? Looking for start-ups." "Yep. As I said, he's fine." She gives me a glance that warns me to back off, so I turn my attention back to the landscape, eager to drink in every gift Mississippi offers. Behind the picnic table, a batch of invasive kudzu has crept in from a steep ravine. With no natural balance to keep it in check, the Asian species now abuses its power, growing thick, leafy webs across everything in reach. Even the trees with the deepest roots have fallen victim to this vicious vine. As Bitsy's words echo, I wonder what lesson the kudzu wants to teach me. Have I, too, done better in foreign soil, opting to go far from the challenging conditions of home? Have I been able to thrive out there in Arizona, living without any real competition? Or am I nothing more than a wayward transplant, an aimless seed taking more than my fair share?

Not all areas of medicine were created equal. In my humble (and extremely biased) opinion, ophthalmology is definitely the coolest. However, it is also (again, in my view) one of the more challenging ones to learn. It is neat to reflect on the variety of skills that we learn during our training, most of which demand exceptional hand-eye coordination. To excel, we require a very delicate and nuanced touch and a sophisticated appreciation of subtle alterations in the anatomy of the most beautiful organ in the body. From the different lasers to the assortment of minor and major procedures, there is definitely a lot to learn and then master. Even in our clinics, we make use of so many instruments that it’s almost like being in surgery but without the incisions!

And in Mom's necklace is the echo of their every other sacrifice—her slippers cuffing the hallway as she folds laundry, covering my chores while I studied into the night; the scar where she cut her finger chopping black chickens to nourish me during finals; Dad chauffeuring me to my clinic internship; all their worries over my med school applications. It's one thing to dance around the little controls Mom exerts on my life. Quite another to shed a hard-fought-for future of financial security and respect for our families. My parents would slit their throats for my happiness, and in return, my future is their future. I should have known better than to let myself get swept away.

Finally, in walked the doctor. The doctor? He looked more like the doctor's kid! I mean, how do med schools get away with churning out such young graduates? You know a doctor is fresh out of school, not just because his lab coat is crisp and clean, but because he rolls around on the stool like he's at Disney World. Oh yeah---this is why I haven't been to see the OB/GYN in a while, I thought. I had to wait until my doctor was potty trained.

Var du uenig med noen i byen utenfor denne skolen, var konsekvensen ofte at du skulle bankes. På Foss var sånt helt ukjent. Uenigheter var interessante.

Steve had become fascinated with the flu early on in his career. He’d been shocked to learn that more people died from the Spanish flu than in all of World War I. In America, whole towns were wiped out; children died in their homes because there was no one alive left to care for them, every adult having been taken by the virus. Carts rolled through the streets of cities collecting corpses piled in the gutters and on the porches of houses. Ordinances were passed forbidding such things as handshaking; and schools, churches, stores, and theaters were closed to try to prevent the spread of the disease. He couldn’t believe he’d never been taught about this pandemic before med school. How could this not be in the consciousness of every American? Jazmine

my anatomy professor in medical school, who made the class the most grueling, fun, amazing, and important course I’ve ever taken in my life. And don’t worry, nothing funny went on between us.

Quite a setup you have down here.” Martin had never visited the computer lab before and had not imagined that it was so extensive. “It gives me a strange feeling to be in this room,” he admitted. “I went to med school here and back in sixty-one, I took

Lion Daily Schedule 5:30 a.m.: Wake up, no snooze. 5:45 a.m.: Breakfast: high-protein, low-carb. 6:15 a.m. to 7:00 a.m.: Big-picture conceptualizing and organizing. Morning meditation. 7:00 a.m. to 7:30 a.m.: Sex. If you have kids who need help getting ready for school, make it a quickie. 7:30 a.m. to 9:00 a.m.: Cool shower, get dressed, interact with friends or family before heading to work. 9:00 a.m.: Small snack: 250 calories, 25 percent protein, 75 percent carbs. Ideally, have it at a breakfast meeting. 10:00 a.m. to 12:00 p.m.: Personal interactions, morning meetings, phone calls, emails, strategic problem solving. 12:00 p.m. to 1:00 p.m.: Balanced lunch. Go outside for sunlight exposure, if possible. 1:00 p.m. to 5:00 p.m.: Creative thinking time. Listen to music, catch up on reading and journaling. In a workplace setting, lead or attend brainstorming meetings. 5:00 to 6:00 p.m.: Exercise, preferably outdoors, followed by a cool shower. 6:00 p.m. to 7:00 p.m.: Dinner. Keep it balanced—equal parts protein, carbs, and healthy fats. A carb-heavy meal like pasta might make you crash. 7:30 p.m.: Last call for alcohol. A drink after this hour will knock you out. 7:00 p.m. to 10:00 p.m.: Socialize on the town, or connect with loved ones online while relaxing at home. You bought yourself an extra hour, so make the most of it! 10:00 p.m.: Be in your home environment by now. Turn off all screens to begin the downshift before bed. 10:30 p.m.: Go to sleep.

After all the years of med school and internship and residency and specialization, my life was about to start. I was going to have a golf membership and a six-bedroom house and a Jaguar, and a blonde wife who was very pretty and very, very useless.” Slatton, Traci L. (2011-07-12). Fallen (After Book 1) (p. 28). Parvati Press. Kindle Edition.

Do you know how hard and expensive architecture school is? People drop out to go to med school because it’s easier.

Isis is an aspiring horror novelist, with plenty of ink and pink-streaked hair. Jason was my teammate. We ruled the pitch together for a few years, as left and right strikers, but he graduated a year ahead of me. Now he’s in his second year of med school at UCLA, on path to becoming an ER doctor. They seem like this really normal couple on the surface. Then you hear them talking about viscera and bodily fluids with true unbridled passion, and you realize they’re made for each other

I remember my first dose of Klonopin the way I imagine the elect recall their high school summer romances, bathed in the golden light of a perfect carelessness, untouched and untouchable by time's predations or the foulness of any present pain. As Cat Stevens wrote, The first cut is the deepest, though I've always preferred Norma Fraser's cover to the original (the legendary Studio One, Kingston, Jamaica, 1967). Stevens sings it like a pop song, but Fraser knows the line is true, that she'll never love like that again. Her voice soars over the reverb like a bird in final flight. The first cut is the deepest. I've since learned all about GABA receptors and molecular binding, benzos and the dangers of tolerance, but back then I knew only that I had received an invisible and highly effective surgery to the mind, administered by a pale yellow tablet scored down the middle and no larger than an aspirin. There is so much drivel about psychoactive meds, so much corruptions, bad faith over- and underprescription, vagueness, profiteering, ignorance, and hope, that it's easy to forget they sometimes work, alleviating real suffering, at least for a time. This was such a time.

I remember many years later when I was going to med school that I thought of him and realized that it was as much due to him as anyone else that I was doing as I did. He once said something to me about a fellow I didn’t care very much for. ‘Oh, he’s all right. You just gotta understand him, that’s all.’ “And in those words I found an answer to almost everything that had been festering in the back of my mind. If you understand a man, if you know why he does things, you don’t have to be afraid of him, you don’t have to let your fear lead you to destroy him. I don’t know whether I thought it all out when I was young or when I was in school, but in some way I associate the two as if they happened together.

But then, on a brisk February evening my junior year, I attended a free yoga class at the Harvard Divinity School Andover Chapel. I came in fully expecting to do cat, cow, and child’s pose. Our instructor, Nicholas, who was also a graduate student there, had us on our backs with taut abs, legs held in the air in a ninety-degree position, neck lifted off the ground, hands stretched above our heads. I had become the sleeping dragon. One minute in, my body was trembling. You can’t. I told myself I could. You can’t. I opened my eyes and saw everyone else peacefully holding their pose. This voice yelling at me wasn’t my own. So where was it coming from? You can’t. It was Hang telling me to dump my elementary school best friends who still played with toy horses at thirteen. He said I needed to be more strategic about my social ranking. You can’t be friends with them. My sister excluding me from her life when we became teenagers. You can’t hang out with us. Ba calling me pathetic when I told him I wasn’t pursuing med school. You can’t even try because you’re too dumb. I screamed, You can’t, right back inside of my head, telling all of them what I never had the courage to say. My body shuddered as the rage escaped my body like bats flying out from a cave. Hot tears fell from the sides of my eyes into the chapel carpet floor. And then I heard a clear voice inside of me speak. It was not mine, it was someone else’s. “All those times you’ve felt unloved or alone, you weren’t. God, through the presence of the body, has always been there for you.” Who was this voice? And how could my body be the key to loving myself? My body was always something I had seen as an inconvenience, a detached thing I had to fix. But tonight, I felt welcome to get to know my body.

They are straight out of Corpsman School and 6 weeks of Field Med School, and then boom, here they are.

Back in med school we always said you have six chest tubes, six IVs, it's all over. You got to that point, all the rest's just dancing.

Sure enough, the electronic triage told me that the patient in cubicle three wanted me to believe that they accidentally “fell” onto a fruit bowl naked, and the lemon they had stuck in their hoo-ha was the result. Now, it was my job to retrieve said lemon. This is what I went to med school for.

Mannequin heads with crushed orbital bones and humorous growths. Stacks of newborn babies. Eyeballs trailing rubbery pink muscles, like a school of prehistoric jellyfish. Viv always laughed when she thought of how Tim described Mandy: "Dr. Frankenstein with a hoarding issue.

My life as a patient changed the day I reread a letter by the nineteenth-century poet John Keats in which he offers a theory of what makes an artist great. At the the time of its writing, Keats had witnessed his mother die from tuberculosis, then a poorly understood disease with an unclear cause. Soon his brother Tom and later himself would die of the infection. In the letter, Keats - in his early twenties - tried to e plain to his brothers the special quality that differentiated a great artist form a merely good one. “Negative Capability,” as he terms it, is the quality “of being in uncertainties, Mysteries, doubts, without any irritable reaching after fact & reason.” I couldn’t escape the sense that Keats’s words about the necessity of “being in uncertainties” derived form his own experience of living with consumption’s impact on his family. In fact, his formulation of negative capability seemed to be a key to living well in the face of pain. It was a profound insight of the sort that comes from witnessing loss and suffering up close. (As the chronically ill know, to the alive *is* to be in uncertainty.) I was grateful for his words, because they reminded me that I wasn’t living off the known map of human experience. Rather, I had felt invisible in my illness, I realized, because American culture - and American medicine within it - largely strived to downplay the fact that we still know so little about illness. A doctor friend told me that in med school he was explicitly taught never to say “I don’t know” to a patient. Uncertainty was thought to open the door to lawsuits. In the place of uncertainty, Americans have catchphrases: *Just do it. What doesn’t kill you makes you stronger.* no wonder that as a patient I was bent on an “irritable reaching after fact & reason.” The shadowland I lived in, forced against my will into what Keats called the great “Penetralium of mystery,” was an uncomfortable and unsatisfying place, especially since I lived in a culture that Donita’s the importance of triumph over adversity - a culture that insists on recovery.

When You Were Small Remember when you were small? If you can. Visions of sugar plums Dancing on the tubes You were one of a kind You were mean to make the girls cry You were quick as a whip And gauded in intelligence Your look was imminent In the school fashion news-press Your parents So proud and happy You became number one You were the one happening And then you fell Below standard after high school It became true You were the weirdo that roamed the rooms Your intelligence lacked And you looked like you smoked crack But it was all just mental illness Rotting in the back Those visions of sugar plums Became airy and effervescent They were your visions Of how the government had won To get yourself back, you took meds But the ingenious thing was that you had them all by the neck

Sir, I don’t care. I’m a double Cancer, which means I’m an emotional fucking wreck of a human who cares too deeply and tries too hard. Maybe they shouldn’t let double Cancers go to med school.

Underlying the work we are doing to build connection with our neurodivergent kids is the intent of creating change. We want our kids to be more empowered, independent, and contented in their lives. We want our houses to be calmer and to let down our guard about our children’s success at school. We want harmonious relationships that don’t rely on power struggles and strategic maneuvering to get things done.

What if gifted kids weren’t required to remain with their same-age peers at school and could be instructed at their cognitive level? How would simply having an appropriate educational setting shift their development?

After completing their undergraduate degrees at NYU, both Mortimer and Raymond had applied to med school. But during the 1930s, many American medical programs had established quotas on the number of Jewish students who could be enrolled. By the mid-1930s, more than 60 percent of applicants to American medical schools were Jewish, and this perceived imbalance prompted sharp restrictions. At some schools, such as Yale, applications from prospective students who happened to be Jewish were marked with an H, for “Hebrew.” Mortimer, who applied to medical school first, found that he was effectively blacklisted on the basis of his ethnicity. He couldn’t find a medical school in the United States that would take him. So, in 1937, he

Med School. It was a soap about a group of very beautiful young medical students with shiny white teeth and complex love lives. Each episode featured a lot of blood and sex and anguish.

Come on,” he says. “I know you’re in Medicine and all, but you can’t be unhappy all the time. I mean, why’d you go to med school in the first place?

If you can't feel the difference between a scalpel and a cleaver, there is no difference between a doctor and a butcher.

committing to a med student means committing to their timeline. This timeline controls a med student’s location and choices for many years, and you will not be immune from its effects.

As medical students, we were confronted by death, suffering and the work entailed in patient care, while being simultaneously shielded from the real brunt of responsibility, though we could spot its specter. Med students spend the first two years in classrooms, socializing, studying and reading; it was easy to treat the work as a mere extension of undergraduate studies. But my girlfriend, whom I met in the first year of medical school, understood the subtext of the academics. Her capacity to love was barely finite, and a lesson to me. One night on the sofa in my apartment, while studying the reams of wavy lines that made up EKGs, she puzzled over, then correctly identified, a fatal arrhythmia. All at once, it dawned on her and she began to cry: wherever this “practice EKG” had come from, the patient had not survived. The squiggly lines on that page were more than just lines; they were ventricular fibrillation deteriorating to asystole, and they could bring you to tears.

A doctor cannot change his name after receiving his M.D. degree without invalidating that degree. This means that there is a great rush in the final weeks of med school among doctors flocking into court to change their names before they receive their diplomas. TWELVE THE SUN WAS SETTING, and the light on the quadrangle was turning yellow-gold.

Alex, is one of my old professors from M.I.T. and a friend, she added. "Yes indeed, we haven't seen each other since her summer break, first year Med School!" He cosigned, while he looked into Concepcion's eyes. "Let's order some dessert!" Gideon suggested, changing the subject; then he signaled the waiter. "That's a great idea, hmm..." Marta added, mulling over the menu. "I'll have the Fairground Attraction." "What's in that?" Gideon asked, noting the switch in her demeanor. Alex looked stricken, then located it on the menu. "Candy floss-cho malt-toffee apples-salted caramel popcorn, and an apple jam doughnut! I don't think I'll partake in that," Alex remarked, reading its content off of the menu, out loud. Gideon nodded in agreement, "No, I don't want anything to do with that, and I'm sorry I asked.

I spend hours at hockey games every week working as the assistant trainer. (Appa said it would great on my resume for med school. I don’t think he realized I’d spend most of my time bandaging up sexy shirtless boys, but I’m not complaining).

And Dr. Michael Burry was dumbstruck: He recalled Asperger’s from med school, but vaguely. His wife now handed him the stack of books she had accumulated on autism and related disorders. On top were The Complete Guide to Asperger’s Syndrome, by a clinical psychologist named Tony Attwood, and Attwood’s Asperger’s Syndrome: A Guide for Parents and Professionals. “Marked impairment in the use of multiple non-verbal behaviors such as eye-to-eye gaze…” Check. “Failure to develop peer relationships…” Check. “A lack of spontaneous seeking to share enjoyment, interests, or achievements with other people…” Check. “Difficulty reading the social/emotional messages in someone’s eyes…” Check. “A faulty emotion regulation or control mechanism for expressing anger…” Check. “…One of the reasons why computers are so appealing is not only that you do not have to talk or socialize with them, but that they are logical, consistent and not prone to moods. Thus they are an ideal interest for the person with Asperger’s Syndrome…” Check. “Many people have a hobby…. The difference between the normal range and the eccentricity observed in Asperger’s Syndrome is that these pursuits are often solitary, idiosyncratic and dominate the person’s time and conversation.” Check…Check…Check. After a few pages, Michael Burry realized that he was no longer reading about his son but about himself.

from writing up a fake schedule of classes they’d take based on college course guides, to researching a “thesis” project in their subject, to doing work-study programs in the community. If someone wants to do an SWS major in premed, they have to figure out how to finance med school, how to get all their prerequisites taken without overloading on hours for any semesters, which labs they’ll need, what their books will cost, and which academic groups to join. Then they do a minithesis—ten pages at least—learn about med school entrance exams, and finally, in the last week before summer, shadow a professional in the field well enough to get a good recommendation. Grades are based on that recommendation, their educational plan, their financial plan, and their thesis. And the faculty who grade them are those who aren’t burdened with the grading of normal finals. A.k.a.: me. Me, the counselors, special-subject teachers, coaches, even the nurse. It’s all hands

If someone wants to do an SWS major in premed, they have to figure out how to finance med school, how to get all their prerequisites taken without overloading on hours for any semesters, which labs they’ll need, what their books will cost, and which academic groups to join. Then they do a minithesis—ten pages at least—learn about med school entrance exams, and finally, in the last week before summer, shadow a professional in the field well enough to get a good recommendation. Grades are based on that recommendation, their educational plan, their financial plan, and their thesis.

We both realised in that moment that med school prepared us for the answers, but it did not prepare us for the heartache.

A patient said to me one day, “Never lose your bedside manner. I’m sure lots of people can care for the eye, but not everyone can care for the patient as well.

Her [Valerie Landry's] mentor in med school had reminded her more than once that doctors got even less time than families had to deal with patients dying. Someone died and the relatives went off by themselves and collapsed, but you still had the rest of your shift to get through.

Just as computer science was erecting barriers to entry, medicine—an equally competitive and selective field—was adjusting them. In the late 1960s and early 1970s, dozens of new medical schools opened across the country, and many of the newly created spots went to women. Standardized entry exams also began to change. In 1977, the MCAT, a test for entrance into medical school, was revamped to reduce cultural and social bias. But the game changer was the implementation of Title IX, which prohibits sexual discrimination in educational programs. From then on, if a woman could score high enough on the newly revised MCATs and meet other requirements, med schools could not legally deny her entry, and women poured in. Why wasn’t the same progress being made in computer science? Professor Eric Roberts, now at Stanford, was chairing the computer science department at Wellesley when the department instituted a GPA threshold. Of that period he later wrote, “In the 1970s, students were welcomed eagerly into this new and exciting field. Around 1984, everything changed. Instead of welcoming students, departments began trying to push them away.

Look, one of my old med school buddies brought his girlfriend in a few weeks ago after she cut herself on a piece of glass.

All right,’ Owen said. ‘Let’s have a closer look, then.’ He picked up a large scalpel from the instrument trolley at his side and brandished it dramatically over the corpse like a sacrificial dagger. ‘God, I bet you were unbearable at med school,’ said Gwen.

The only limitations are ones you impose on yourself.

The Declaration of Geneva reaffirmed the Hippocratic tradition, maintaining respect for life from the time of conception. Didn't you recite the oath at your med school graduation, Halevi?

Conlon, my anatomy professor in medical school, who made the class the most grueling, fun, amazing, and important course I’ve ever taken in my life. And don’t worry, nothing funny went on between us.

Fast Car" "You got a fast car I want a ticket to anywhere Maybe we make a deal Maybe together we can get somewhere Any place is better Starting from zero got nothing to lose Maybe we'll make something Me, myself, I got nothing to prove You got a fast car I got a plan to get us outta here I been working at the convenience store Managed to save just a little bit of money Won't have to drive too far Just 'cross the border and into the city You and I can both get jobs And finally see what it means to be living See, my old man's got a problem He live with the bottle, that's the way it is He says his body's too old for working His body's too young to look like his My mama went off and left him She wanted more from life than he could give I said somebody's got to take care of him So I quit school and that's what I did You got a fast car Is it fast enough so we can fly away? We gotta make a decision Leave tonight or live and die this way So I remember when we were driving, driving in your car Speed so fast it felt like I was drunk City lights lay out before us And your arm felt nice wrapped 'round my shoulder And I-I had a feeling that I belonged I-I had a feeling I could be someone, be someone, be someone You got a fast car We go cruising, entertain ourselves You still ain't got a job And I work in the market as a checkout girl I know things will get better You'll find work and I'll get promoted We'll move out of the shelter Buy a bigger house and live in the suburbs So I remember when we were driving, driving in your car Speed so fast it felt like I was drunk City lights lay out before us And your arm felt nice wrapped 'round my shoulder And I-I had a feeling that I belonged I-I had a feeling I could be someone, be someone, be someone You got a fast car I got a job that pays all our bills You stay out drinking late at the bar See more of your friends than you do of your kids I'd always hoped for better Thought maybe together you and me'd find it I got no plans, I ain't going nowhere Take your fast car and keep on driving So I remember when we were driving, driving in your car Speed so fast it felt like I was drunk City lights lay out before us And your arm felt nice wrapped 'round my shoulder And I-I had a feeling that I belonged I-I had a feeling I could be someone, be someone, be someone You got a fast car Is it fast enough so you can fly away? You gotta make a decision Leave tonight or live and die this way

Maybe I should become a couples counselor. Nice alternative to med school. They might waive the foreign language requirement.

For a while, I thought I needed to have some over-the-top goal, something comparable to the Olympics, but...I want to spend four years in med school, fully knowing that it'll be hell. Do a fellowship and a residency.