When I was in high school, one of my teachers asked me, “Where do you see yourself in 10 years?”
I answered without pause: “Finishing my residency and about to start a fellowship, probably in neonatal medicine.”
I was certain that I was destined for a career in medicine. I had dreamed of being a doctor since I was 8 years old. While I was searching for Arthur or Cyber Chase after school, I accidentally came across “Trauma: Life in the ER.” I wasn’t grossed out by the blood or scared of the procedures. I was captivated. At that moment, I decided that I was going to be a doctor.
I didn’t question my decision to study medicine until I came to college. I survived the first round of “weed-out” classes, but suddenly, I wasn’t sure if I wanted to go to medical school. I didn’t enjoy being around the pre-med people. They were too stressed. They studied more than they slept. And they hardly had a social life. I didn’t want to be that person.
When I was a senior in high school, a prominent doctor at Hopkins spoke to my biology class. He told us, “You have to really love medicine. If there is anything else in the world that you think you would be happy doing, do that. If not, then OK. Do medicine.”
When I was little, I thought I had five career choices: doctor, lawyer, accountant, engineer or teacher. That was all I knew about. Adults make the mistake of asking kids, “What do you want to be when you grow up?” As if an elementary school student has any idea. We force kids to think that they need to have a plan — that they need to know exactly what they will do when they are an adult.
I never bothered to think about other careers. But, maybe there is something else I would be happy doing. I finally became comfortable knowing that maybe medicine isn’t the career for me. I have plenty of other interests.
Then, I started to work at a hospital for the summer — just to confirm my suspicions. I walked into the hospital and immediately felt what I call, the “hum.” It’s busy, but quiet at the same time. It’s the sound of attendings discussing patients, residents sipping coffee on their short break, nurses running from one floor to the next. It’s the hospital hum. And somehow, I feel at peace in this place, a place that most people consider depressing. I walk through the Children’s Hospital, and instead of seeing sick kids, I see optimism. I see kids who one day won’t be sick because of the people taking care of them.
I ask the doctors if they ever regret going into medicine. They tell me that even though it’s a long road, they would do it all over again. Even though they work long hours, they are moms, they enjoy vacations on the beach, they get together to learn how to cook French food. They joke with me about “the pre-med people” —the ones who stress about getting 98 percent on a test, the ones who start studying for the MCAT three years before they take the test. They tell me to stop worrying. I’m 20. I don’t have to know what I want to do next year — or in 10 years. Eventually, I’ll figure it out. Until then, they tell me to experience everything — take it all in.
Maybe I do have what it takes to be a doctor, and maybe that’s what I love. Maybe that’s what I will choose to do. Or maybe not. For now, I’ll just try to decide what classes to take next semester.
