Two summers ago, I shadowed doctors at Methodist hospital. As per one of the requirements of the program that I’m in, students have to complete 320 clinical hours. Some students have shrugged this opportunity off as a waste of time, a widespread belief both harebrained and crass. For me, it has been a very illuminating experience. I’ve found three-hundred and twenty reasons why I want to be a doctor.

Amidst the great sweeps of pre-med requirements, students often find themselves questioning their decision to ever pursue a career in the health field. That type A drive to outdo every pre-med participant in what seems to be a lifelong competition, only adds to the injury. The only way to navigate this tumultuous voyage is to go back to where this dream first started, when you were six years old and the only way you earned validation as a doctor was by dressing up as one and holding your pencil, the point facing away from you as though you were about to administer a shot.

During my preceptorship, I rotated through pediatrics, radiation oncology and gynecologic oncology. Each has been an experience quasi nullius alias. Pediatrics, I’ve found, requires handiwork specialized in dealing with two patients at once: you have to allay the child’s affliction and mitigate the distressed parents. Despite the background clamor, however, the work of pediatricians can be fulfilling as they work to make sure that health gets off to a good start so people will face significantly fewer health problems later on in life. Pediatricians have seen, even experience, many of the diseases/disorders they see in their patients. But the chances of an oncologist with a previous history of cancer are rare. Furthermore, an oncologist is oftentimes younger than his/her patients. There is a different outlook and a disposition with which the oncologists must tend to their patients. It involves humility when dealing with someone who has, for the most part, seen many of life’s obstacles and challenges. For the patient, to have someone who will listen as he/she nears death is already half the treatment. And the young physician benefits from the wisdom.

It was here in radiation/oncology that I followed my first case to the end. It was also here that I found the interdisciplinary nature of rad/onc. I had seen a lot of Mr. L. in the infill 6 before I found out his whole story at rad/onc. He was an in-patient who was brought down every day for external radiation. He had lung cancer, a tumor that was rapidly growing. Mr. L’s case was often the topic of heated debates during the lung tumor boards. Here, the pulmonologists, the hematologists and the oncologists all discussed cases that had come up that they felt needed interdisciplinary consultation. These discussions were intellectually stimulating and ethically challenging. When Mr. L’s case was brought up, I was very interested in keeping tabs. Every day he came down for external radiation but every day his condition exacerbated. It was a Thursday that pulmonology and rad/onc decided to do a collaborative treatment, a transbronchial catheter implantation bronchoscope. The patient would be receiving high-dose brachytherapy, precisely modulated internal radiation to tackle the tumor. Overnight, the rapid response team had to be called in. I remember walking in to infill 6 at 2 p.m. and checking up on Mr. L. He was hooked to his usual oxygen supply but at least he was there. Around 2:40 p.m., a bunch of doctors clustered into his room. I felt that something was up, maybe it was another RRT. But around 3 p.m., I found out he had died. It was a quiet death. From afar, it didn’t look as though anything had happened; there were no tears on behalf of the family members and no comforting on the nurses’ parts. Was this all there was to a death from cancer? Death in the OR and the ER is quick and consuming, unexpected even and certainly clamorous. But what does it mean to die of cancer? It’s supposed to be slow and expected. It’s supposed to have a warning period. Kind of like what we read about from Oliver Sacks. But Mr. L was still undergoing treatment and his death was so erratic. Would the toxins secreted by the expanding tumor have been fatal enough to exacerbate his condition and bring him to the point of death in a day? I wonder if the procedure had something to do with it. If it did, would his cause of death still be classified as cancer? Medicine is a compromise, I understand, but it may have the unwarranted potential of being the cause of death.

At gyn/onc, I learned about the versatility of this field: everything from surgery right down to pathology and consultations. If I’ve ever been shaken to the core in the hospital, it is during those post-op consults when the patient finds out she has terminal cancer. Death casts a shadow over their faces and the juicy, women gossip that just a while ago had us all tearing from laughter now seems like a fogged past. I’ve felt since that my greatest calling may be in oncology.

There is so much to the field of oncology than just dealing with death. There are clinical trials and research and teamwork. But most importantly, there’s hope. Life is full of suffering. And yet…

And yet, we want to become physicians. I encourage you all to find one summer during your undergraduate years and dedicate it to shadowing. You will learn (or relearn) what it was about medicine that made you so sure you wanted to be a doctor since you could say the word.