A Beginning Of Sorts

Writing to an audience is inherently more difficult than simply writing a journal for oneself, and it is easy to become plagued with doubts; is my narrative style too self conscious? Too stylised and contrived? Too simplistic? It is almost impossible to predict how a reader will react to a writing style, as so much of the inflection of speech is lost when pinned to a page. So I have decided to write this blog as though it were only for my own eyes, in the hope that my candour will be best able to express my thoughts and experiences.

I am now in my second term at a medical school in the south of England. I am a little older than many of my fellow students, having studied for a degree previously in a different field. I am by no means alone, though, as many of my contemporaries also have degrees, in such subjects as neurology, or biochemistry. I can only wish that my own was so useful. At first I thought it would be difficult, being older than the majority of my peers, but to my surprise, most medical students seem to be more mature than other students of the same age, and do not treat the 'mature medics,' as we are know, as social pariahs.

Because I am slightly older than most 'Freshers,' I decided not to live in halls, but in a student house with ten other residents; they are a diverse group, none of whom are other medics. While I regret this lack of a study partner in my housemates, I am glad that I shall have a chance to branch out, and make other kinds of friends. This is largely because medical students can be quite elitist, becoming close only to other medics. While it has been a few years since I used a communal kitchen, as a 'grown up,' I had come to the conclusion that I could not be fazed. However, I was wrong, and I am somewhat ashamed to say that the state of the amenities here regularly causes me to fear contracting botulism, or salmonella poisoning. Thankfully, few boys use the bathroom on my floor, although I can only assume that they are responsible for the continued non-existence of the loo roll. I am not sure what they do with it, although I am beginning to wonder if they consume it when they have no pot-noodles or take-away curry. But for all that they are often somewhat untidy, I generally get on very well with my housemates, and even hope to live with some of them next academic year.

I've actually just returned for a meal out to celebrate another medic's birthday; around twenty people were there, and, although we should have relished the opportunity to forget about university and discuss other things, the conversation invariably became 'shop talk.' 'How were today's lectures?' 'How did you do in your exams?' Although we tend largely to befriend other medics, ultimately we cannot forget that they are also our competitors; our place in the year group directly affects our chances of getting the training job we want.

At a wedding I attended recently (two doctors were getting married, so about 80% of the guests were also doctors), a urology registrar told me that "medical students are a constant dichotomy of pride and insecurity," and it is true. I am so proud of getting as far as I have done, and yet, I am regularly terrified at the thought that they may discover that I am not worthy of my place, that I am not as good as all the other students. This is partly because my degree is in an arts subject, and hard science has never come easily at the best of times (let alone after six years of neglect), but largely it is something we all feel, because medicine is all something we want to be involved in very deeply. I suppose that is why I have decided to keep a blog: I have just found out that I have passed my first set of exams, so I feel much less of a fraud, and that I may just manage to hold on to this place; so I should treasure the memory of it while it is mine to keep.

Tomorrow I have an unpleasant, yet necessary task to complete, and unfortunately it is not my homework. Although there is that, too. There is always homework.