This is an essay which I am entering for a competition, entitled 'What If.' Participants were asked to consider what their lives would be like if they hadn't made the choices in medicine that they have. Enjoy!
What If?
When I was 21, and in my final year of my English degree, a man in his sixties collapsed with cardiac and respiratory failure in the shopping centre where I worked. Without hesitation, I began to perform CPR until the paramedics arrived. It was a strange place to have an epiphany, but, as I tilted back the man’s head and began to breathe for him, for the first time in my life, I realised what I should be spending it doing.
After completing my degree, the thought of studying medicine never left me, but, not having the means to put myself through university a second time, I tried to forget about it and embark on another career that satisfied me. However, after a year, I still could not lay the dream of becoming a doctor to rest, and I made a daunting decision: I left my job to do work experience, and sold my flat in order to finance myself through university. Getting into medical school with an arts degree was not easy, and initially I was not successful; happily, in August, a university offered me a place, and I began the course.
While I enjoy the rigours of the course, there are moments when I wonder what my life would be like if I hadn’t applied for medicine. I see an office job in publishing, or maybe advertising. There are occasional holidays to Italy and France, and eventually, a small two-bedroom semi-detached in the suburbs. I see dinner parties with port nightcaps, and brunches in delis on Saturday mornings. I see pencil skirt suits, and cashmere jumpers, and more shoes than will easily fit in my wardrobe. There are dinners of risotto with asparagus and Parma ham, tomatoes on the vine, roasted with a little olive oil and served with cool mozzarella cheese. I see lazy afternoons spent walking in the park after a Sunday roast, and evenings spent curled up on the sofa with a glass of full-bodied, ruby red Zinfandel, perusing perhaps, the latest edition of Elle magazine.
These days, toast and breakfast cereal have encroached upon most of my meals, and delis are now the enemy, since I can’t afford even a small jar of sun-dried tomatoes. My 2’6” bed takes up the majority of my room, which is more fittingly described as ‘draughty shoebox,’ and sharing a kitchen with ten other students has provided an introduction to microbiology earlier than anticipated. My budget for shoes has decreased dramatically, with my cherished pair of Converse trainers finally succumbing to two terms’ near-constant wear and unravelling at the seams. Jumpers are infinitely more likely to have been made from the fleece of the acrylic sheep than they are to have come from any actual animals. Purchases of glossy magazines have also been severely curtailed, and evenings are usually spent staring at textbooks and writing notes in scruffy handwriting until either cramp or exhaustion set in.
In short, I am poor and overworked, with ever-decreasing employment and financial prospects. I have never been happier. I believe the life I would have led, while probably more profitable and certainly comfortable, would have been a life with little fulfilment, and even less purpose. It is true that medical students entering the profession are facing a more testing time of things than in former years; rising debt, the lack of accommodation for F1 doctors, and the shortage of training placements being just three of the recent difficulties to befall new doctors. However, I think it is easy to forget how privileged we are; we are able to spend our days getting to know new people, in a job which is challenging and constantly changing. Bu it is more than that: we go to sleep at night with the certain knowledge that we made a difference to someone’s life, whether it was a life-saving intervention, a difficult diagnosis, or simply relieving pain. I am often asked by family and friends, given the current climate for new doctors, whether I regret embarking on this career change. My answer is always no – I miss my creature comforts, but I think I’d miss my future more.
When I was 21, and in my final year of my English degree, a man in his sixties collapsed with cardiac and respiratory failure in the shopping centre where I worked. Without hesitation, I began to perform CPR until the paramedics arrived. It was a strange place to have an epiphany, but, as I tilted back the man’s head and began to breathe for him, for the first time in my life, I realised what I should be spending it doing.
After completing my degree, the thought of studying medicine never left me, but, not having the means to put myself through university a second time, I tried to forget about it and embark on another career that satisfied me. However, after a year, I still could not lay the dream of becoming a doctor to rest, and I made a daunting decision: I left my job to do work experience, and sold my flat in order to finance myself through university. Getting into medical school with an arts degree was not easy, and initially I was not successful; happily, in August, a university offered me a place, and I began the course.
While I enjoy the rigours of the course, there are moments when I wonder what my life would be like if I hadn’t applied for medicine. I see an office job in publishing, or maybe advertising. There are occasional holidays to Italy and France, and eventually, a small two-bedroom semi-detached in the suburbs. I see dinner parties with port nightcaps, and brunches in delis on Saturday mornings. I see pencil skirt suits, and cashmere jumpers, and more shoes than will easily fit in my wardrobe. There are dinners of risotto with asparagus and Parma ham, tomatoes on the vine, roasted with a little olive oil and served with cool mozzarella cheese. I see lazy afternoons spent walking in the park after a Sunday roast, and evenings spent curled up on the sofa with a glass of full-bodied, ruby red Zinfandel, perusing perhaps, the latest edition of Elle magazine.
These days, toast and breakfast cereal have encroached upon most of my meals, and delis are now the enemy, since I can’t afford even a small jar of sun-dried tomatoes. My 2’6” bed takes up the majority of my room, which is more fittingly described as ‘draughty shoebox,’ and sharing a kitchen with ten other students has provided an introduction to microbiology earlier than anticipated. My budget for shoes has decreased dramatically, with my cherished pair of Converse trainers finally succumbing to two terms’ near-constant wear and unravelling at the seams. Jumpers are infinitely more likely to have been made from the fleece of the acrylic sheep than they are to have come from any actual animals. Purchases of glossy magazines have also been severely curtailed, and evenings are usually spent staring at textbooks and writing notes in scruffy handwriting until either cramp or exhaustion set in.
In short, I am poor and overworked, with ever-decreasing employment and financial prospects. I have never been happier. I believe the life I would have led, while probably more profitable and certainly comfortable, would have been a life with little fulfilment, and even less purpose. It is true that medical students entering the profession are facing a more testing time of things than in former years; rising debt, the lack of accommodation for F1 doctors, and the shortage of training placements being just three of the recent difficulties to befall new doctors. However, I think it is easy to forget how privileged we are; we are able to spend our days getting to know new people, in a job which is challenging and constantly changing. Bu it is more than that: we go to sleep at night with the certain knowledge that we made a difference to someone’s life, whether it was a life-saving intervention, a difficult diagnosis, or simply relieving pain. I am often asked by family and friends, given the current climate for new doctors, whether I regret embarking on this career change. My answer is always no – I miss my creature comforts, but I think I’d miss my future more.
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