“I am capable and ready to begin.”
Sounds trite, doesn’t it? What slush pile did that come from?
Dr. Allan M. Block
Actually, it was the closing sentence of the 1988 “personal statement” I wrote for my medical school applications. (I applied to something like 25 schools, maybe more.) Come to think of it, I suspect my father came up with that line.
Have you read your personal statement since you became an attending? It’s like a letter from an alternate universe, where you weren’t a doctor, weren’t sure you’d ever be one, and were trying very hard to sound confident in the face of an uncertain future.
Mine began in a melodramatic way, emphasizing what I’d seen as an emergency department volunteer. When I wrote it I thought I’d be an ED doc, and never imagined that years later I’d be doing something entirely different – and loving it.
Having the opportunity to go back and talk to our younger selves is a common trope in movies, but in real life reading something like this is as close as it gets. But it’s still neat. It brings back not who you are, but who you were. Reminds you why you wanted to be a doctor, when you were younger, probably more naive, and felt medicine was a calling, not a job.
Do you still feel that way, after years of paperwork, insurance games, a mortgage, a family, defensive medicine, your own health changes, and all the other things life and the often-jaded medical field bring?
I hope the answer is still yes.
On my first day at Creighton Medical School, our dean – the late William L. Pancoe, PhD – gave us a “go get ‘em!” speech. His main theme was that we should “wear sneakers and hit the ground running” on day 1, because otherwise we’d never catch up. But he also told us to remember and hold on to the feeling we had when we got our first medical school acceptance letter. That feeling of relief, joy, the realization that we’d been given a chance to make our dream come true. He told us that feeling might be all that would get us through the long nights of studying, the occasional failures, the self-doubts, and all the other things in the 4 years to come.
Dean Pancoe, you were absolutely right. Today I’m older than you were when you gave us that speech. My only additions would be:
1. Don’t just hold onto that feeling for medical school, but for life.
2. Always keep one copy of your personal statement (even if in your picture you were wearing hideous 1980s-style glasses, like mine). Keep it in your work desk, not in the bottom of a filing cabinet or scrapbook. Read it at least once a year. It’ll take maybe 2 minutes. You have that much time to spare.
Because
Dr. Block has a solo neurology practice in Scottsdale, Ariz.