be authentic. Gradually, then, the lab was getting less of my attention as my life became consumed with school. It took every available ounce of energy and discipline to stay focused on my classes. With a single-mindedness that was new for me, I forged ahead, concentrating on getting through one subject at a time. I barely stopped long enough to take a breath. Years flew by—until it was time for the MCATs.
I was never good at taking computerized multiple-choice tests, particularly when my future depended upon them. The pressure surrounding the MCATs, the equivalent of college SATs, was enormous. I would have to score extremely high in order to be accepted into medical school. Packed into the UCLA student union with a thousand other students, I spent eight grueling hours taking the test. By the time it was over, I'd lost faith in myself. On that same night, certain that I'd failed, I returned to my grammar school, climbed the steps, and sat down.
Alone, my legs drawn up to my chest in fetal position, I rocked back and forth, wishing I were a child again, trying to put this harrowing day behind me. I gazed across the street at the house I used to live in as a child. The lights were on, making it look warm and inviting, and I wanted to run inside. Remembering the tiny vegetable garden I'd planted with my father in the front yard, I broke down and wept cleansing tears that had been bottled up for a long time. Huddled on the steps, engulfed in memories and caressed by them, I felt calm again. As I got up and walked away, my strength had been renewed.
My fears turned out to be unjustified. I was accepted at Hahnemann Medical School in Philadelphia, the alma mater of both my parents. For them, this was almost too good to be true. I had turned my life around. They not only paid for my school tuition and housing but also offered emotional support. So in late August of 1975, I packed up my van and my black Labrador retriever, and we drove to the East Coast.
My new home was a studio apartment in an old converted 1920s brownstone with art deco trim. It was directly adjacent to the Philadelphia Art Museum and across the street from a two-story Catholic convent. My window looked directly into the convent's front garden, giving me an unobstructed view of a pure white life-size statue of Jesus. In the winter, the statue would often be half buried in snow. I liked to think it was watching over me.
The first few months of medical school elicited great resistance. Nothing in my life looked familiar; I felt I had been swallowed by a black hole. My days were regimented, planned down to the last minute, so much more rigid than pre-med had ever been. In the early mornings, my only time for myself, my dog and I would walk through Fairmount Park and watch the crew teams rowing past the banks of dogwoods and azaleas down the Schuylkill River.
During this period, I was afraid that a part of me was dying. The more I struggled to hold on to my once crystal-clear psychic images, the farther away they seemed to be. At the lab, I had fought hard to reclaim them; they had become a lifeline. But the rigid discipline of medical school seemed to be undoing the progress I'd made. I was caught in a bind, so conflicted that the countless facts I needed to memorize for class wouldn't stick in my mind. The more anxious I became, the tighter I clamped down. Then I failed my first biochemistry test. I was floundering and needed some help.
Angels come in the most unlikely packages. Daniel was an Orson Welles look-alike with a laugh that shook his entire body. The lab assistant in my anatomy class, Daniel supervised the dissection of our cadavers. Soon after we met, we started dating. Once again, a strong man had shown up to be the bridge from one phase of my life into another. Daniel had a wild sense of humor, and I trusted him far more than the medical school philosophy in which we were both immersed.
From the start, I despised anatomy. I was furious that the
I was never good at taking computerized multiple-choice tests, particularly when my future depended upon them. The pressure surrounding the MCATs, the equivalent of college SATs, was enormous. I would have to score extremely high in order to be accepted into medical school. Packed into the UCLA student union with a thousand other students, I spent eight grueling hours taking the test. By the time it was over, I'd lost faith in myself. On that same night, certain that I'd failed, I returned to my grammar school, climbed the steps, and sat down.
Alone, my legs drawn up to my chest in fetal position, I rocked back and forth, wishing I were a child again, trying to put this harrowing day behind me. I gazed across the street at the house I used to live in as a child. The lights were on, making it look warm and inviting, and I wanted to run inside. Remembering the tiny vegetable garden I'd planted with my father in the front yard, I broke down and wept cleansing tears that had been bottled up for a long time. Huddled on the steps, engulfed in memories and caressed by them, I felt calm again. As I got up and walked away, my strength had been renewed.
My fears turned out to be unjustified. I was accepted at Hahnemann Medical School in Philadelphia, the alma mater of both my parents. For them, this was almost too good to be true. I had turned my life around. They not only paid for my school tuition and housing but also offered emotional support. So in late August of 1975, I packed up my van and my black Labrador retriever, and we drove to the East Coast.
My new home was a studio apartment in an old converted 1920s brownstone with art deco trim. It was directly adjacent to the Philadelphia Art Museum and across the street from a two-story Catholic convent. My window looked directly into the convent's front garden, giving me an unobstructed view of a pure white life-size statue of Jesus. In the winter, the statue would often be half buried in snow. I liked to think it was watching over me.
The first few months of medical school elicited great resistance. Nothing in my life looked familiar; I felt I had been swallowed by a black hole. My days were regimented, planned down to the last minute, so much more rigid than pre-med had ever been. In the early mornings, my only time for myself, my dog and I would walk through Fairmount Park and watch the crew teams rowing past the banks of dogwoods and azaleas down the Schuylkill River.
During this period, I was afraid that a part of me was dying. The more I struggled to hold on to my once crystal-clear psychic images, the farther away they seemed to be. At the lab, I had fought hard to reclaim them; they had become a lifeline. But the rigid discipline of medical school seemed to be undoing the progress I'd made. I was caught in a bind, so conflicted that the countless facts I needed to memorize for class wouldn't stick in my mind. The more anxious I became, the tighter I clamped down. Then I failed my first biochemistry test. I was floundering and needed some help.
Angels come in the most unlikely packages. Daniel was an Orson Welles look-alike with a laugh that shook his entire body. The lab assistant in my anatomy class, Daniel supervised the dissection of our cadavers. Soon after we met, we started dating. Once again, a strong man had shown up to be the bridge from one phase of my life into another. Daniel had a wild sense of humor, and I trusted him far more than the medical school philosophy in which we were both immersed.
From the start, I despised anatomy. I was furious that the
Similar Books
