First year of medical school, we were forced to take one humanities course. I chose Medicine and Literature.
Our teacher was a retired Dean of Medicine. Bald as a basketball, round spectacled, and perpetually bow-tied, he could enter the room and own your respect without saying a word. Still cycling, he was spryer than us and owing to his appreciation of literature, infinitely more sage. His affirmations got you believing you were the next Chekhov.
The prospect of what I was in for—another three years of medical school and three or more years of residency—was only just dawning on me. I had existential questions about my future. He was the person to ask them.
After one of his lectures, I asked, “When did you feel like a doctor?” I needed to know. I saw no summit on my hike up the medicine mountain.
“I’d say I felt competent and not absorbed with doubt about myself”—he tapped an index finger to pursed lips—”by the end of third year of internal medicine residency.”
We were speechless. He chuckled. “Just trust it. One day it’ll get better.”
I rely on his perspective often. Since I embarked on this new career trek, competency has seemed continents away. Some days, it seems I’ve forgotten how to walk. But recently—two and half years down this new path—the woods are starting to open up. On the horizon, a summit, possibly my summit, is jutting through above the clouds. And I know I’ll stand upon it, and feel better, with just a little more time.
To livin’ a life we love,
Ryan Fightmaster, MD