Originally published in Synapse on May 21, 1998.
Waking up to the annoying alarm I've used for the last four years, this morning felt no different than any other. Accustomed to my usual morning fogginess, though blue was filtering through the blinds, I staggered to the sink. Toothbrush in mouth, I began to realize this day was different, my last day of lecture in medical school.
I sat down to Earl Grey and a bagel; finished my take-home ACLS test —the last exam of medical school. Wow! I was rushed to get to lecture on time, a familiar feeling. I hit the street. The sun felt warm on my face. My pace, at first a quick step, gradually slowed. Why was I rushing to the end? The birds were singing. The flowers were ablaze with the colors of spring. It was all so beautiful. I had a hard time taking it in.
I have longed for this day to come for so long. Back in the second year of medical school, I began to fixate on this day. I was very concerned that the stresses I was experiencing might sour me. Would I lose my capacity to empathize?
If that should occur, I would quit medical training in order to regain my humanity and become something else, perhaps a teacher... In Cole Hall, I sit through the final hour, and think, "Lectures can be so painful." The redundant material. The unreality of exams that require answers out of a book.
The frustration of lecturers digressing into stories that illustrate how much experience they have or how great they are for diagnosing some obscure condition. The clock ticks down and experiences flash before my eyes. T-minus two days to graduation. I'll soon be The Doctor, responsible for lives, expected to have the answers. I'm grateful for having made it through, my humanity intact.
I will proudly take it onto the wards and into the emergency department, using it as much as I'll use the knowledge imparted here at UCSF.
— Robert Rosenbloom
