Had I known that I could pay $23,000 per year to feel genuinely stupid on a daily basis, I would have started graduate school years ago. In fact, I tried. Rejected by every medical school to which I applied in 2010, I had given up hope of ever becoming a physician. I filed it away in the back of my mind, decided not to retake the MCAT, and did the best to talk myself out of a career in medicine. But like most decisions that carry a certain level of gravity and personal conviction, it continued to eat away at me for a few years. So in an effort to quiet the nagging voice, I applied last-minute to a master’s program at Philadelphia College of Osteopathic Medicine, which unofficially acts as a foot-in-the-door for its medical college.
Despite hoping for a fresh start, grad school has been a complete nightmare. Over the years, I have seen friends, colleagues, and coworkers go through school-related breakdowns. Tears were shed, breakups ensued, and mental stability became a fleeting privilege reserved only for weekend nights at the bar. But magically upon graduation, it transformed into a learning experience that came with fond reflections. I thought, “How bad could it really be?”
Here is what I have learned so far: graduate school is a bitch. By design, my strengths are not in science and math, which is probably why I find writing “fun.” (Sick, right?) I got lost in 7th grade when they threw in that second variable to equations. I haven’t recovered since.
Most of my classmates have science backgrounds, are fresher-faced, and have previous exposure to the material we are learning. Through years of practice in undergrad, while I was reading books and writing papers, they mastered the bane of my existence: multiple choice testing. I’m a concepts guy, while science is detail-oriented.
I’ve barely passed most of the exams I’ve taken thus far and I’ve managed to fail a few. I am going to have to repeat a class next year. My professors, while supportive, have also reinforced the fact that I am a bit crazy to undertake a science program with my humanities background. One suggested that my mind just doesn’t function as well as the minds of my younger classmates, and then followed that confidence booster with, “Well, you did manage to get the lowest grade in the class.” Zing! Point to you, Professor Brightside. Repeated poor performance has elicited and worsened anxiety, which has led to stress-related stomach problems. (I’ll spare you those details.) Needless to say, life since August has not been terribly fun.
What I have learned is that at 30-years-old, I have carried bad academic habits from grade-school forward and realized I do not know how to study. Or at least, I didn’t. A few days before my last exam, something clicked and I could see I had been approaching subject material from the wrong angle. I understood the concepts, but was consistently getting burned by the minute details. While a few days weren’t enough time to relearn the massive volume of material, it will hopefully help moving forward.
Perhaps the most positive and surprising part of this entire shit-show venture has been the incredible support of friends and family. I am not one to ask for help. But upon detailing my struggles to my classmates and mentor, there has been an outpouring of help through sharing notes, spending time reviewing, going to the lab together, and offering a kick in the ass when I’m tired. While I won’t call anyone out in a public forum, to those who have gone the extra mile, you have my utmost gratitude.
One person I will call out, however, is my girlfriend, Liz. Without her support, I would probably be living in a cardboard box somewhere along the Schuylkill, likely forced to eat the dog. (Literally, she pays all the bills.) Liz selflessly uprooted her life in DC, came to Philly without a job, and agreed to support me once she landed a new gig. And if that wasn’t enough, she listens to every gripe I have, helps me to look at situations from a different view, and reminds me when I’m being unreasonable, a role I’ve learned to play quite well since school started. And for that patience and love, I can’t say enough.
While graduate school has not been a fun endeavor academically, I do love PCOM, most of the faculty, and especially the friends I have made through the program. Those I know at other institutions have stories of cut-throat environments, awful classmates, and even worse faculty and administration. I feel fortunate to be free of those burdens.
So now I suppose it is up to me. This ship will either float or sink. Perhaps it is a result of this being my first real challenge academically, but I find it disappointing it has taken me twenty-plus years to finally give a hoot about my performance. But better late than never, as my motivation and determination has strengthened with each progressive failure. I commend those who have made it through challenging academic programs, especially with the added hardships of children, financial difficulties, and health problems to name a few. You serve as an inspiration for those of us who have it much easier.
This may be the last blog post for a week or two, as efforts are spent elsewhere. Ideally, the next post will be some “Rudy”-esque success story. And if not, hopefully some of you are hiring…