By David Chen
Medical school can be stressful. In the preclinical years, we are bombarded with mountains of lectures that leave us feeling constantly behind. When we finally enter our Continue reading
Month: September 2018
Silver Linings
By Anonymous
Sometimes (more like all the time), I wonder whether I’m going to be a good doctor. I’m sure everyone in medical school has thought about this at some point. There’s the constant worry over whether you’re doing the right thing: do I know enough anatomy about the lower limb? How many procedures do I have to do to be excellent? Why isn’t my mindful eating of this chocolate bar working?!?! But sometimes that question can be a bit blunt and you find yourself asking ‘What if I’m not enough?’.
In a spiralling whirlwind of self-doubt, I often find myself thinking of all the reasons I wouldn’t make a good doctor. Sure, these begin with things like ‘I’ve forgotten the entire brachial plexus’ or ‘shoot, I should probably have most of my logbook signed off by this time of year’; but at the end of the day, it always comes back to one thought. How can I be a good doctor when I’m also a patient?
I’ve struggled with mental health issues for the past 7 years, and the stress of medicine most definitely does not help. I’ve seen counsellors and therapists and psychiatrists, tried medications, tried meditation and a heap of other things. After all that though, I’m still here. As a patient. It’s almost laughable how often I feel unqualified as a medical student – how am I supposed to look after other people when I can’t even look after myself? I’m meant to be learning how to help save lives, not contemplating whether my own is even worth living. Everyone expects me to arrive to hospital smiling and ready to engage myself in a wonderful learning opportunity yet some days, I can’t even get out of bed. Some days, I can’t bring myself to shower or eat. Other days, I make it to class but have panic attacks outside where nobody can see me. How can I be a good doctor, when I myself am plagued with a myriad of problems?
Trying to be a doctor, whilst struggling as a patient, is infuriating and heartbreaking and can make you want to give up altogether. But sometimes, there are moments where I am grateful for what I’ve been through. When you come across somebody with your condition, your understanding as a doctor becomes so much more credible. Not only do you understand the medical side of things, you understand what the patient is going through. Your sympathy becomes empathy. In some way, you feel more comfortable because you can relate to them. I remember first learning about mental health in preclinical years, and a simulated patient came in with ‘depression’. I could see the whole class looking at him with sad eyes, feeling sorry for him as he explained how he no longer enjoyed his hobbies and how everything took effort and seemed like a chore. As he continued to act, I wanted to nod along and say ‘I get it! I really do!’. I wanted to repeat the phrase ‘I understand things have been difficult for you’, but actually mean it this time because I did. I did understand! I was finally able to find an upside to my depression, and it was actually going to help me become a better doctor.
Being a patient and having a life-altering condition can seem like the most annoying and inconvenient thing at times. I wouldn’t wish ill health on anyone, but I guess once you’ve got it, flaunt it. Sometimes, it’s not such a terrible thing after all.
If you or someone you know, be it a friend or a colleague, have had a difficult time and wish to seek further help or assistance, you can call LifeLine Australia on 13 11 14, Suicide Callback Service on 1300 659 457, Victorian Doctor’s Health Program on 9495 6011 or visit beyondblue here and headspace here.
Say Cheese
by Joyce Ling
Smiles were incompatible with black, but that’s not why I never wore one. It felt too personal, too intimate to show someone all your teeth, no matter how white or stained, how neat or braced. It felt like your whole soul was on display, pure and thoughtless feeling. And it’s fucking terrifying, being vulnerable like that.
I loved black, once. If you looked in my wardrobe the whole thing would stare back at you, a dark syncytium breathing defiance. Hoodies and jeans, dresses and dress pants. My life was dominated by a single shade of washout, and I accepted it, because I was told it would pass. Just a mood swing, a phase that every teenager goes through. That made me sad, knowing how many of them were probably thinking about it too.
I dressed in the role I perceived myself to have. An intangible, uncertain thing shadowing no one in particular. I was insignificant in this big, big world, a supporting act to other people’s flourishes. Confidence was what I yearned for, and defiance was what I gave. Blatant, resentful attitude. I trampled on my doubts with crude mantras and defied rules, subtly, through thought.
Reading was a way, the way, for me to cope. A world of marvel, dashed with blood from the unvoiced. I learned to fill myself with the stories of other people, walked around in their skin until I was tired, asleep. They say you learn valuable things from reading, like empathy and perspective. That may be true, but sometimes I wish I hadn’t tried so hard to escape from myself. Because the hollow feeling wasn’t just a phase. It was there every time I resurfaced for breath.
Coming to terms with who you are is a long, hard task. No moment is defining in an ultimate way, and I’m thankful for everything, and everyone, that happens to me. Though they might not know it, every, single one of them has helped me discover who I am now. They’re the ones that make me want to resurface despite the initial pain and disappointment. Their energy is the appeal of reality.
I’m grateful that I’m here. A speck amidst a shimmering constellation, small and complete in myself. There are times when I want to go back, hide in a warm black corner and enjoy its comforts. But often now, I find myself beyond that. Walking beside the people I’ve grown close to in light and shade.
I couldn’t replenish the emptiness with lives that weren’t mine, because that space was meant for someone else. Not for any expectation or impression of me, but for the person I am in each, given moment. Expanding with every breath into a new and familiar self.
The Auricle 