By Bowen Xia

Perth Convention and Exhibition Centre. 7 July, 1:35 pm

Hundreds of ‘tired and emotional’ medical students from the nine states and territories murmur in the crowd. In the middle of the stage sits the AMA WA President, AMSA President and other VIPs who could end your medical career with a single email. On the right-hand side sits the acclaimed UWA team whose university has blitzed the Emergency Medical Challenge, Sports Day and Brawniest Medical Student Challenge.  On the left, the battered and beleaguered away team from Monash, whose university has won a grand total of zero competitions (except the most emergencies triggered). All eyes are on what their first speaker has to say. ‘Ladies and gentlemen, there must be mandatory reporting of mental health issues in doctors.’

*Record scratch*

*Freeze frame*

Yup, that’s me. You’re probably wondering how I ended up in this situation and how I have a GCS of above 3 at Convention. But to understand how we got from ‘attending convention’ to convincing important doctors and our future colleagues that we are legally obliged to report them to APHRA at the mention of ‘burnout’, we will have to start at the beginning. And no, I did not pass out from a previous night and then wake up on stage conscripted to the Monash Debating Team.

Before I attended AMSA Convention, it seemed like an exotic event where medical students attended not only to create once in a lifetime memories and friendships but to lose them at the same time, the only remnant being a one-week memory gap and 20 unexplained Ubereats orders. I decided to attend, however, after some convincing from friends and a first-ever excuse for visiting Perth. Thus, I joined the enigmatic MUKEG and decided to place my name down for Convention Debating as a joke. I had debated before, but nothing could have prepared me for Convention Debating, where the aim is not only to destroy your opponent’s arguments but to also inflict third-degree burns on your opponent and their university. Personal attacks, once a reason for disqualification, were now necessary and sufficient for success.

At Perth, I was greeted by a lovely Melbourne weather experience consisting of a heavy downpour mixed in with regrets of not bringing an umbrella. On my arrival at the Convention Centre we were all outfitted in our battle gear for this week, the universally acclaimed Monash Camo, with Monash veterans of many conventions decked with more badges than a North Korean General. The camaraderie was palpable in the air, and I soon learnt the traditions of my Convention forebearers and the ceremonies of my elders, such as the boisterous singing of Monash-themed songs and the sport of ‘rowing’.

One of the amazing therapeutic benefits of Convention was the ability to wake up every day at 7 am – a momentous feat considering my immaculate record of absenteeism at 8 am lectures. All this to prepare for the first debate against Adelaide. The Monash Debating teams of previous years were not well acquainted with success after usually being knocked out in the first round. However, we were miraculously successful. We also witnessed the neurotoxic effects of Adelaide’s water as logic and reason were unheard concepts to them. Yet what they lacked in logic they made up for in their roasting, with one of our speakers repeatedly accused of ‘dressing like a sexual offender’. However, there is no trauma a good social night cannot cure. Each social night was a fascinating concoction of music, flashing lights and dancing. Convention socials allowed me to befriend the same person three times. First cordially before social, second during and third the next day asking if we have met before. I have to admit that I was a heavy drinker during Convention – a heavy drinker of water that is, due to one specific sport, ‘Remier League. If you ever spot a group of your friends slapping their arms and faces and making strange sounds, it’s not a satanic ritual, rather an opportunity to experience a decade-long tradition.

The other reason to wake up at 7 am is to register for the awesome academic workshops. I got to experience being a forensic pathologist, orthopod and a plastic surgeon all without placing any patients at harm. The speakers for the plenaries each day were extraordinary, from gold medallists to comedians, it truly was a Convention of brilliant minds and people.

Through a whirlwind of social nights, academic days, sporting events and unprecedented debating victories, the inevitable day of the finals drew closer. As a result of my contribution to debating I was awarded with the prestigious role of ‘Victoria Guard’. I was in charge of defending her honour and dignity but ultimately, she was harmed. My fall from grace, trial and punishment could warrant a new article but let’s return to the scene.

*Unfreeze frame*

My voice falters for a second. Riverside Theatre is silent. I think I have Broca’s Aphasia. I try to continue. Yet what if I embarrass myself? In front of my future colleagues and senior doctors? Then I remember why we were here and how tirelessly we worked to be on stage. I decide if I embarrass myself it will be because I went ‘all in’, not because I ‘folded’.

A tsunami of words runs through my mouth as I run through our model, arguments and a couple of mild bants against the opposition team. There is a bit of scattered laughter throughout the audience, but I do witness a mild smile from one of the VIPs. I end my speech and the debate continues. Both sides are neck and neck in terms of speakers and soon the adjudicators go to decide. They come out.

‘The winner of today’s debate is Monash’. After a second of making sure it’s not a ‘La La Land moment’ our team goes ecstatic. Proud Monash songs fill the room and I think I see Sir John Monash himself smiling in the audience. But all good things come to an end and convention was no exception. I left Perth with my bag a medal heavier, my heart heavy due to the end of Convention and my brain enlightened with lifelong knowledge, experience and memories.

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Featured image from AMSA (Australian Medical Students Association): https://www.amsa.org.au/blog/perth-convention-2018-management-team-applications 

By Anonymous

Content warning: Sexual assault. Some readers may find aspects of this article distressing.

This first-year feels like the “looks can be deceiving” and the “don’t judge a book by its cover” adages have been used extensively in recent times. Probably because they are accurate and important for exposing individuals to the truth. On the outside, to their friends, this first-year seems bubbly, sarcastic, and always up for a joke. They’re on top of their university work, holding down a part-time job and maintaining a social life. What could be the problem? Everything seems to be falling right into place!

Behind closed doors, however, this same first-year is struggling. A lot. Not because of the stresses of med school. Not because of the crippling anxiety from society telling us we must “fit in”. Not even because of their financial difficulties at home. This first-year is struggling with Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder after being sexually assaulted last year.

It happens to so many people; but it shouldn’t.

This first-year experiences flashbacks of that fateful night last year and cries. They cry and cry and cry until there are literally no tears left. They know it isn’t their fault. They know there isn’t much else they could have done to stop it. They know they have an incredible support network that is truly there for them, no matter what. But it doesn’t always help.

Living with such a debilitating condition is tough. There is such stigma surrounding mental health and too often we, as future medical practitioners, strip the condition back, leaving the individual raw, naked and vulnerable. This first-year recalls an ICL/PBL tutor explaining PTSD as “having bad memories”. Not only did this infuriate this first-year, as the tutor had reduced such a complex combination of thoughts and feelings to merely “bad memories”, but it made this first-year feel invalidated; like their experiences could be stripped down to mere words on a page that miraculously manifest themselves in the anatomy, physiology and pathology of a living, breathing, human. This first-year was just another number next to the name of a condition.

We have become so desensitised to the humanity of medicine. So often this first-year hears “give it time and you won’t be so detached” or “in a couple years you’ll be able to make more rational decisions” or, and this is the worst, “don’t be so emotional”.

This first-year is fed up with being told how to feel. Feeling is natural. It is such an ingrained part of the human psyche that to live without feeling is, in this first-year’s opinion, not living at all. Yes, we are influenced by the clean, crisp whites that surround us in hospital wards. Yes, we are warned of becoming too attached to patients and their lives. But it is reaching the point where we, ourselves, are becoming that sterile, clinical whiteness that surrounds us.

Enough is enough.

This first-year is not trying to tell anyone that the way they cope, process, or understand anything is either right or wrong. Not at all! This first-year is trying to open up a dialogue. A dialogue that attempts to break down taboo points of conversation. A dialogue that aims to strive towards equality and awareness in our community. A dialogue that brings these issues to the surface so we can be cognisant of the fact that these feelings are felt by members of this community and so we can ultimately make a goddamn change!

This first-year will probably cry tonight. They will probably cry and cry and cry until there are no tears left. This first-year’s life will not miraculously improve after letting these feelings out onto this page. But, this first-year’s life will not miraculously end now either. This first-year has a long road ahead and is writing this to begin paving a road that will lead to a more positive future. One with independent thought. One with acceptance and tolerance.

One with feeling.

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If this piece has brought up any issues that may be affecting you, you can contact Lifeline on 13 11 14, the South Eastern Centre Against Sexual Assault (SECASA) on 9594 2289 or the Sexual Assault Crisis Line (SACL) on 1800 806 292.