‘YOU’RE A SCHOLAR NOW, YOU’LL BE FINE’

It’s 1 a.m. I’m restless. Panicking. I can’t reach my mum. I need to reach her. No, don’t get me wrong, nothing’s wrong with her. It’s me. Everything is wrong with me. I’m a 400-level medical student in my Block 1 Pathology posting. Exams start tomorrow. Microbiology and Haematology. Ten months into this level. Nine exams are behind me already; Intro to Clerkship, Introductory Pathology, Haematology, Microbiology, Chemical Pathology, Morbid Anatomy, Pharmacology A and B, Medicine 1, Surgery 1. Each one a small death and resurrection. 

I lived through the days, the weeks, the months… barely. Classes start by 8 am and sometimes end by 9 pm. Sometimes, there are classes on weekends. Practicals. Ward rounds. Clinics. Calls. Clerkings. Seminars. Then exams. Always exams. Block 1 Pathology begins tomorrow. Over ninety topics in six weeks. Classes till the Friday before, and even yesterday. And yes, you’re somehow supposed to read everything before the exam.

I managed fine in the previous postings. Well enough, if I say so myself. I even had distinctions—small trophies that now feel like traps. I could pretend they don’t add extra pressure, pretend I’m calm, composed, unbothered. Pretend I don’t have this renewed fear of falling short. Pretend I wouldn’t care if I did. But that’s the thing—success breeds new fear. In addition to fearing failure itself, you start fearing falling from where you stand, too.

Today, I read Morbid from 7 a.m. to 4 p.m. Then Microbiology till 11. Slept for an hour. Now it’s midnight. I should start haematology. But I can’t. Nothing sticks. Words slide off my mind like rain on glass. I visit a colleague’s room; they tell me, “You’re a scholar now, you’ll be fine.” It’s the usual, but I’m not fine. I’m falling apart.

Back in the hostel corridor, I pace. Back and forth. Trying to push the knowledge into my skull. But my mind is full, or maybe it’s empty.

It’s past one now. Twenty topics untouched. I whisper to myself—I’m going to fail.

I reach for my mum’s number. It rings. She doesn’t pick. It’s 1 a.m., of course, she’s asleep. I call my dad instead. He picks. Frightened and in tears, I ask for Mum. She comes on the line, half-awake, half-asleep. I cry, I tell her everything.

She listens.

She prays.

Tells me to make warm tea, sleep, and leave it in God’s hands. 

I obey. Sleep like a stone till 3 a.m. Wake with guilt. Still no Haematology. But it’s fine. Or maybe I’ve given up.

I write the exams. Survive the next day—Chemical Path and Morbid. Dad comes to take me home. 

I collapse on the bed, lifeless. Mum wakes me for food. Half-asleep, I mumbled toxic school stuff… She laughs softly. I sigh. It was nice. Short, but nice.

Less than five months left in the level. Approximately 12 more papers ahead. Block 1 Pharm, Block 2 Heme, Micro, Chempath, Morbid, Block 2 Pharm. MB Heme, Micro, Chempath, Morbid, MB Pharm, Practicals. I could just say “Pathology,” but that would be dishonest. Each one is a world of its own.

It never got easier. The school environment itself became the weight. I couldn’t read in class, hostel, or anywhere near the campus. Prepared for most exams from home—even MB. Survived, somehow. But I was never the same.

I resumed two weeks later for the next level. I tried again. Failed again. Worse. Couldn’t attend classes or clinical activities. Couldn’t read, focus, or care. Started coming from home. Stayed two months that way. I prepared for the exam from home again. It didn’t get easier.

But I survived. Thanks to God. To my family. To friends. To the quiet grace that carries us when we can’t carry ourselves. I’m in 600 level now. It’s still hard. But I’m here. Still surviving.

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As narrated by: MJ Oremeyi (Ilorin, Nigeria).

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This snippet is published as part of the series, Surviving Medical School.