After the turmoil and shock of my first professional MBBS examination, I couldn’t wait to get away from the school environment and experience the widely talked about long break that marked the end of 300 level. The back-to-back, nerve-wracking MB exams drained me. I had the manageable integrated paper on Monday, the dreaded anatomy on Tuesday, the chaotic biochemistry on Wednesday, and then writing the bulky physiology on Thursday. Friday and the weekend were barely enough for me to prepare for the rat race called steeplechase practical exams. Now that that’s over, I needed to leave school for some peace and fun at home.
I went home feeling like a clinical student, glad to have put the boring (inconsequential) and tedious part of medicine behind me. Or so I thought. Two weeks into my holiday, I got very bored. I realised I was so used to the hustle and bustle of medical school, the constant lectures, the library visits, and sleepless nights. The exam-induced anxiety I hated feeling became something I craved. I realised how much of a structure school gave me. I filled my days with novels and mindless social media scrolling. I knew I could not continue spending my days like this. I had to do something about it. Something urgent.
I thought about buying my clinical textbooks and tools, the ones that would officially mark me as a clinical medical student. Notice how I keep saying clinical; I was so excited to finally be in the hospital, wear my ward coat and accessorise with my stethoscope. I bought my stethoscope and I just knew I had to use it on people. I started with my parents and neighbours, but I soon got tired of doing just that. They also got tired of me listening to their heartbeats multiple times a day. I had to look for somewhere else to direct my ‘clinical acumen.’ It was during one of my rants/ramblings to my friend, Mary, that I discovered clinical observership.
The next week, wearing my excitement on a sleeve, I went to the general hospital where I was born to play doctor. I submitted a letter. I was received warmly and my letter was approved the same day. I was so excited that I asked to start the next day. I was asked to go to the department to introduce myself to the doctors. Little did I know that I was in for a long day.
While I was busy and happy introducing myself, an emergency came in. A bus with corps members had an accident, and it was pretty serious. There were different types of injuries, from mild bruises to serious fractures. I stepped back to observe the chaos and allowed the doctors to do their thing. Meanwhile, I scrambled to link my knowledge of the upper and lower limbs to the fractures that I saw, until someone said, “Ehen, we have a medical student now. Let her come and set a line.”
I knew it couldn’t be me. I looked around and waited for the medical student they were talking about to come out, but they pointed to me. Me, a bloody 300 level student – sorry 400 level, but still. I guess they were deceived by the stethoscope I had around my neck and the fact that I told them I was a clinical student. I couldn’t go back on my words now, couldn’t back out; not amidst the chaos, not after I bragged about being a ‘clinical’ student.
I gathered all the courage I had and asked for a cannula. I was totally clueless and I guess they could tell because a doctor walked up to me and redirected me to help with the other casualties. I cut plasters, passed scissors, held arms and legs and counted pulses. I was enjoying cosplaying as a doctor, until we heard a scream from one of the rooms at the A and E. One of the travellers wasn’t breathing properly. This was someone who was seemingly okay. He was one of the people who walked in while others were carried. I recognised that he was gasping for air, but that was the only thing I knew.
I stood aside and watched as the doctors performed CPR. I wanted to help, but I couldn’t. So I prayed. I prayed that this person would make it. My prayers were interspersed with confusion. I was wondering what could have gone wrong so suddenly. What could have happened to someone who didn’t even look injured?
He died. The patient died. He was far away from home, going to serve his fatherland. Somebody with hopes and dreams, somebody like me. I was so confused, I cried because that was the first time I had seen someone die. I cried and cried and had to be excused from the room. At that moment, I decided that I didn’t want to be a doctor anymore. I didn’t think I’d be able to handle deaths. I wasn’t going to be able to handle it. All the happiness I had, all the positivity I had, everything, ruined by that single moment.
Fast forward to today, I’m in my final year of medical school. I went back one week later to the hospital to continue my observership, and I stayed for three months, thoroughly enjoying my stay and learning a lot. I saw people who came in at the verge of death recover, I saw illnesses resolve, and I saw people get better. I saw the light return to their eyes and I knew I wanted to give people that. I want to be a doctor. That one moment wasn’t going to define my life. Instead, I let it teach me, I let it prepare me. I’m supposed to be a doctor after all.
As narrated by: Aramide Olaleleye (Ilorin, Nigeria).
This snippet is published as part of the series, Surviving Medical School.
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Amazing write-up.