A View From The Other Side
My first contact with medical school of any sort was when the girl with whom I was forming a long-distance relationship (I’ll call her Mel, because that’s her name and she’s going to read this and it would look weird if there was another name here) was accepted at BUSM. It was very exciting for her and everyone close to her. It’s kind of like if a family member’s band suddenly has a top-40 hit and the future looks limitless. From the outside world, the medical world looks very glamorous, if only because what we laymen know about it we learned from Grey’s Anatomy and ER.
After Mel’s first year, we spent the summer together. At that point, med school is like college. Lots of lectures, summers off, personal relationships still intact. That summer, she worked an internship during the days and by night accompanied me to the ballpark to take in some minor-league baseball in Montana. It was a rehearsal of sorts, something to coax me into moving to the big city. It worked, and even though Mel warned me about how crazy things might get in the years to come, I pulled the trigger.
The first two weeks were great, mostly because Mel wasn’t in school yet. We spruced up our apartment. We went on camping and kayaking trips. I met the people who had been waiting for Mel to become part of a couple, which she welcomed; being an extra wheel is nobody’s idea of fun. One of our new couple friends were even med students. It seemed so easy to fit in with such an up-and-comer on my arm.
Then second year started.
Mel hit the books hard, right from the start (I remember hearing the word Endocrine fairly often). It surprised me, since house parties were my lecture-hall of choice during college. Studying is something she excels at and after seeing what it got her, the case for studying is pretty strong. However, that much book time does have its drawbacks. I found myself watching TV alone more than I’d expected, while her note cards piled up by the thousands (maybe even millions). This was part of my first lesson: when you move to a big city where you don’t really know anyone, it’s good to have a job lined up before you show up. The money I had saved dried up quickly in Boston, a town known for its high cost of living. And if you don’t have money, it’s hard to make friends, since you can’t afford to do some of the things other people your age take for granted.
My best move at that point was to get a job and meet some people. I became a temp. It wasn’t perfect, but I met lots of great people and made a little money. Now all those expenses weren’t weighing on us so heavily. Mel was able to concentrate on her studies (I recall something about Infectious Disease), though she still had plenty to deal with. Our windows had the windstopping power of a screen door; winter was highlighted by her bundled in multiple blankets talking to herself before a big test. I was able to take her to dinner once in a while, though we remained a beans-and-rice couple for awhile. Then we made the decision to downgrade our apartment and save ourselves some money.
Which took our attention up until springtime, when it was time for Step 1. This was one of the most lonely of the year, I think for both of us. Mel spent as much time as possible (which, I’m serious, is a long time) at the library or coffee shop, buried in a First Aid book. I got a real job and found my way onto a softball team. Mel passed the test and I got excited for a summer full of fun.
But, to my utter chagrin, things change in third year. Summer break is now a thing of the past. It seems like a quaint memory of a time long gone, like recess or whoopie cushions.
Third year, for me, was busy. I had my own friends, I did things away from home. Third year for Mel was a whole different kind of busy. She had no friends, she was never home. It’s hard to keep up any kind of relationship when you’re in a surgery rotation that takes up approximately 26 1/2 hours per day. I wasn’t home as much, but I still felt like I had way too much alone time. At first, I was truly annoyed with the amount of chores I had to do. But then I put myself in Mel’s shoes. Had I been expecting her come home from a day of deliveries (not the kind that use a hand-cart), ready to wash the dishes and make dinner? I learned to cook. I’m no chef, but now when Mel works late, I don’t have to order takeout. It was all part of becoming more self-sufficient, but also building up a stock of goodwill to use later (which I continue to do; you didn’t expect me to go the whole year without using extra work to my advantage, did you?).
And still, after all the dishes were done, after the laundry was folded, I was still bored and alone. So I did what any 20-something male in America would do. I bought an Xbox. Now I was able to “hang out” with friends, even when I was home alone waiting for Mel to drag herself through the door, exhausted. Still, even after all those unending shifts (the word “Ambulatory” has four letters, I think), I know she liked it. She was doing what she wants to be doing. I enjoyed it more, if only for the stories. Third year came and went. It seemed fast to me. Mel says the same thing.
Then things got weird.
Fourth year started and all hell broke loose. Right off the bat, Mel took a month off. A whole MONTH. There was Step 2 and the wedding of a close friend to deal with, with residency applications peppered in here and there for effect. Now, Mel was home all the time. Or not at all. One week she’d be in the bedroom agonizing over her personal statement, the next she’d be out of town. This was before she went to a single class. It was unnerving at best. And it was normalcy, compared to the rest of the year.
Fourth year was a very strange time. I got used to planning things with little input from Mel. If she could make it, great. But I had to assume she’d be in San Francisco, or Albuquerque. If I wanted to go to Cape Cod, I’d go, knowing Mel was just fine in Seattle, or Madison. Even Mel’s classes were weird. They were getting to be so focused that days started to blend into weeks (full of “independent project” this and “geriatrics” that). And then another month off would hit, sending me into another change, and sending her to Minneapolis, or even here in Boston. Mel was a pinball; I was proud of all the places I went that year but Mel made me look like a homebody.
And yet, somewhere in there, we got engaged. We found a group of cities where we’ll both have the potential to be happy, if she gets placed there. The end is almost here and it’s just the beginning. The road has been bumpy and lonesome, and frankly, I see some of those same bumps up ahead in residency. But we made it work once. It wasn’t flawless, but that’s probably for the better. Only one way to find out.
-By Jason Scott
Fiancé of a BU Medical Student
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