Where am I headed? I'm in the twilight of my twenty-something years, and I'm still loitering. Despite the fact that I do now know where I want to go, my feet shuffle side to side, instead of moving me forward. I blame the Muses for not inspiring me to finish my application. Maybe it's because my two prior attempts have gotten me nowhere. Maybe it's because it's summer and it's just too hot to do anything. But I must press on and march on. I must. It is my dream.
In the meantime, I want to share with you all one application essay that failed to get me into a medical school. I would like to hear from you, readers, what I should have said to make me look attractive to a medical school admissions committee.
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A cool raindrop hits my hot sweaty face, slides down my cheek only to fall to the road below that takes me through Wakayama Prefecture, Japan. I am on a journey, a bicycle journey that epitomizes my life experiences thus far. This solitary journey, with all the challenges I've wholeheartedly tackled, leaves me hungering for another, one that extends beyond myself into the realm of affecting the lives of others. Indeed, traveling across the field of medicine is vastly different from a bike ride in a foreign country. Yet, I can’t but think back on that rainy morning, feeling the same drive that energized my legs; I am looking ahead, wanting to move forward to the challenges: confronting new roads and unknown terrain, overcoming my own perceived limitations, and discovering my interdependence to the world around me.
Biking south on route 42, I discovered that I needed to take many swigs of my sports drink and take the landscape as it came. The same can be said about the field of medicine: it is full of new roads and unknown terrain that one must deal with. While rummaging through various weeklies, I came across an article. It described how scientists, using genetic engineering to combat cancer, are inserting DNA with modified viruses used as a transport into abnormal cells, wherein the cells start expressing receptors with a strong affinity for cancer drugs, or in another scenario, the cells begin the sequence of self-destruction. I can also recall a TV news report: the gay men's cancer is not really a cancer, but a new kind of viral disease transmitted through blood or sexual contact; AIDS was finally given its identity. These new roads that medicine pursued—genetic engineering, and medicine was confronted with—AIDS, inevitably have brought society and, indirectly, me as a societal member, to an unknown terrain, where we are asked to face the ramification of these developments. Dolly the cloned sheep and the mapping of the human genome, products of scientific pursuit, have increased the amount of heated debates, such as the ethicality of using new technologies. AIDS have caused various groups, even though many subscribe to a common purpose in fighting AIDS, vying for limited resources due to their vested interests. A multinational pharmaceutical company, to protect its profit margin, refusing to open its drug patents to the poor nations, that direly need a cheaper access to the drugs, is appalling just to watch. But a spectator on the sideline has little influence in deciding which roads to take; those who are in the arena can shape the unknown terrain. Needing to make a difference in society, I want to directly test and try myself in this dynamic field of medicine.
Within a few hours of cycling up a long stretch of mountain road to Yunomine, a hamlet famous for its hot spring baths, my legs tighten. Feeling uncertain about reaching my destination, I utter a Japanese word; and as soon as it leaves my mouth, the word catches me by surprise: "muri." It is a word spoken often by my high school students whenever they think they can't do a simple English activity. Even before I can finish explaining the task, at least one student pipes in, "muri," "it's impossible," he says, undermining his chances for learning and growth, satisfied with his complacency. My shock of uttering "muri" stems from realizing that at that moment I briefly reverted to my high school self, when it was easier to quit than strive. Once I handed in an incomplete AP Economics assignment with a note informing Mr. I, my teacher, that I'd bring him the rest later because, doubting my ability to answer satisfactorily, I gave up. That night, Mr. I had done something no other teachers had ever done: he phoned. He then lectured me about my inexcusable action, continuing that if I had problems, I should have had gone to him for help. His stern yet caring words revealed that, because of doubts about my abilities and fear of asking for assistance, I was indeed denying myself a chance to learn and hampering my potential to grow. The obstacles of my creation are always going to confront me, but being in the midst of these personal struggles, the struggles that give me the awareness and sensitivity to see the similar frailties in others, makes me a stronger person and lets me be a better advocate. As I am trying to inspire my students to break down barriers they've built, I hope to champion my patients' needs and interests.
It's day six, the last day of my road trip. "20km," the road sign reads, to my final destination. As I follow the Arida River downstream, I absorb the view of mandarin grove on the other side of the bank. I reflect back on the last six days, on my stay in Japan, and on my life, treasuring especially the moments I've had with individuals. From the bed-and-breakfast owner, who needed my help taking a reservation from foreign travelers, to M, my student, who, feeling down about her future and needing someone with a similar experience to talk to, came to me, they have all given me a gift. E, a man I chanced upon in Uganda, whose rotting foot was amputated, shares that, as his stump has turned gangrenous, the leg needs cutting off. E, a man who, I believed, needed my comfort, breaks the silence—the one I created while searching desperately for words to give him strength—and with a hardy laugh, assures me, 'I will return to my field when it's all finished and I am happy.' E, then, thanks me saying my listening ears were like medicine. All these people have taught me that I am a social creature who craves to touch and, in return, be touched. I've learned that, in exchange of what I give of myself, I unexpectedly gain much more. I hope this discovery of interdependence will continue throughout my lifetime; I hope to be a physician who gives all he can for the welfare of others.
A friend has once told me that a doctor is a teacher, student, advocate, counselor, but most importantly a healer. His word rings true to me now. A doctor must confront new roads and unknown terrain to learn and to educate. A doctor must overcome his limitations to empathize with others, allowing for genuine counseling and advocacy. But a doctor must, to be a true healer, discover his interdependence to his patient; so he heals, not just a person's physical wound, but also the spirit. Now the sun is setting. The cherry blossoms that only six days ago were buds have fully flowered. The white petals are snowing down on me, hailing my triumphant return, as I dismount my bicycle. After taking a big gulp from the nearly empty 2-liter bottle of Pocari Sweat, I take deep breaths to smell the sweet fragrance of success.
***
Now, on to the new essay... But first, I need a nap.
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