I was ten years old when I categorically informed my parents while on the Oxford Open Tour Bus that I would study medicine here one day. My mother the General Practitioner shook her head and wondered if I would then settle down with a Pakistani; Daddy the Haematologist simply asked who was gonna pay for it. (Pass; why, you, Father!).
I've aimed for little else. I didn't plan on winning the National Debates; I had entered merely to gain experience. The National Poetry Competition was an even bigger fluke, having written a crap piece purposely to avoid selection (I was on commitment overload due to debating). The black belt fell into my lap after years of attendance and instructing, and I was Head of Student Council only because Rani voted for me rather than herself (there was a difference of one vote between us).
The future is fast approaching the present. Yesterday's Tomorrow is here today, Yesterday's Today just fades away, Still Today's Tomorrow is yet to come... There is a plan. Unfortunately, those things require implementation in an unpredictable, sometimes hostile environment. I'm daunted by my To Do list:
- Complete dissertation on Gulf War Syndrome
- Finish Degree in Physiological Sciences this year
- Graduate from Oxford
- Attend Clinical School
- Become fluent in Arabic/French
- Work for Red Cross where there's a conflict
- Specialise in Trauma
- Teach at a Medical School
- Write lots of relevant, interesting articles
Hypothetically, it makes sense. My dissertation fits, I scored a high mark in my recent Systems Physiology paper, a hundred and fifty others are also graduating with a degree in Physiological Sciences from Oxford this year, loads of people speak French and/or Arabic, "War is Peace", and thus the need for Trauma Specialists, tutors do exist, and I'm literate.
But so much can go so badly wrong. Am I justified in being cautiously pessimistic, or is this an extended case of Med Student Syndrome?
Though not one to confuse pop lyrics for profound thought, I feel like Annie Lennox:
This is the fear, This is the dread, These are the contents of my head.
I've landed an incredible opportunity to work in an A&E in Lahore over Christmas break. I'm toying with the possibility of focusing my dissertation on a comparison between the prevailance of Gulf War Syndrome in Pakistani and British soldiers serving in the Middle East in the early Nineties; this requires cutting through some seriously sticky red tape.
And where's my motivation? Hovering around the vending machine. Need chocolate.
