February, 1988. 2 AM.
I was working the 11-7 night shift as a mental health technician in an inpatient psychiatric hospital at the Eastern Virginia Medical School in Norfolk, Virginia. The charge nurse handed me a patient chart and asked me to take it to the 4th-floor pre-adolescent inpatient unit and give it to the senior psychiatry resident, Dr. Saunders.
In my mind’s eye, I had an idea what this Dr. Saunders looked like: male, young, white coat. Entering the unit, I looked around and he was nowhere to be found. Asking the unit nurse, she pointed to an activity table in the middle of the common area, “SHE’s over there.” Dr. Saunders sat in a tiny youth chair writing in a chart, her knees uncomfortably flexed to accommodate her frame, the chair, and table. She was much older than I expected. Rumpled clothes. Glasses perched on the tip of her nose. Graying hair pulled back into a bun. She looked exhausted.
I handed her the patient’s chart and with time to kill, we began to chat. Small talk initially. I discovered she was 62 years old and would finish her psychiatry residency in June. During the course of our 15-minute conversation, I finally asked her the question at the forefront of my mind– how was it that she was just embarking on a new career as a psychiatrist when most of her age-peers were preparing to retire from theirs?
Her story was compelling. She had been a pre-med sophomore co-ed at the University of Virginia after World War 2. Life happened. She met a GI. They were married. She dropped out of school and raised seven children. In her early fifties, she’s divorced and found herself a single woman again. Kids were grown and had their own lives. Grandchildren were a continent away. A big, lonely, empty house. A big, lonely, empty life. No direction. No vision. She sunk into despair.
In the midst of her despair, a friend and confidante asked her: “Is there one thing you wish you would’ve done differently with your life? If there were ‘do-overs,’ what would you change?”
The answer had nagged her for decades. “I wish I would’ve stayed in school and become a physician.”
“Well, why don’t you go to medical school?” inquired the friend.
“By the time I finish undergrad, med school, and residency, I’ll be in my early 60s!”
“True,” responded the friend. “But how old will you be in 9-10 years if you DON’T do what you’re supposed to do with your life?”
And with that compelling logic, she launched back into her studies and was looking forward to 15-20 years as a psychiatrist, health permitting.
I was 25 years old at the time. Married. 3 young boys and a newborn daughter. Scraping by on a dollar above minimum (late night shift differential), I could barely see meeting next month’s rent, much less pursue my dream–a career in medicine. But somehow, after my short, late-night conversation with Dr. Saunders, the idea of going to medical school did not seem so daunting or crazy. Maybe it wasn’t a pipe dream. I went home that morning after my shift, went to bed, and that evening I cracked open a dusty MCAT study manual. 18 months later I started medical school at the University of Missouri-Columbia.
I tried to track Dr. Saunders down years later to thank her but I was never able to find her. I’m sure she had no idea how pivotal our late night chat was for me.
Dash Stories 