Or if it’s not hate, it’s frustration. *Severe* frustration. For me, it usually starts out externally: “I hate histology! I hate the spleen!” Then it becomes irrational: “I hate med school! I can’t stand all this work!” And finally, personal: “I hate not knowing! I hate being clueless!”

For today, my dear friends, I began to hate med school.

Now, I know it’s fleeting, and temporary–my demeanor wouldn’t allow anything else–but my frustration grew by leaps and bounds, out of seemingly nowhere. Yesterday was fine. I remember telling a friend “med school’s not as bad as undergrad.” (I know realize I only said this because the topics we had covered had been mostly review and refresher.) I should’ve predicted this as I read today’s histology the night before. I was already struggling to understand the lymphatic system, and class wasn’t much better. We were looking for cellular components of slides that were infinitely indecipherable. You look at a microscope for so long, and the dark pinks merge with the light purples and everything just becomes a blur.

Then came anatomy; the dissections seemed reasonable enough in lecture: examine the posterior and superior mediastinum–find the major blood vessels and nerves. Reality’s always a little different story. When your body is tumored from the lungs out, and fat and scar tissue covers the part you’re trying to dissect, it becomes a mess of tubes, connective tissue, and confusion. I felt completely helpless; I was so lost that I couldn’t even hazard a _guess_ as to what I was viewing. Is this the vagus nerve? Or maybe it’s the phrenic? Is this fascia or hemiazygos vein? And then tumor after tumor after tumor. (It always makes it much worse when the TA or professor comes over and probes exactly to the right spot. You tell yourself “they’ve done this before,” but it still doesn’t help your ego.)

I got to the point where I just about gave up. I started picking at a blood clot in the vena cava, wondering how I got myself into this mess. Spending my early twenties cleaning out a hearty blood clot, hundreds of miles away from the guy I love, picking through connective tissue, staring at cells through a microscope that mean nothing to me. With formaldehyde fingers, an awakening on the wrong side of the bed, and my expectation that I generally know my stuff, I wonder if I’m going down the right path.

I know I’ll wake up tomorrow feeling completely different, but right now I’m a little overwhelmed (and I know it’ll only get worse). I can’t help but fast-forward to Bard-Parker’s recent frustrations and wonder if I’ll feel the same way. I’m just trying to keep everything in perspective –and remember that I’ve still got friends and family, a roof over my head, food in my stomach, my sanity, my health, and many other things that most of the world–or even the country–don’t.

Update 2004 : I noticed a bunch of people are finding this entry through Google. Just to let you know, I don’t hate med school at all. It was just a difficult time–I think something most med students probably go through. Just like everything else, the feeling passed. I’m enjoying med school.

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