The Little Things

It was that time of year again; the time of year when snow blanketed front lawns and soft lights twinkled against the backdrop of even softer music. It was that special time of year, when greeting card sales spiked and cliques rolled off the tongue without shame. It was the season of Final Exams.


Ah, Final Exams. The only two words in the English language that, when combined, have the power to bring entire civilizations to their knees. Well, second to Atom Bomb.


If someone had asked me to describe my first Pre-Med quarter in three words, I would have had to say: exhausting, stressful, and difficult. My adjectives should have been: empowering, stimulating, and difficult. I couldn't believe that I was already finished with an entire quarter, so much so that it made my head swell. The loom factor of these upcoming exams made the "final" aspect of them seem much too literal to stomach.

I needed to take a moment to breathe, and was planning on doing so just after I met with my professor to ask some last panicked questions about the final. It was then, while sitting in her uncomfortable folding chair, that I broke under the pressure. Babbling about long midnight shifts and an unsure admission to Medical School, I failed at mentally clawing back tears. She nonchalantly handed me a box of tissues, and patiently waited for me to finish sniffling. "Well then", she finally broke the tension of my outburst, "You better do well on the final".

It was as simple as that. I better do well on the final. "For the next week, eat, sleep, and breathe the material. Don't party. Don't work. Don't think. Just do well on the final, and for Christ's sake stop crying in my office".

Humiliated, yet oddly encouraged, I thanked her for her time and began my cold walk home. And, for the first time in my life, I dismissed everything my brilliant professor had told me. I went home, took a long nap, made gingerbread men with my girlfriends, and spent the next two days simply enjoying the company of my friends. It was the first time in a long time that my gut hurt from laughter rather than stress. I did not eat, sleep, or breathe the material. I ate, slept, and breathed.
I took time for myself and was still able to crack open the books without resorting to building a time machine in my kitchen. The breaking point was my body's way of screaming, "What the hell!?", and I was finally able to reply with a calm, "Don't you worry Body. I'm a doctor. Almost."

Sometimes pure common sense outweighs the prestige of a doctorate, and sometimes laughter really is the best medicine. Or the best way to become a medicine woman.