TONY: Just Her Time…

I’ve been trying to remember every piece of this for the last month but time, as it often does, has managed to wipe many of the details away.  I suppose the best way to bring you back with me would be to tell you about the images that I still see when I close my eyes and think of my second day on surgery:  I can hear the cacophony of the bells, whistles, horns, and sirens of each monitor in the ICU room; I can see the heart monitor and watch as the normal rhythm changes suddenly to a pattern of tombstones racing across the screen; I can feel every muscle in my body tiring as I start my sixth round of chest compressions; I can pull my sneaker off of the floor and wonder why I was stuck to the ground for a moment, then realize that the linoleum is covered with blood;  I can hear fluid sloshing around in her lungs and underneath her skin as I pound on her chest; I can see the look of defeat in the eyes of everyone in the room when resuscitation efforts are called off; and I can still sense the stillness in the air of the room in the moments before it all started.

This patient came into the ER the night before for a problem that required immediate surgical intervention.  The surgery was long and reasonably complicated, but the patient was stable when she came out.  She ended up passing away approximately 12 hours after she returned from the operating room.  Within those twelve hours, her blood pressure readings were dangerously low.  Clinically, however, she did not appear as if her BP could possibly be as low as the machines were indicating, so hours were spent replacing cuffs, inserting new lines, and insisting that the blood pressure that we continued to read on the monitors was incorrect.  As it turned out, the blood pressure was being read correctly the entire time.  Every resident and attending racked their brains that afternoon, knowing that something just wasn’t right, but not prepared to second guess their treatment.  After all was said and done, three residents and I sat in the silent room, the patient’s cold body lying on the bed before us, wondering aloud if anything could have been done differently.  Everyone agreed, or perhaps was forced by defeat to agree, that every other path of management would have lead to the same outcome.

I know that this woman was eulogized by somebody, somewhere later that week.  If I know eulogies, much was made of the tragedy of this young woman’s death, but the universal consolation was that it was simply ‘her time’.  Some being greater than us had decided that her life on this earth was over.  Simple, really.  But as you enter the medical field, those consolations start to feel more and more empty.  Was it simply this woman’s time?  Or did your action, or lack of action, your judgment call, your mistake force the hands of the clock?

Welcome to the real part of medical school, kids.

TONY: Bad News

Hello Loyal Readers,

I wanted to take a quick minute to post a reflection piece that I wrote recently about breaking bad news to patients.  As a student on any rotation, you will have to be the one to (or be part of a team that) must deliver bad news, and believe me when I tell you that it is one of the most difficult skills to master.  Some doctors go their entire careers without fully grasping the importance of the subtleties of this delicate patient interaction.  Fortunately for me, I was recently working with a young doctor who, in my opinion, is off to a great start…

Mr. S is a 60 year old African American male, a man who lives with his wife, and is close with his many children.  Mr. S was not my patient, so I did not follow his hospital stay at Emory very closely, but I did round with my resident on him the day that lab tests determined that he had metastatic pancreatic cancer.  When we arrived, Mr. S was downstairs getting an ultrasound done, but his wife and son were in the room.  I remember that they had been sleeping when we knocked—it had been a very long and emotionally draining hospital stay.  Although they had had no idea of the severity of Mr. S’s disease when they arrived a few days ago, the seed had been planted by their medical team that cancer was a very real possibility.
My resident and I knocked and entered the room, greeted the family and both took seats.   The four of us were clustered near the window, looking out on the fading spring sun.  After we made our introductions, my resident told the family what our tests had confirmed.  The family members simply nodded—they had been expecting this.  Their strength, as it appeared to me, was clearly fragile—hanging by a thread.  This made it all the more important that the remainder of this conversation was delivered in a way that respected the fact that the family’s emotional breaking point could occur at any moment.
I felt that my resident negotiated this beautifully.  His tone was always calm, and inviting of questions.  He gave a brief overview of the differences between palliative care and chemotherapy, discussed the merits and drawbacks of both in lay terms that did not condescend.  These are the things that any good doctor should do when delivering bad news.  What I believe was truly special, and what I believe I learned most about, was my residents knowledge of the times when words fail.  There were many breaks in this conversation where there would be no words.  Not because he had asked a difficult question or because anyone had broken out in tears.  It was, quite simply, because there are times in these difficult conversations when silence is more valuable, respectful, and encouraging than words.  My resident knew this, and perhaps more importantly, he did not fear it.  Sometimes we would sit with the family mid conversation for what seemed like an eternity to me, but turned out to only be about twenty seconds, and simply be present.  I felt that I could see the family members digest each piece of life-changing information piece by piece during these pauses.  They asked questions when they felt they needed to, and kept silent when they didn’t.   The entire conversation may have only taken 15 minutes, but I felt that each moment was well spent, and no word was wasted.

Stay tuned, kids.  My next post will chronicle my second (and significantly more epic) trip to Haiti!

TONY: Where In The World Is…

I apologize for the extended absence, but once more the truth is back.  I believe that it has been nigh on four months since my last post.  I promise that I’ve been busy though!  Clearly we have a lot of ground to cover, so I will summarize my life since my last post in succinct bullet-points.  Prepare yourself—this will be a journey:

-    I took Step 1 of the NBME board exam on January 16th.  I know that other bloggers have mentioned this test and alluded to related anxiety/terror.  For those of you who don’t know, this is the first of many exams administered by the National Board of Medical Examiners that one must pass in order to become licensed to practice medicine.  It’s designed to evaluate everything that you’ve learned in the first two years of medical school.  People have been known to spend anywhere between four weeks to three months studying for this test, and the degree of sanity loss that you’ll witness among your classmates during this time is astounding.  Personally, I spent about five and a half weeks studying approximately eight to ten hours a day for six days out of each week.  Then I knocked it out in January so that I’d have six weeks of vacation.  If you have any questions about the experience of studying, feel free to contact me!

-    After the test I skipped town and headed up the coast to Washington DC.  I missed the inauguration by one day, but the spirit of merriment was still in full swing.  A few college friends and I met up for a mini-reunion, and we did our best to leave our mark on the nation’s capital.

-    I learned first-hand that parrots are the absolute worst possible pets.  Ever.  Did you know that in addition to learning how to imitate human sounds, they’re also very skilled at imitating alarm clocks and cell phone ringers?  In fact, they’re so good at these sounds that they often choose to share the full repertoire at the crack of dawn.  Seriously.  Own a goldfish.

-    My next stop was good old NYC, where I relaxed with my Mom, and saw some old friends.  Perhaps most importantly, I ate the best pizza that the world has to offer.  Every day.  Multiple times a day.  For two weeks straight.

-    Next stop:  Las Vegas for four nights.  We all know that what happens in Vegas is fated to remain in that heathen desert city, but I will give you one tiny sliver of a story.  Apparently, according to many Las Vegas residents, this guy:

plus this:

equals this much more famous guy:

And because of this mix-up, everyone was a winner.

-     The final excursion on my world tour was Costa Rica.  I flew into this country a city-dwelling, non-spanish speaking boy.  I returned a zip-lining, volcano-climbing, surfing, wildlife-loving, salsa dancing, occasionally-fluent-in-Spanish man.  I had a bunch of pictures that I’d been meaning to share with you, but unfortunately I lost them when I was robbed on a bus!  Ah well.  As one of my patients this week said, “Ain’t no time to look back, only forward”.  And as the Costa Ricans say, “Pura Vida!”

And now I’m back in Atlanta starting my clinical rotations!  Starting out with Internal Medicine at Grady has kept me quite busy, but I have a lot of thoughts on my experience thus far that I will definitely be sharing with you.

Until next time,

C-Q

TONY: Wayne’s World

Okay, so I feel compelled to stray from my usual verbose and introspective blogging style in favor of getting across some information that is really important.  As a disclaimer, I understand that I may get in trouble for what I’m about to say, and I may incur criticism/disgust/anger from my peers and reading public.  None of that matters.  What does matter is that I have finally figured out the one thing that is terrible about living in Atlanta.  You may ask, “Tony, really?  There’s only one thing?”  Yes, only one thing.  And his name is Lil’ Wayne.

For the uninformed: Lil’ Wayne is the self-proclaimed ‘best rapper alive’.  As a lover of both hip-hop and good things in general, I find myself compelled to disagree with him.  Unfortunately, no matter how hard one tries to avoid him, here in Atlanta Lil’ Wayne will ALWAYS find you.  For example, during my drive to school each morning (an indispensable time of reflection and regeneration of my fragile med student psyche), I will need to endure no less than four “hits” from Lil’ Wayne on the radio.  “Hey Tony, why don’t you just change the station?”  Great idea.  I think I’ll try it.  Oh, here’s a great song by another artist.  I think I’ll continue listening to this song because of it’s refreshingly Wayne-Free sound…Oh, wait—I spoke to soon.  It turns out that Lil’ Wayne is the guest star on every song ever made.  And forget about going out to a nightclub—every night is Wayne night.  If you move to Atlanta, he will spiritually and emotionally terrorize you everywhere you go.

How could the burgeoning career of one rap artist have such an effect on my quality of life here at Emory?  Honestly, I could come up with a thousand, nay, A Milli-on reasons why this man’s popularity upsets me.  I’ll give you two of them:

1)  The unfortunate reality that these two individuals must be related:

Lil’ Wayne sounds like a gremlin.  I’ve never heard another human being’s voice sound like his, but I suspect that it has arisen as a result of his oftentimes-glorified years of illicit substance use.  Clearly he is currently a role model to more Americans than any one physician could be.

2)  He is a terrible rapper.  His lyrics are often rambling and nonsensical.  As a medical student, however, I take extra offense to the many lyrics that are both nonsensical and medically inaccurate.  Frankly, it is horrifying to me that there could be thousands of people who believe that a ‘venereal disease’ and a ‘menstrual bleed’ are one and the same, simply because Lil’ Wayne said so in a hit song.  It’s simply irresponsible, Wayne, and I will stand for it no longer.

Now that this rant has come full circle, and I have had time to reflect, I think that there may actually be one benefit to my constant exposure to the ‘best rapper alive’.  His ascendancy in the music industry has shown me that anybody can be famous.  Even me.  If this med school thing does not end up working out, and I retain the ability to speak and put together mildly coherent sentences, I too can be the best rapper alive.  A few classmates and I decided to take a step in this direction with our lauded class video.

So, thank you Lil’ Wayne.
Your terrible example has given me the courage to step forward and turn the hip-hop world on its head with my own brand of witty, coherent, and medically accurate rhymes.

I couldn’t have done it without you.

TONY: Do Better

Pop quiz hot shot:  A 27-year old man walks into the emergency room.  Actually, scratch that—he rolls into the emergency room in a wheelchair.  All you know is that he woke up this morning with knee pain so severe that he could not even walk.  What do you do?  WHAT DO YOU DO?

Well, if you’re a second year med student, you’d better have a lot of questions to ask.  You would ask about the pain—its character, its severity, when it started, what makes it better/worse, whether there are any associated symptoms.  You’d get a thorough past medical history.  You’d get a social history.  You’d get a family history.  You’d get all of the information that you’ve been taught to obtain, and you’d feel like a champ because you’ve finally reached that magical stage in med school where you can form a differential diagnosis in your head as you talk to your patient, and ask questions that really are pertinent.

So, you’ve gotten a thorough history from your patient, taken copious notes, and narrowed your differential down to a small handful of possible causes of this man’s knee pain.  So, you’re done right?  False.  You’re a med student.  As such, you need to present your patient to your attending physician before any sort of treatment can commence.  Sounds easy enough, right?  You already have all of the information in front of your face—telling another doctor about the patient you’ve just seen can’t be rocket science, can it?  Or can it?

The reality is that your attending physician does not have a lot of time on his/her hands, so they need you to be able to present ONLY the pertinent information.  Thus, even though you may be dying to tell somebody about how you learned that your patient owns the largest tick colony in the western hemisphere, your attending will not care (unless of course these ticks tend to escape from their aquariums, burrow into kneecaps, and have babies in synovial fluid).  Learning what to leave in, what to leave out, and how to structure your presentation of your patient’s story is an art that all doctors work to perfect over years and years of experience.

So clearly, in order to get us prepared for the wards, we are learning how to present our patients to attendings.  Let me tell you this up front—you will be bad when you start trying to do this, and that’s difficult for a perfectionist, type-A personality  to deal with.  I’ve been cut off, I’ve kept too much information in, I’ve left too much information out, I’ve completely missed diagnoses, and pretty much been made to feel like this chump kid:

Yes, C-Q has gone out like a punk in front of his mentor doctor.  And no, it does not feel good.

Take home message?  This whole ‘being a doctor’ thing really is a lifelong learning experience, and as a second year med student, we are only beginning to realize what that really means.  You sit in class for over a year, you learn clinical skills, you learn the intricacies of the doctor-patient relationship, and you think you’re starting to get somewhere—all of the information starts to come together bit by bit, and you’re starting to feel somewhat useful in clinic.  But make no mistake:  you’ve still got LOTS to learn.  Just try your best not to get too frustrated—if your teachers are any indication, you really will be good at all of this stuff down the road.

TONY: School’s Out

Happy Summer! Here at Emory Med, we get a well-deserved three week break for the summer. I know what you’re thinking: “Three weeks? That sounds magical!” Yes, it is indeed magical. Today, for example, I’ve been operating under a strictly magical schedule:
Noon: Wake up sans alarm.
12:30 pm: Eat a big sandwich.
1:00 pm: Watch Monsters Inc.
3:00 pm to Present: Lay on the couch/remain awesome.

Ample rest is well-deserved, especially given the fact that I’ve just returned from a week-long service trip to Haiti. Eight students (5 first years, 3 second years), an ICU nurse, 2 nurse anesthetists, 2 OR nurses, 2 ER docs, and 2 surgeons came together to form the core of Emory Medishare’s first-ever surgery trip to the city of Hinche in Haiti’s Central Plateau.

The trip was amazing. Over the course of four days at the hospital, our team performed 15 surgeries, the majority of which were much-needed prostatectomies. As medical students, our level of responsibility was elevated to that of surgical residents: we evaluated patients for surgery, scrubbed in on every procedure, and learned the intricacies of post-operative patient care. As a result, my clinical skill set is currently out of control. Honestly, I could probably sneak up behind you and perform a prostate exam without you even knowing it.

What truly made this a transformative experience, however, was the nature of the impact that our team was making. We stepped into the main room of the hospital on the first day and examined every single admitted patient: there were no written medical records, an occasional chest x-ray, insects and bowls of urine abound. Every man in the room was sporting a month-old catheter (not a good situation). The universal chief complaint was “trouble with urination”. With the aid of translators, we examined every patient and determined whether or not their problem could be remedied by surgery. Some patients were turned away because of advanced stage prostate cancer that was beyond the point of surgical repair. Still others were turned away because of blood pressure levels that were too high and uncontrolled. Add on to that the fact that some patients who were fit for surgery were ultimately denied an operation because, in our haste to perform as many procedures as possible, we nearly neglected to realize that we were overloading the hospital’s capacity to care adequately for post-op patients—if we did not have the means to get the patients through recovery, we had to decrease the number of surgeries. In the end, we were only able to operate on a relative handful of the total number of patients who stormed the hospital at the news of our arrival.

How then do we measure the amplitude of our impact? On the one hand, we were able to change the lives of the few ‘lottery winners’. For example, we were able to remove an enormous scrotal mass from a man who suffered from elephantiasis. Can you imagine the possibilities that you would suddenly be able to see in life after waking up to find that the 30-pound scrotum that you’d been lugging around for ten years was finally gone? Exactly.

On the other hand, there is the question that has eaten away at every one of us since our return: What about everyone else? What about all of the patients that we had to turn away? What about the imperfect system into which we dipped for a few days, only to leave it marginally better? I guess the only way for me to count our endeavor as a success is to know that we plan to return, with the ultimate goal of making the facility as good as we believe it can be.

And once again, Chin-Quee keeps it too real, and rambles on for far too long. Just know that, should you choose to attend Emory Med, the opportunity to have experiences like this will be at your fingertips, and you won’t mind donating a bit of your summer vacation to some people who will be forever grateful for the work that you did.

TONY: Can’t Stop, Won’t Stop

Med students may be the only people I know who complete four straight months of school, and then as soon as vacation starts, get in a car and drive for eight hours to do EVEN MORE WORK! Confusing? Terrifying? Perhaps. But isn’t that the kind of devotion to public service and the good of humanity that you’re looking for in the physicians of tomorrow? That’s how I choose to think about it.

But seriously folks, we just finished up our Cardiology block, and believe me when I tell you that this block will put some hair on your chest—the heart, as you’d imagine, really is not a joke. Somehow, we all made it through the exam and, finally, began Spring Break! The day after the exam, about twenty med students (myself included) headed down to New Orleans to try our hands at some much needed community service. We managed to get ourselves involved in some great projects—I spent a day caring for animals that had been left stranded and homeless by Katrina, for example. The real meat of our work, however, was the result of our partnership with the Lower Ninth Ward Clinic—a free clinic that serves the residents of one of the regions of New Orleans that was hit hardest by Katrina. As med students, our responsibilities were to go door to door in the surrounding community promoting the clinic, and performing free blood pressure readings and glucose screenings.

You can only understand the state of the living conditions in the lower ninth if you see it for yourself. You’ll have to forgive me for the lack of photos, but I was just too immersed in my experience there to start snapping away with my camera. Allow me to illustrate by making good use of my trademark verbosity: Imagine you’re in a working class, ungentrified neighborhood. The population is mostly African-American, the local public schools are not up to par, and crime is just another part of daily life. Now, take that neighborhood, and pound it with water so hard that over the course of four hours, it is twenty feet deep. Cars and bodies are floating past rooftops. Now wait for the water to go away on its own—don’t worry, it’ll eventually start to drain little by little, or simply evaporate. Now once the water is gone, leave the city alone. Do not touch it for three years. See the over growth of plants, and the sunken roofs, and the signs spray-painted onto the sides of houses that read ‘Please Do Not Demolish’. Have your visual yet? Good. Welcome to the Lower Ninth Ward of New Orleans—the vast majority of which remains completely devastated and uninhabitable nearly three years after the disaster.

Over 90% of the houses I was assigned to approach were still deserted. If people were to be found, they were in trailers next to their homes. The amazing thing about this day, was that the people that I met as I walked around this decimated neighborhood were in universally good spirits. Everyone was excited to talk, and thrilled with the work that we were doing for them in our free time. I spoke to one man who, the night that the city flooded, spent the night sleeping serenely on his own rooftop. He told me that he understood that people were angry, and could get frustrated with the slow pace at which the neighborhood was getting built back up. But for him, there was no time to be angry. Why? Because he was alive, and every moment was a gift. He then invited us to visit him in his trailer if we were in town for the holidays because he makes some mean fried chicken. How bout THAT for a spring break?

Of course, after spending a few days hard at work in the Big Easy, relaxation was absolutely necessary before heading back to school, so a few friends and I drove from New Orleans to Tampa for some fun in the sun. There are a lot of beaches in Tampa. Now, there are two things that I could do without in this world: shellfish and the beach. Shellfish are on the list because they kill me if I eat them. The beach? Well, I just don’t like the beach. I’d take a pool over the beach any day of the week. Thus I chose to express my opinion through my beach attire:

This is how old men (and Tony, apparently) go to the beach: sneakers, abnormally high socks, and an all-weather hat. Was I ridiculed by my compatriots for, perhaps, the strongest wardrobe choice I’ve ever made? Absolutely. But there is a lesson here that you can carry on through your med school career: Remain true to your convictions! I could have folded, and worn a “bathing suit” and “flip flops”, but then I would have ended up sunburned with sand all over my feet. It’s a metaphor for life. Think about it.

-tony

TONY: Work Hard, Play Hard

As you continue to prepare yourself for, or consider pursuing, a life in the wild world of medicine, know this: there are very few days off. It’s all part of the territory: there is a lot of information to learn, many mental connections to be made, and countless clinical skills to master. You’ll find, however, that you will willingly and enthusiastically dive into this ocean of information every day of the week because it is all so very important—in order to become the phenomenal doctor that you’ve dreamt of becoming for so very long, you want to become a master of as many domains as possible.

Don’t let this freak you out. Yes, medical school is hard work—that’s old news. But in order to maintain a firm grip on what life is like outside of these marble walls, something else is necessary. You have to know when to play. And play we do. Hard.

Allow me to elaborate…

1) Work Hard
In the first five months of med school here at Emory, we complete a number of modules that are cumulatively called ‘The Healthy Human’. It’s during this time that we cover the basic sciences that most schools cover over the course of an entire year. It’s a great set up, as it allows students coming from various backgrounds to catch up with each other so that in the end, everyone is on the same page regarding basic science knowledge. During this time, our only evaluations come in the form of Friday afternoon exams, so our weekends are completely free to relax, explore Atlanta, and/or throw down at a club/party. After we are completely versed in just how healthy humans should be, we begin ‘Human Disease’, during which we learn all that the medical community knows about every human disease, ever. ‘Human Disease’ spans 12 months, and is split into delightful, easy-to-digest, 5-6 week modules that each focus on disorders of particular body systems. In addition, ‘Human Disease’ and Anatomy begin simultaneously, with a number of the dissections correlating with the body system that is being covered in class at the time. During this time, in addition to weekly online evaluations (which are not graded, and essentially there so that you know how well you’re keeping up with things) and Anatomy demos every couple of weeks (I’ll explain these in a future post), you are always working in preparation for the big Block Exam (or BLAM! as we call it. BLock exAM! Get it? See? Med students are both smart AND hilarious!) that comes up at the conclusion of each module. Thus, for five weeks, life = class, clinic, anatomy, study, rinse and repeat. Then you get BLAMmed! Then you take a couple of days off, and prepare to do it all over again! Hard core? You better believe it. Necessary? Absolutely.

2) Play Hard
After getting BLAMmed, clearly it’s time to cut loose. After our latest test at the conclusion of the pulmonary module, we did things a little differently: in order to raise money for the Open Door Clinic (a free clinic for the homeless), we had Date Auction. Wow. Out of control. With crackers and exotic cheeses flowing all night (yes, you’d better believe that cheese can flow too), students and faculty shelled out all kinds of cash for a night out on the town with eligible bachelors and bachelorettes, including two Deans, and your very own student-doctor Chin-Quee. It’s amazing what raking in $90 on the basis of good looks and personality will do for your self-esteem.

We also recently had our annual Cadaver Ball (aka Med School Prom), during which we celebrated the fact that we are young, brilliant doctors-in-training who look good in formal wear. Did we manage to pull it off? You be the judge:

If the attractiveness of Dr. Langness and myself make you febrile, tachycardic and diaphoretic, don’t seek medical attention. It’s a natural response.

The amazing thing is that, through the every day grind of work (with fun sprinkled in for sanity maintenance) we are actually learning the facts and how to apply them clinically. My mother called me a couple of weeks ago, and was recounting her visit to the rheumatologist. As we spoke, she told me that she could not remember what the doctor said she had, but could recall her symptoms and the results of the bone density scan that was performed at the office. Immediately, a switch flicked on in my head and I transformed into ‘Anthony Chin-Quee: Beast of the Patient History’, and ended up diagnosing my Mom with Osteopenia, complete with a treatment plan of vitamin supplements and lifestyle changes. At least that’s what my mom told me I said—I think I blacked out and went on autopilot for about 15 minutes. Amazingly enough, as I spoke, Mom realized that I was telling her exactly what her doctor had said a few hours prior. Who knew?

So, to summarize these first few months of med school for all of the prospective students out there: you will work your tail off; you will have fun; and you will realize that, somehow, you are indeed learning. What a wild ride.

TONY: Save this blog: It’s gonna be worth a lot of money some day…

So, I should probably begin by answering the question that I have always answered for people who have seen me on paper before meeting me in person:  “Wow.  Chin-Quee is such an interesting last name.  Where does it come from?”  Allow me to take you on a journey through space and time:  Many moons ago, England had some pretty strong interests both in China and the little Caribbean island of Jamaica.  My great-grandfather agreed to head on over to the tropics from China as an indentured servant, worked on a plantation for a few years, opened up his own ice-cream business, and sent his son (my grandfather) back to China for his education.  Unfortunately things didn’t go as planned, seeing as my grandfather (ever the ladies’ man) chose to have an ‘indiscretion’ with the daughter of his town’s mayor, and as a result was scheduled for a stoning in the town square.  He managed to skip town, hop on the next boat back to Jamaica, where he met my Grandmother, who had a few kids (including my dad), and subsequently moved to New York City.  My parents met each other soon after they both graduated college, and the result?  Anthony L. Chin-Quee Jr., your faithful blogging med student.

I suppose you could call my journey to med school ‘untraditional’.  I was born and raised in Brooklyn, NY, and attended Harvard for my undergrad years.  I graduated in ’05 with a degree in Sociology, but didn’t come straight to med school.  At that point, I was maybe 80% sure that I wanted to be a doctor, and 20% sure that I wanted to be a teacher.  Thus, I chose to take a year and teach high school Chemistry.  Though it was an amazing and unforgettable experience, I realized early on that I could not do it in the long term—the changes that I felt the need to start making in this world required that I step far beyond the schoolhouse.  And so, the arduous Medical School Application process began—writing essays, making long lists of schools, saving as much money as possible,  etc., etc.  In my second year out of school, I headed back home to NYC and (in between flights out of town for med school interviews) got involved with an amazing non-profit called Portraits of Hope.  I worked with an unbelievable group of people on the city’s largest public art project ever:  Garden in Transit.  If you live in/around NYC you know exactly what it looked like—there were flowers all over the yellow taxis throughout the fall/winter of 2007.  Check this website to get the full story:  www.gardenintransit.org.

After working with GIT for several months, I packed up my entire life and moved to Atlanta to start this crazy med school journey here at Emory.  Why did I choose to come on down here?  The answer is pretty simple.  Yes, Emory has the prestige that any great university has—great professors, amazing opportunities for clinical experiences/research, etc.  Yes, it has a brand new curriculum and the sweetest facilities that you’re going to find anywhere.  But what really sold me on this place was the energy that I felt from the community here at Emory Med both on my interview day and at the revisit weekend.  It felt like family.  Plain and simple.  If you are applying to med schools right now, I’m sure you’ve noted that every school seems to have its own personality.  If I were to write you a blurb about the personality of Emory students, it would include words like ‘passion’, ‘drive’, ‘brilliance’, ‘creativity’, and ‘integrity’.  The professors at this school make it very clear that their goal is to turn out doctors who are not only competent but, perhaps more importantly, human.  So, we are taught to simultaneously hone our skills, and to bring our own gifts, our own personalities, to the profession.  All of this culminates in the creation of a culture that I don’t think that I could find anywhere else.

So yes.  That’s why I came.  Clearly, you should come too.

Until the next go ‘round,

-c-q