In the days following clicking “Submit” on my primary med school application, that initial sense of accomplishment has been increasingly replaced by a sense of dread, realizing that, by having done so, I am subjecting myself to critique and judgment orders of magnitude beyond the yearly employee performance review. I suspect this may not be so bad for the more typical med school applicant, who hasn’t had time enough to develop not only a significant body of experience but a sense of…well, I guess it’s entitlement. Not so much the “I’ve had everything spoon-fed to me and I expect it to continue” unjustified sense so much as the “I’ve paid my dues and then some–to reject me is an injustice” unjustified sense of entitlement. But, in line with not self-identifying with the “entitlement generation,” any feelings of indignation I might feel are subsumed by worry–worry that I didn’t market myself well enough on my application, that I might be judged unqualified or unprepared; and then where would that leave me? (“Oh, yeah? Well, I’m gonna build my own med school. With blackjack. And hookers. In fact…forget the school.”)
Humility. I should keep that in mind.
And there’s so much waiting. Waiting for my transcripts to be verified, waiting for secondaries, waiting for interviews… one foot is moving towards the future, but the other foot has to stay in the present and take care of present responsibilities, despite all desire to continue moving forward, making the wait more intolerable. Oh, and the uncertainty. None of what I’ve done so far is guaranteed to result in the outcome I want. (Amusing thought: does the uncertainty principle imply that if I knew that I made it into med school, I would have no idea what I did to get there?)
Maybe I need an actual vacation…especially before the secondary applications start to kick my ass.
(91/365)
I started my 29th year trying to make the most of every day. I wish I could say that I have, but at least I’ve been somewhat successful. Maybe it’s unrealistic to do that with every single day; the weekdays, for instance, are hard, and it’s tough to stay motivated when I’ve got two major focuses in my life–work and school, one of which is more out of necessity and the other being what I want to do. Spending my free time with friends and family, in creative pursuits, and in service to others does bring a measure of fulfillment, but it isn’t enough for a net positive feeling. And losing Fred on the heels of losing Scott–well, Scott would have used the adjective “tenderized” somewhere.
At least I’m making some progress towards the future.
I wasn’t expecting to make those calls again so soon–those calls that no one ever really knows how to make, those calls that, if you’re on the other end, you don’t know what to say in response. If not for that always-on connection that is my iPhone, I might have been relieved of that responsibility. But because I did get the message when I did… it’s one small thing I could do for a friend I hadn’t seen for years. Fred, I will try to make it out to see you, one last time.
This is always how I picture Fred.
By the way, I’m way past done with tragedy for this year.
“I want to be a comfort to my friends in tragedy. And I want to be able to celebrate with them in triumph. And for all the times in between, I just want to be able to look them in the eye.” -Josh Lyman, The West Wing
Wednesday, April 14, 2010
1. I can be pretty sensitive to sound and perceived sound, especially my own heartbeat, so my first attempts at taking a blood pressure weren’t helped by being in a noisy environment or by having the sphygmomanometer tubes bumping all up against the stethoscope.
2. I need to retrain myself to pay more attention to my senses. Engineers need to make accurate, precise measurements that are repeatable, which we do using various tools (multimeters, oscilloscopes, network analyzers, software debuggers). Nowhere do the five senses factor in as collectors of primary data. On the other hand, medical workers, first responders especially, have to rely on their senses to assess a situation.
3. I’ve become too…left-brained. Back in undergrad, I kept my engineer-side balanced with a healthy dose of acting (some of my fonder memories are of late nights/early mornings during tech week). And after hanging out last week with a couple of high school friends who are also drama babies, I started to miss it. Not to mention, some of those skills would help ease this career transition I’m slowly working through.
Ever since Scott moved out of the city in 2000-2001 or thereabouts, I had kept in touch with him mostly through the Internet. In so doing, he became less of a “real” inhabitant of my life and more someone who I knew through the virtual reality of ones and zeros. It’s easy for me, then, to chalk up his absence to simply having moved onto the Next Big Internet Thing, as he has done many times before; that, when I saw his Facebook profile on today, his birthday, it felt like I can still give him a ring the next time I’m in town and meet up for a drink and cheesy comestibles at NoMi, in a sort of blissful ignorance, a tacit denial of the reality of it all.
But with a blink of my eyes, I remember again.
I may run myself ragged during Jessup week, but the net effects aren’t unlike going on vacation: I get to forget about my normal life for a few days and, when it’s over, I’m loath to go back to it. This year felt a little different.
Though at the end of this year’s rounds I wanted nothing more than to be reunited with my own bed and to go motoring through some scenic, twisty roads, realizing the amount of work waiting for me in that whole “normal life” thing–the tasks at work I have decreasing patience for, the preparations for applying to medical school that I have decreasing confidence in as to my success–killed any happiness I had when I did make it back home.
On the other hand, I didn’t want to stay with the Jessup crowd, either. I dare say I was more removed than usual from the people (which is what normally makes the week worthwhile). This year’s rounds seemed to take its toll more than previous years have: added to the now-usual exhaustion that comes with helping to keep the competition running was a certain sadness, somewhat from this being Amity’s last competition as executive director, that I just couldn’t shake.
So, if I couldn’t stay in DC or be with my friends there, or go home… that left very little in the way of options. And I continue in my steadfast desire to be anywhere but here.
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Wednesday, March 10, 2010
(18/365)
So far, I’ve been trying not to shoot too many photographs so as to avoid having to choose one that gets the “official shot of the day” title; but I couldn’t avoid it for today’s post. Between a photograph with more meaning and a photograph with more visual appeal, I chose the one with more meaning.
The sticker appeared on that pole in the last week or two. I was struck by its economy of message–a black-and-white print of a nondescript, if somewhat creepy, face paired with a simple statement that people who encounter it are free to interpret as they wish. (Geez, doesn’t that sound like I’m reading too much into it.) There’s little question that I wouldn’t have paid it much attention were it not for my own struggles with goals: not so much that I lack them, but rather that I’m hard-pressed to make any progress towards achieving them. The situation is such that there is but one logical path I can follow–only one choice to make–and it may or may not lead where I want. The reasons for this could occupy their own blog entry, but I will, in the interests of time and discretion, leave them unwritten.
One foot in front of the other, I suppose.
(12/365)
I was aiming for wit in today’s 365 post description, but all humor aside, the fortune (which was from yesterday’s lunch) is remarkably accurate. At least, I hope it is.
On a related topic, catching up on life has meant that Project Write Letters has stalled a bit. “This train is being delayed due to a train in front of us. We should be moving shortly. Thank you for riding New York City Transit.”
(9/365)
On an expedition through the old neighborhood after Mass with Mom and Dad, I tried to resist going into Unabridged Bookstore, thinking of the books on my shelves that have sat, neglected; but I failed, driven perhaps by nostalgia for days past in New York spent browsing the many miles of books at The Strand.
Inside, the simple cover of No One Belongs Here More Than You beckoned me closer, testified to by a staff member’s positive, handwritten review posted on the shelf. The title, too, held a promise all its own, hinting that within its pages might be found a resolution to, or at least some brief sanctuary from, my own unshakable feeling of I Belong Somewhere Else: when I lived in New York; I belonged in Chicago; in Pittsburgh, I belonged in New York; and now, in Wisconsin, I belong… anywhere else.
Six years is a long time to be someplace you don’t belong. But–and I’m reminded of a performance of one-acts I did in college–everybody has to be someplace.
Tuesday, February 23, 2010
(3/365)
I can see now that finding interesting subject matter during the week is going to be problematic (see today’s post). It’s not that I work ridiculous hours (though it would be easier if picture-taking at work weren’t A Very Bad Idea), but that when I’m off work, I really don’t have much in the way of free time. There are any number of items on my to-do list that were generated from The Events of January (i.e. Scott’s passing), and an even larger number of items that were put on hold because of said Events, that I really shouldn’t even have the time to do things like this project. Struggling to streamline this workflow, between posting on my website, Flickr, Facebook, and Twitter, eats up what little time I’m scavenging from the other things I should be doing (hello, preparing for med school applications?). Posterous doesn’t offer me the control I’m looking for, so I’m right now stuck posting everywhere by hand.
I’m hoping that once I’ve done this for a few more days, the process will be more natural–and I’ll have better subject matter than a mediocre shot of my computer desk.
