Wow. This is going to be a tough one to write. Where do I begin? …China? Yeah, let’s start with China.

I missed orientation day of medical school because I was completing a study abroad program. More accurately, I missed that first day of school because I spent the entire day in the air on my way back from the other side of the planet. 30-hour flight, anyone? I listened to everyone else in my travel cohort rave about how they couldn’t wait to see their family members and get back to the familiarity of their own beds. All I could silently think about were the boxes and new roommate that would greet me at the other end of my journey.

I was in no position to complain. After all, I had just graduated college four weeks prior, gotten into a relationship and visited China. Epilogue appears:

She began medical school the following day, fulfilled her dream of becoming a doctor and lived happily ever after.

Ha.

I shook the 13-hour jet lag, found what I needed in the stacks of boxes my parent’s kindly drove into town to move in for me weeks prior while I was away and made it to school the next day at 8 AM sharp.

This was it. This was medical school. I actually made it.

One of the very first things I noticed about my classmates were the different paths everyone had taken to get to medical school. There I was, a traditional student, marveling at the mothers, army veterans, former scribes, masters students and other working professionals who all carried a bit more life experience under their belts than I had walked in with that day. I was inspired. It was beautiful.

One thing most of us did have in common was a lack of knowledge for the large amount of information we’d be expected to consume in the first few weeks. Having been at least remotely successful in school leading up until this point, we were the slightest bit naive. No? Just me??

We were in the beginning stages of the school year and, by previously established standards, spending day and night in the books wasn’t necessary just yet. It was still the summertime. Upperclassmen and professors alike assured us that this portion of our program was the “little leagues” and that the fall is when we would face the “major leagues” of our course load. So, how hard could it be?

Hard.

But of course I didn’t realize that until the lectures started piling up. It was around week 2 when I realized I should probably start studying. But, the person I was dating, who I hadn’t seen in weeks, was coming into town to visit, so I figured I’d just buckle down after 4th of July.

Terrible idea.

We broke up. I found out he’d been cheating on me, and it became difficult to focus. So much for that.

We were now four weeks in and I hadn’t done very much preparation for the final exams that would close out the six-week summer portion of our semester. Even though our school extended grace in allowing that first set of courses to be graded pass/fail, rather than the traditional A-F we knew to anticipate in the fall, I knew I needed to collect my emotions. I planned to join a study group that Sunday in an effort to finally buckle down.

I spent the first half of that day at home binge-watching Grey’s Anatomy, with my actual anatomy book tossed open for decoration at the other end of the bed. Hey now, I deserved a little pre-study group Sunday relaxation! The episode was a bit odd. I was hooked on a two-part special—the first half of which Meredith Grey spent telling everyone at work that she awoke that morning with the strange feeling that she was going to die that day. Spoiler alert, Part 2 reveals that she didn’t die. But, the day did take an unexpected turn where she very well could have.

I didn’t know that 30 minutes after closing out the episode and calming my Netflix-induced adrenaline rush that I would be strapped into an ambulance on my way into an emergency room myself.

Three minutes away from my study group destination, a careless driver swerved into my lane after making their split-second decision to not get off at an exit, propelling me across the highway and into a head-on collision with the median, and the many other hit-and-run drivers thereafter who sent me tumbling down the highway. I lost consciousness, briefly, and woke up staring into oncoming traffic. My car had been spun so much that it was now sitting backwards, in the fast lane.

I was terrified. I had no control. It was like real-life bumper carts, and I braced myself for the final impact that would come to end it all.

Then, I felt a stillness. The constant hits finally came to a stop. An angel of a human being had decided to park her car in the middle of the highway, ahead of mine, to block the flow of oncoming traffic.

Only then did I notice the ruptured airbag that had come out during my period of unconsciousness. My trembling hands managed to open the door and I eased myself out onto the road. I backed away from my car, slowly, taking in everything that had just happened. I couldn’t believe that just moments prior I was blasting Gospel music on my way to have Sunday dinner and a study session, at a destination that was just three more minutes away.

I was almost there. Just 3 more minutes is all that could replay in my head.

I was in a state of shock and my efforts to control my limbs from their incessant shaking were futile. I had no plan. I just stood there, helpless, staring at my totaled car. Surely, even if I had been in a functional state of mind, walking from the fast lane to the shoulder of the road while cars were still zooming by would have been improbable. By then, the person who had caused the accident was long gone and everyone else that had slammed into me decided it was better to drive on with a dent in their car than to stop and acknowledge the fact that they could have possibly just killed someone. No one cared.

Nobody, but One.

The woman who stopped to block off the lane had gotten out of her car and was now coming towards me. She called out,

“Are you alright?!”

Whatever came out of my mouth was an incoherent attempt at explaining what had just happened. She didn’t mind my poor communication. At my side, she carefully brushed blonde hairs from her face and said,

“Honey, I saw that entire thing. And that was BAD.”

She paused for a moment, placed her hand on my shoulder, and continued,

“Someone must have had Their hands on you.”

I knew what she meant. God’s plan was the only thing on mind as I sat there taking hit after hit, for what felt like forever, thinking This is it. My entire life has led to this point. And this is how I’m going to die at 22 years old. But, all I could manage to do was nod in agreement.

She offered me a safe ride to the shoulder of the road in her car. I realized she had managed to find my phone amid all the debris when she prompted me to call a loved one while she called an ambulance. Having lost his mom in a car accident when he was a kid, I’ll never truly understand the fear my dad had when he received my disheveled phone call.

As if being repeatedly questioned about whether I was on drugs by police who had learned that I was a medical student wasn’t degrading enough, having my clothes cut off in a room full of ER staff and peeing in a bedpan while lying in a neck brace, didn’t help salvage any of my dignity. At that point, my dad was on his way, making the out-of-state drive to the hospital. Meanwhile, the classmate I was on my way to meet had shown up to the scene of the accident before I was placed into the ambulance, and my new roommate had made it to the hospital as well.

In those crucial moments of vulnerability, only four short weeks into my brand new life in a new city, my classmates acted as my family. My only lifeline.

Guys, all of this is really hard to write. If you’re still reading, I salute you.

It became a thing at the hospital. Word spread that a medical student had now become a patient, and it seemed like the nursing staff was silently cheering for my dad who they all knew was on the way.

Later on in the Intensive Care Unit, I remember trying to distract from my hunger, and listening out for things going on the other side of my curtain. Shuffling feet indicated at that there was someone being rushed to an open slot a couple of beds down. A nurse yelled out,

“It’s okay! CAN-YOU-HEAR-ME?! You got into a pretty bad accident and broke a few ribs! It going to be alright, we’re just going to prep you for surgery now, okay?!!”

I was a bit shaken. I was convinced that my own survival was a fluke, and that I was destined to be one of those cases where the patient is alive at entry, but inevitably dies while in the hospital. I tried to reach out to whoever I could—you know, just in case.

At the time of the accident, I was wearing a bracelet my mom had gifted me—which I had almost lost many times in the short time I had had it. It fell off of my small wrist in the most random places, yet somehow always found its way back to me. Just as I had finished up a heartfelt phone call with my mom, a nurse came over holding up a bag, and said, “We found something for you. Thought you might want this.”

I took the clear pouch from her hands. Of all the trinkets they could have salvaged from my destroyed car, I was surprised to be holding in my hands the bracelet. I clutched its silver cross in my palms and smiled for the first time in hours, because I knew that everything was going to be alright.

I don’t want to get too much further into the hospital experience. I’ll just say that, as an aspiring physician, I will forever view patients in a different light. If you’re in the medical field, although this may become the daily norm for you, remember that your patients are human. By the time you see them, they’re likely scared and totally out of their element. They’re trusting you to treat them not only with your expertise, but with genuine consideration and empathy.

I decided to cut my time on bed rest short and go back to school. I was determined to push through the pain and finish what I had started. Since I no longer had a car, I caught rides to school with my roommate and classmate who lived nearby. Another one of my classmates was even kind enough to let me crash at her place and sleep on her bed (while she herself crashed on the couch) for the first few days while I was still healing, just so that I could be a bit closer to school. I lived on the other side of town and wouldn’t have made it to all those anatomy practice sessions in the dungeon, I mean cadaver lab, without her help.

How did I end up doing on that summer set of finals, you ask? I failed it. For all the reasons listed above, I just wasn’t as prepared as I needed to be. As if that wasn’t a hard enough kick in the behind, my school decided just days before the final exams, “Oops! We’re actually going to grade everything you just learned this summer A-F, not pass/fail.”

Great.

I had never even gotten a C, let alone FAILED, a class before.

Welcome to med school.

I don’t intend to ever write a post this long again. Please, stay with me here.

I had no choice but to remediate my failed summer exams during the first set of “major league” fall block exams. In preparation for the intense studying that would require, I emptied my savings to get a used car so that I could stop depending on everyone else to transport me around and let them get back to their regularly scheduled lives.

I was not mentally okay, to be quite honest. I was having unnerving flashbacks on the road. But, I had to get over that. Car wasn’t going to drive itself.

My first post-college, real world life lesson was that in the professional world the show goes on—with or without you.

I figured my “driving discomfort” would go away with time and decided that my more pressing issue was to run a cost-benefit analysis of whether it was best to focus on excelling in fall block 1 exams (and risk failing remediation exams, having to repeat the entire year) or to prioritize remediation.

I chose to throw myself into passing remediation exams, and figured that my future performance on remaining blocks would eventually make up for my inability to focus on Block 1.

You guessed it. Block 1 inevitably took an L.

But,

I passed the remediation exams!!! Look, we take what we can get out here.

I thought, ok cool. I decided that even though the first few months were ROUGH, there was no time to look backwards. I just needed to do amazing on all remaining block exams and fix that disrespectful test average I earned in sacrificing Block 1 for successful remediation.

And so I did. Or, so I planned.

I sat in lecture, second row, listening intently. I was finally feeling like I could breathe again. Just days before Block 2 exams, I could feel my mind subconsciously replaying, You got this. And, for the first time since I arrived it actually felt like I did. I was relatively prepared and class was going just fine

…until I checked GroupMe.

Someone in my China cohort group chat had been sending multiple messages alluding that he had something to say. He kept us on a cliffhanger, never dropping the punchline, and people were starting to get annoyed. Someone urged him to spit it out.

Then, he finally says,

“…has passed away. I’m… so sorry.”

I thought it was a joke. But the “RIP” messages on Instagram confirmed for me that the absolute last familiar face I saw before heading to the airport to begin this phase of my medical journey… was gone.

I rushed out of the classroom, ran outside and sat on the concrete. Sobbing.

Clearly Block 2 exams were no longer my focus. And in grieving, I ended up doing terribly. It didn’t matter what I had learned; I had finally reached my breaking point.

I often describe this time in my life with two analogies: life felt like a boxing ring. The punches just kept on coming. Anytime I’d get knocked out, I’d get back up again. But, this time was different. This time, I was hesitant, almost as if it were better to stay down, than to get back up and risk being blindsided by a giant left-hook. Again.

School felt like a race. You either keep up, or get left behind. Sure, you can stop to tie your shoe or grab some water. But then you’ll only have more ground to cover when you return. The race goes on, and it stops for no one.

I had to finish the race.

But I couldn’t do it alone. I needed support. While I was trying my hardest not to drown, it seemed like everyone else had found a core group of friends to keep them afloat. When I regained enough mental stability to start paying more attention to my own school friendships, I realized that I had been oblivious to the whole dating scene that had started to develop within our class.

If you’re still rocking with me, you’ve earned it.

Let’s talk boys.

If you recall, when I arrived I was in a relationship. So, there wasn’t really anyone on my radar. But, it soon became clear that some had me on theirs.

Can I be honest? They were ALL attractive, uniquely intriguing, and surprisingly interested. This was the first time I was experiencing that kind of attention in my post-college adult life. I was both flattered and grateful. But, the timing for that attention couldn’t have been any more off. I just wasn’t focused on pursuing any kind of relationship. I needed a friend. A f-r-i-e-n-d. Even if I wasn’t still working through flashbacks from a near-death experience, even if I weren’t in the middle of trying not to fail out of medical school, even if I weren’t still mourning the sudden loss of a friend, there was still the whole losing-someone-I’d-loved-for-nearly-a-decade thing that I never got a real chance to cope with before all other aspects of my life went up in flames. The recent breakup alone would have been enough reason to not rush into anything new.

The one guy I lent most of my attention to earned it though his willingness to give me space and freedom to heal without excess pressure. His mutual interest in only pursing friendship was exactly the kind of support I needed at that time. I appreciated his mutual understanding of my need to get my life together before I could focus on anyone else.

By this point, school admin had begun calling students in who had done poorly in the first half of the semester. I was asked to consider dropping my current classes and enroll following year in the fall. Admin made it clear to each person they called in that failing the semester would result in removal from the program. I understood the consequences I’d face in the event that I didn’t recover my grades in the second half of the semester, but I confidently declined. I explained that I had a rough start to school and knew that I could be successful if I could just regain stability and focus.

She wasn’t buying it. She pointed to a yellow paper where she had handwritten my test scores from Blocks 1 and 2, slid it slightly towards me, and said,

“I would highly recommend trying again next year. If you fail these classes, you do know that means you’ll be dismissed from the School of Medicine?”

I looked at her very intently. And with a firm voice I said,

“I understand. And, I also know what this may look like to you. But I am not a failure. I’ve just had a lot going on. I assure you, I WILL pass. And, I’ll just have to show you.”

She gave me a final look that let me know she was certain I had just signed my medical school death wish. She didn’t believe in me. To her, I was just another student that had slipped through the cracks. But, she didn’t know who she was dealing with.

Things got real.

The very next day I got myself a tutor, who agreed to work with me intensively to whip my knowledge into shape. I had been in what felt like a tornado for so long that I hadn’t given much attention to the wall mold, ceiling leaks, broken doors, scarce hot water, faint cigarette smell and rodents in my apartment. But I pushed through.

No hour of the day was off limits for studying. My tutor was a godsend. And, as time passed by, my academic performance continued to progress linearly. Block 3 exams were the highest scores I had gotten to date.

…And then came anatomy hell week.

We were scheduled to have Block 4 exams on Monday, the final exam on Wednesday and the national board exam on Friday. I knew that only those who were passing the class would be permitted to sit for the national board exam. I still wasn’t passing, but there was still 25% of my grade up in the air at the beginning of that week. I had a shot. The fact that my scores had been increasing exponentially didn’t suddenly erase the previously low scores that were unfortunately calculated into my overall average.

I remember holding back tears when, after explaining my situation and progress, my professor looked me directly in the eyes and said,

“Improvement isn’t passing. You’re playing a dangerous game, and you should probably drop my class.”

Maybe I was playing a “dangerous game”, but I was playing to win. I wasn’t quitting.

So, I poured all of my efforts into studying for an exam I didn’t even know I’d get the chance to sit for. Studying for the comprehensive national board exam would cover all my bases. I was hopeful. If there were even a 2% chance that I’d come out successful, then I wasn’t going to let down without a fight.

I was in the zone. Until…

I was called into another meeting the Friday before hell week.

After waiting for hours, I was finally called in and instructed to sit at the end of a long table of about 20 unfamiliar faces in business suits. The same person who was certain that I’d fail if I continued the semester was among those faces. The man sitting at the other end of the table asked if I understood that I was in danger of failing two classes and that doing so would result in dismissal from the School of Medicine.

I was exhausted with the constant questioning of my ability to comprehend. I held back the compulsion to roll my eyes, kept my game face, and said,

“I understand. But there is still a chance that I can pass. We still have exams.”

I could feel the remaining parties in the room silently cautioning at what they thought was either defiance or sheer stupidity.

This went on for a while as I explained my case and all that had happened that semester (of course leaving out the bits about my unforeseen breakup and less-than-comfortable living arrangements). This is professional school, after all. They weren’t gonna hear any of that.

The man at the end of the table asked if he could pose one final question.

“So, let me ask you something.”

He fixed his lips to ask what had already been asked countless times in that meeting alone,

“Why didn’t you drop your classes???”

I only had so much extroversion left in me for the day. I interlaced my fingers, sat up straight in the conference chair, took a deep breath, and said,

“One question in particular stood out when I was interviewed here. At the end of my second interview, I remember sitting across from a man who looked at my undergraduate transcript full of A’s and B’s and said, ‘This is all good and well. I’ll admit, it’s impressive. But, what if… what if when you get here things are not what you expect. What happens if when you come here you’re met with rigor and challenges, what will you do?'”

By now the room was hooked on my story. I continued,

“The question was peculiar, but I remember my answer to him vividly. I explained that the grades that lay before him were no easy achievement. I had many opportunities to drop classes and give up hope. But I didn’t, not even once. I remember telling him I understood that medical school would be far more rigorous than college, but that I would remain the same. I would persevere. All I have been doing from the moment I arrived here is trying to keep that promise. Now, 25% of my grade is still left to be determined next week. I believe that I can pass. So, with all due respect, I would like to be excused to go study for that.”

The room was speechless.

The ending?

The following week she passed ALL of her exams. She completed her first year passing ALL of her classes. And, she’s still striving to keep her promise. She WILL persevere.

This is my testimony.

If you thought reading this was long, imagine living it. I thought the year would never end. But, I knew, even when I was going through it, that my story was always meant to be shared. This belief is what kept me going, for I knew that there could be no testimony without first persevering through the test.

That’s faith.

To this day, some of the the things that were said are hard to think about and I fittingly named my replacement car… “Angel”. What’s your testimony?