OK, so this post is coming up a bit late, but you all know me by now, so I have no need to explain that I’ve been meaning to do it for ages, but somehow time always escapes me in my eternal busyness.
Interview time. We all remember it so well. Waiting with baited breath by the mailbox, having high days, knowing you’ll have no problem getting into med school, let alone an interview, then those days where you are absolute certain that your application went to the reject pile before it even passed the first page. Then, the letter (or email) comes. Afraid to open it, your heart starts to pound, and your breath comes faster. Maybe if you get someone else to open it, somehow that rejection you are fearing will magically transform into an invitation. You stare at it, afraid to know, knowing that you’re holding your future in your hands. Well, here goes nothing! You skim past the greeting, looking only for that all important word, the despair-inducing”sorry”, or the “congratulations” that will surely cause you to let out a yelp of joy.
Then comes interview time. Feeling uncomfortable and artificial in your formal interview garb, you envy those jean-clad, carefree med students breezily popping in and out, asking nonchalantly if you have any questions, chowing down eagerly on the muffins and cookies that were meant for you, but you can barely even stand the sight of, your stomach is churning so much. They are who you want to be, might be next year if all goes well. You want to be them. But wait! The tables have turned. Now, you are them. This year you are the relaxed med student who seems to have not a care in the world (it helps that you just finished the M&F exam). And it is strange being on the other side of the fence, strange indeed! You can empathize with the interviewees, because just one year ago, you were them. And now, looking at them, you have a detached curiosity who you will see next year. You wonder how the interviewers can possibly evaluate them; at least superficially, they are almost indistinguishable, certainly possessing impressive academic and extra-curricular credentials, dressed in a decidely uniform and conservative manner conforming to standards set by the the powers-that-be. They are studies in impeccable manners and etiquette, and all driven by the same desire. You know that unique individuals lie underneath these nervous but composed faces with their carefully ironed suits and shined shoes, but it is impossible to discern who will be next year’s class clowns, DMSS pundits, intramurals fiends, partiers.
As we steam along with ever-increasing speed towards the end of Med 1, it’s easy to forget as we study, party, sleep, and sip on Tim Horton’s, that those letters and emails will be coming along soon to next year’s class. You remember what it was like; the agonizing wait, every day checking your mail- and inbox for news, any news from Dal. And the euphoria of acceptance, the uncertainty of the wait-list, or the dreaded “we’re sorry” rejection letter. How your life was on hold; various shadows of possibilities before you, each a wisp of potential, until you chose one (or it chose you). And here we are. The class of 2011. The interviewees envy us, for it seems as if our life is stable, and set out before us, our dreams finally fulfilled. For the next few years, it might be true. But soon enough, CaRMS will rear its ugly head, and we must go through the whole process again. So perhaps we aren’t really on a totally different side than the interviewees. But for now, it’s different enough, so let’s enjoy it while it lasts.
