The first time I tried to leave medicine had to be in 2006. I say had to be because I can’t remember the exact date or month, however it was right after I had failed the almighty “2nd MB” (no idea what this means to this day). The exam we had to take after the first three years of studying medicine in order to progress to the clinical side of things.
I was in good company as more than half of the over eight hundred students in my class had also “failed”. As someone who prided herself in her intellectual abilities, this failure hit me very hard. I was emphatic about not wanting to repeat a year and I thought it might be a good opportunity to go in a different direction.
I always had a keen interest in Agriculture and I thought this might be my chance to switch courses, study Agric economics and one day own a lovely little farm. But I’m the first daughter of a typical Igbo family, so I don’t need to tell you how my family reacted to that contemplation. After bawling my eyes out for days on end and enduring many a family meeting, I eventually agreed to change to another “professional course” and that’s how I found myself studying pharmacy.
I can’t tell you anything about the one year I spent studying pharmacy because I don’t think I formed any memories that year. I think I was so unhappy that I chose to numb. I refused to engage with my new classmates. I was too ashamed to engage with my old classmates who had moved on to their clinicals. I was a shell.
Until I found out about this school in a little island I’d never heard of before, that would accept my credits from my pre clinical semesters. This gave me hope, something to focus on. If I had to continue studying medicine then I might as well make a holiday of it. And after many delays I was on a plane, leaving home for the first time, to a country I had only heard of less than a year before.
Studying medicine abroad was different. Easy. I no longer had to learn how to draw all the elements in the Kreb’s cycle or draw and label all the parts of the brain and so I excelled.
The plan at the time was to move to the US to complete my studies and go on to a residency program but that didn’t quite workout and I found myself back in Nigeria, practicing medicine. A thing I had actually sworn not to do after experiencing the Nigerian health care system first hand on one of my visits to Nigeria.
House job year was a revelation. On one hand I got to appreciate the highly skilled consultants I got to work with. On the other hand, we spent half the time raising funds just so we could treat our patients because we didn’t have the most basic things required for a hospital to even be called a hospital. I once watched a woman die surrounded by a medical team, while we were running around looking for pillows to elevate her head in order to prevent the fluid in her chest from drowning her lungs.
I knew I couldn’t do this long term and so after house job I ran back to the U.S to try again. At least if I had to practice medicine, I might as well practice in a place where I can do some good.
America rejected me. Again.
So I came back home. Again. I still wasn’t happy and so I eventually started making plans to move to the United Kingdom instead.
Here I am , three years later. Getting ready to commence my specialty training in August and only half looking forward it, mostly because of the unnecessary bureaucracy of training. But very thankful.
My training position does not start till August and my previous contract elapsed which means that I haven’t been working for the past four weeks or so and it has been THE BEST time. I have not for one second missed being in a hospital. I am thoroughly enjoying having the freedom to plan or not plan my day and just go with the flow or do as the spirit leads.
This has come at a time in my life when I now place more value on experiences than things. While I appreciate the privilege to be part of a respected profession that will always be in demand, I also would like to leave it all behind to pursue things that spark joy.
I’ve always known I wasn’t going to practice medicine forever. While many people regard medicine to be some noble mission, the truth is that in the end, it is a job, and some are better suited for it than others, but really, it’s just a job. And one that isn’t always easy. Being around sick people can be difficult, especially when you’re the type of person who cries while reading books.
I want to paint my nails a different color every week and dress as casually as I please to work. I don’t want my clinical decisions/skills (or lack thereof) to be the reason why somebody loses a loved one. I don’t want to spend eight years in training only to have to keep my phone on on nights and weekends as a consultant. To be honest, the more I think about it, there isn’t much that makes me want to carry on practicing clinical medicine.
Yesterday I gave myself a deadline. I’d never done this before. Or really thought about it even. But as I was talking to my therapist yesterday about starting training, it occurred to me and I said it. “I don’t want to be practicing medicine full time by 40.”
I’ve never been a five year plan type person so this kinda surprised me. But it also makes perfect sense. I’ve finally decided. And now that I have a time frame to work with, it is up to me to use this time to figure out how to make my dream come true.
And I trust myself to do just that.
