Perhaps I am the only one who
experiences this, but the events leading up to my admission into this
prestigious university sometimes escape me. The form-filling, incessant
redrafting of personal statements and late nights spent cramming for aptitude
tests/interviews all seem like a blur – some sort of pyretic dream only vaguely
remembered as a tumultuous ordeal consisting of an endless procession of seemingly
insuperable supertasks punctuated by periods of restless waiting – not to be
mistaken for any form of respite, as they were, more often than not, occupied
by efforts to prepare for the subsequent impending trial. Or maybe it wasn’t
that bad. Memory has a tendency to dramatize and romanticize certain events,
but I’m pretty sure the insuperable supertasks part is accurate.
To cut a long story short, I miraculously managed to convince the admissions staff to let me pursue a BMBS here at Nottingham. Of course, I was elated at first. And then came the panic. What if I didn’t fit in? What if I was the dumbest one there? What if this was just some sort of cosmic prank, designed to put me in my place? These concerns and many others began their marathon round and round my paranoid, sleep-deprived mind, threatening to overwhelm me. It worried me that I had absolutely no idea what to expect of the course workload and, more importantly, my coursemates. Admittedly, I knew students who were applying to do medicine as well, but I had very little chance to study those already well on their way to becoming doctors, in their natural habitat. So, left with no other choice, I pieced together, based on common folklore and various representations fed to me by the media, a particularly vivid amalgamation of characteristics ascribed to the Average English University Student, ultimately resulting in a large, singularly vulgar and irreverent ruddy-faced individual with biceps and a neck twice the size of a regular man’s, wearing exclusively polo shirts with their collars flipped up and whose consumption of alcohol was only limited by the bouts of drinking-induced comas that he inflicted upon himself. Looking back, I am willing to admit that my model was, perhaps, just slightly inaccurate.
I still recall that fateful first day; sat in LT1 casting furtive glances up and down each aisle, anxiously anticipating the strange creatures that would step through the doors and into my personal universe for the next 5 years. The spontaneous conversations and calculated pauses, the awkward harvesting of personal information and the all-important exchanging of numbers – I remember it well. And then there were the questions as inevitable as they were unvarying. ‘So uh, what halls you in?’ ‘Joined any societies?’ ‘You hate Rutland? Me too!’ With almost clockwork-like consistency, as if taking some form of tedious history, I divulged and solicited the same few details of every new stranger I happened to meet. Soon, the answers were on the tip of my tongue, ready to be employed at a moment’s notice – an odd but understandable self-imposed ritual – the fresher’s survey.
Two terms down the line, I am pleased to report that my coursemates do not at all fit the mould I had, in my fear of the unknown, rashly crafted. However, as apprentice to a profession centred mainly around making judgements based on available evidence, you can hardly blame me for having a few preconceived notions. I suppose my error was in drawing up a diagnosis before performing a proper examination – in forgetting that the human condition is one that is both fascinating and befuddling in its complexity, necessitating a multidisciplinary approach and rigorous inspection over an extended period of time before even its most superficial aspects can hope to be understood. (Actually, I just made that up – but it sounds convincing, no?) In any case, with a little over 4 years more to go, I wonder what other discoveries lay in store for me – what new surprises my friends still have up their sleeves. I suppose my only option is to wait and see – to march onward steadily, motley company beside me, trying to observe the world with an open mind in the hopes that, by the end of it, I’ll have broadened my horizons a little and perhaps even earned a degree.
To cut a long story short, I miraculously managed to convince the admissions staff to let me pursue a BMBS here at Nottingham. Of course, I was elated at first. And then came the panic. What if I didn’t fit in? What if I was the dumbest one there? What if this was just some sort of cosmic prank, designed to put me in my place? These concerns and many others began their marathon round and round my paranoid, sleep-deprived mind, threatening to overwhelm me. It worried me that I had absolutely no idea what to expect of the course workload and, more importantly, my coursemates. Admittedly, I knew students who were applying to do medicine as well, but I had very little chance to study those already well on their way to becoming doctors, in their natural habitat. So, left with no other choice, I pieced together, based on common folklore and various representations fed to me by the media, a particularly vivid amalgamation of characteristics ascribed to the Average English University Student, ultimately resulting in a large, singularly vulgar and irreverent ruddy-faced individual with biceps and a neck twice the size of a regular man’s, wearing exclusively polo shirts with their collars flipped up and whose consumption of alcohol was only limited by the bouts of drinking-induced comas that he inflicted upon himself. Looking back, I am willing to admit that my model was, perhaps, just slightly inaccurate.
I still recall that fateful first day; sat in LT1 casting furtive glances up and down each aisle, anxiously anticipating the strange creatures that would step through the doors and into my personal universe for the next 5 years. The spontaneous conversations and calculated pauses, the awkward harvesting of personal information and the all-important exchanging of numbers – I remember it well. And then there were the questions as inevitable as they were unvarying. ‘So uh, what halls you in?’ ‘Joined any societies?’ ‘You hate Rutland? Me too!’ With almost clockwork-like consistency, as if taking some form of tedious history, I divulged and solicited the same few details of every new stranger I happened to meet. Soon, the answers were on the tip of my tongue, ready to be employed at a moment’s notice – an odd but understandable self-imposed ritual – the fresher’s survey.
Two terms down the line, I am pleased to report that my coursemates do not at all fit the mould I had, in my fear of the unknown, rashly crafted. However, as apprentice to a profession centred mainly around making judgements based on available evidence, you can hardly blame me for having a few preconceived notions. I suppose my error was in drawing up a diagnosis before performing a proper examination – in forgetting that the human condition is one that is both fascinating and befuddling in its complexity, necessitating a multidisciplinary approach and rigorous inspection over an extended period of time before even its most superficial aspects can hope to be understood. (Actually, I just made that up – but it sounds convincing, no?) In any case, with a little over 4 years more to go, I wonder what other discoveries lay in store for me – what new surprises my friends still have up their sleeves. I suppose my only option is to wait and see – to march onward steadily, motley company beside me, trying to observe the world with an open mind in the hopes that, by the end of it, I’ll have broadened my horizons a little and perhaps even earned a degree.
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