Patch Adams

The application paperwork is filled with a lot of mundane data. Demographics and figures take up most of the space; probably justly so as these are the supposed measures by which I will be primarily judged. Despite my story, my experience, and all that soft stuff that I consider to be the essence of what makes my application mine, these papers contort me into the confines of sterile digits, arrayed appropriately on a graphical representation of my academic competitors. It is no secret that getting into medical school is mostly about the grades and the test scores. As much as it makes me cringe, I knew this going in and I've put a lot of work into preparing for it.

All the while, though, I have secretly maintained the idea that I am somehow special. I know that the grades are important. I know that the test scores weigh heavily. Still, when I think about my qualifications for medical school and what might make me a good doctor, I don't think about how I look plotted out on the application chart. I think about my bedside manner. I think about my interest in the minutiae. I think about my successes on the job and the lessons I've taken from my failures.

As I look at this application, I can't help but think all of that is a bit of a cliche. The up and coming paramedic from the streets somehow busting into medical school with his knowledge of the real world, "keeping it real" with the stiff-collared medical students about how it really is out there. It's the stuff that TV shows are made from. The ex paramedic and his common sense solution, sharing a high-five with the smiling patient while the number crunching white jacket stereotype glares from across the room.

Canned laughter.

It isn't real. The application process is set up this way because good students make good doctors. The guy that digs his nose into books for hours on end is the guy you want holding the scalpel. Patients want doctors to be consistently correct. Diligent. Up to date on the literature and an expert at their trade. They want them to have been at the top of their class. I don't think patients would give a damn about bedside manner if it meant that for it they would sacrifice a modicum of academic rigor. Patch Adams wore a funny red nose and made his patients laugh, but the character would be ridiculous if he wasn't also shown acing every exam.


This isn't a lament about a wasted effort. I'm that guy, too. I've got good grades and believe I can do the work well. It is true that I am attached to this romantic ideal of an up and coming paramedic, but that is because it is a part of my story and thus a part of me. All of this will only turn out a cliche if I allow myself to pretend that hard work can ever take a back seat.

I've got a story, yes. I will have common-sense solutions and I will make my patients laugh.

I will also finish first in my class.