I will admit it. I entered medical school brushing aside warnings about how brutal and dehumanizing the “academic years” could be. After all, I had emerged relatively unscathed from four years of pre-med scrapping in college, and the prospect of cracking some books was nothing to get ruffled about. I was fresh off the plane from a summer jaunt to Italy, and the lingering taste of chianti seemed adequate to clean my palate for another round.
Thus, when the formaldehyde began to flow, I found myself pouring over sketches of the human musculature with effortless intensity. Interested, I correlated my atlas with the rippling marble of David, who had towered over me only months before in Florence. “Amazing,” I whispered to myself and continued to focus on the list of structures to be learned. Long hours in the laboratory passed without my notice, though I did stop to imagine the bewhiskered Da Vinci taking a break from his dissection to gaze out over the Arno.
The weather turned cooler, and I stared laboriously at slides of neurons and glial cells elegantly stained to reveal their innards. I thought of Camillo Golgi grinding away in his lab in the northern provinces, and I wondered if he ever took a vacation to lounge by Lake Como as I had done. “At least then we would share one thing in common, Mr. Golgi.” Though I was making obvious sacrifices for the sake of my studies, I found fulfillment in knowing that I was taking part in a great tradition of intellect. I was getting an education in the most classical of all arts—that of the human body, and deep down I believed that one day I would use this knowledge to construct art of my own.
Somewhere along the way, though, things began to change in the depths of me. Memorizing pages of underlined text in the bowels of the library, I could almost feel vitality leaking from my sun-starved skin. The stacks of paper crushed my will, and I wondered how I would ever find enjoyment in the mindless reproduction of so many facts. Had I lost touch with my own passion for learning, or worse yet, for healing? During the early stages of my first year in medical school, memories of my trip to Italy had served as a link to the great thinkers of our world. Somehow, by adding my footfalls to the cobbled streets that these brilliant men had once tread, I was privy to their innovation. But now all I could muster was the desire for another cup of coffee, and I became more apathetic with the passing of each winter day.
One night, I finally reached the threshold of tolerance. Exhausted, I laid my head on a thick tome of science and drifted to sleep. In this restless state, by brain escaped from its drudgery, and I dreamt vividly of events from my life. With amazing clarity, I could feel the cold water of an Appalachian trout stream on my legs. The big lights of an October Friday night buzzed in my brain and turned my stomach with anxiety. The soft lips of a tanned young woman graced my cheek. So many sensations rushed forth and despite some reluctance, I awoke minutes later. For a while, I did not know what to make of these dreams, and I struggled to understand them. Within days though, it occurred to me that my nap had done more than just refresh my sleep-deprived body. The dreams reminded me of an essential element that had been missing from my medical education: the cultivation of myself. How negligent of me to think that any physician of worth could practice his trade without offering a vigorous taste of himself to the patient. I realized that just as important as any science was the development of my own humanity—the experiences, memories, and downfalls which are my substance. These elements will be the language I speak to the injured and ailing, and these elements will be a healing force in my practice. At least that is what I believe. Sometimes I still drift off from my studies to thoughts of the great Italians and their works of genius, but lately I just scheme up plans to go fishing.