As a premed, medical school was some mythical abyss that one descended into and rose four years later as a doctor. Like in The Dark Knight Rises when Batman goes into that pit, where he must train his mind and body to escape and conquer Bane. But instead of the batsuit and badass fighting skills, we supposedly emerge with expertise in medicine and a long white coat. Idealistically, medical school was a place of enriching  education, state-of-the-art futuristic facilities, where one went and suddenly learned how to become a doctor.

I have friends at eight different medical schools in the United States – some I talk to weekly, others I see once or twice a year. Naturally, we talk about medical school. We rant about our administrations and curriculums. We rave about the things we love about our schools. I don’t hate my school, but it’s far from perfect. There are aspects I love, and others I hate (read more on that here). We have time-wasting mandatory activities, some pretty bad lecturers, and of course, we evaluate, evaluate, evaluate to death.

I have a dream. It goes like this…

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I know, I know. There are probably hundreds of these very same articles online. Every website about anything has 10 types of people you meet in ________. Types of people you see in the gym, types of people you’ll befriend in the nursing home, types of people you meet in AA, types of people you meet in prison, and so on. But I don’t really care and I will do this anyways.

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The phone is ringing, surprised as it’s early. It was my mother.

“Jordan”…..

There was a long pause. An eerie silence. Usually when my mom calls me, she’s perkily asking me about my classes, berating me about yet another unpaid parking ticket that came in the mail, or complaining that my little brother hasn’t mowed the grass recently. Mom stuff. But this time it was different. There was a pause. Maybe a few seconds. But those few seconds were enough for me to realize that something was off. Something was wrong. Instead of her affectionate and sometimes nagging voice, all I could hear was the sound of my air conditioner blowing in the background.

She said his name.

I wasn’t there with her. But I could hear the tears. My mom usually speaks with energy, whether that energy comes from being upset with me for doing something stupid or eagerness to talk about visiting her friend, it doesn’t matter – there’s always a certain energy in her voice. When you know someone like that, shit, the first person who ever spoke words to you the moment you opened your eyes in this world, you know when something’s up. You know every normal vocal inflection and what it means.

When I heard her say his name, I knew there were two emotions running through my mother’s soul, audibly permeating through her voice – anxiety and sorrow.

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1:35 p.m., August 20, 2017 

I’m really depressed right now. Not in like a serious way, but more in a melodramatic snap-out-of-it sense. I’m back at school. Sitting in a coffee shop. Hungover as hell. Sipping coffee. Reading Reddit. Pondering what will happen in tonight’s Twin Peaks episode. Thinking about writing. Writing a sentence then deleting it. Reading a paragraph of First Aid then quitting. Ruminating over my plan for the forthcoming year. Daydreaming of being back at Bonnaroo or on the beach or getting wasted all day in Chicago. Doing nothing.

One may wonder, why Soze, why are you sitting in a coffee shop mindlessly browsing the internet on the day before you start your second year of medical school when you should be at home snoozing and nursing that hangover of yours? I’ll answer for ya – In my joyful summer of hedonism, I was at home away from school for almost three months. Consequently, I completely neglected to pay my electric bill for my apartment in the summer. And what do ya know… I come back to get settled into school yesterday, and my electricity is turned off! Ain’t that funny.

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