I found myself lying on the floor. The sun had set but it was still early – a tragedy of New England once the summer fades. I was not tired or sad. My to-do list was as robust as ever and my goals circled high above my head, seemingly in the clouds. Yet, I was lying on the floor not even stretching. No music, podcast, book, or movie playing. To be fair, I spent a fair amount of time sitting on the floor (my preferred studying location is at my floor desk) so lying on the floor wasn’t that much of a change. It was the stillness and purposelessness of the activity that was unusual for me.
There was a period of my existence when I could not be still and had to always be actively engaged in something. However, the need for constant stimulation dissipated when I was in Paraguay and, I’ve often thought, “good riddance.” I recall my early 20s. I worked fulltime, studied in college fulltime, trained for marathons, went to parties, and built my first career. It was exhausting. It was the way of life I knew. The way of becoming successful. Of fulfilling the American dream. Then I moved to Paraguay where everything seemed so slow. Hours sitting and drinking terere in the shade. Hours spent sitting and sometimes chatting, often staring into space silently, sometimes cooking or napping. I came to enjoy rainy days where it is common for rural Paraguay to shut down. Rainy days were filled with lounging and drinking mate. I precisely remember the moment I realized that when the Paraguayans told me they were doing “nothing,” they meant it. What an odd thing nothing is.
I’ve reached that point in medical school where I’d rather it was over. That point when the hours of studying, sitting in the hospital, trying to learn everything I can, and testing to see if I know enough to care for my patients are quite tedious. I do NOT say this out of despair; I still know medicine is exactly what I want to do professionally. I still love patients and the puzzles they present, but I’m ready to be good at something again. I recall a similar feeling junior year of high school, junior year of college, 6 months into my first professional job after college, and 6 months into my life in Paraguay. There’s a time in all learning curves where it’s truly a terrible slog. That time when you’ve learned an unfathomable amount, still feel mediocre at managing what you know, realize you still have a ton left to understand, and know that it will still be a while before you’re “good at it.” Whatever the mysterious “it” is.
And that’s where the gratefulness comes in. I’m grateful these days because I’ve played this game before. I’m grateful because I know myself better than I did last time I played the game of learning something completely new. I’m grateful because I know already that I’m attracted to activities that seem impossible yet, at some point (after many days of struggle), I do wind up being excellent at them.
So, I found myself lying on the floor. It was junior year of medical school. It was the breaking point. It was about to be a landslide into graduation. In a couple of blinks, I’d start residency. I was closer to becoming a physician than I’d ever been. I lay on the floor contemplating the joy and misery of learning. I thought about some patients who had changed my worldview ever-so-slightly. I thought about the amazing teachings and mentors who I’d encountered while wandering about the hospital wards. I thought about the first day I showed up to work on an ambulance (my first clinical experience), years ago now. “I won’t let you kill anyone,” my chief had said then. I contemplated this. Soon, it would be I who had to prevent patients from dying if it could be done. That was kind of a big deal. I felt humbled. I had much to learn despite having learned so much. I was grateful for this moment of pause while lying on the floor. Life is quite a whirlwind when you seek out challenge. The secret, therefore, is to be grateful for the moments of calm when they come. Even the worst storms have eyes; I remind myself of to look for them.