Goodbye For Now Vermont

It had been over 2 years since I’d set foot in the US and almost a decade since I’d lived in Vermont when I returned 5 years ago. In my time away, I’d forgotten that men might choose to grow beards, plaid shirts are stylish in some people’s eyes, and baggy pants on men (and women) are normal in some regions of the globe. I’d just come from a place where those things – beards, plaid, and baggy pants – were only seen on people experiencing homeness and overheating Peace Corps volunteers clearly out of place in the Paraguayan sun.

Yet, despite the plaid, the cold, and the lack of sun Vermont was better than I remembered it. It was nice being in a place where I was confident everyone I talked to knew how many legs a chicken has (I’ve met people in the urban US who don’t). When I arrived, I wasn’t too worried about liking Vermont. I thought that I’d just come back to start my journey to medical school and that was all. Vermont had more in mind.

I started my pre-med classes which can easily be summarized like this: I’d write a lab report then revise it until it was so boring it made me yawn. Only if I was absolutely bored reading a lab report could I be sure I’d get an A on it.

As part of the journey to medical school, I became an EMT. I remember being petrified showing up for me first EMT shift. My nerves eased when my crew chief (who’d started working on ambulances over a decade before I was born) told me in a matter-of-fact voice that the crew would not let me kill anyone. Our crew would have dinner together every shift (unless we got a call and had to jump in the ambulance). We’d talk about patient cases, science, sci-fi, trucks, and cake. We’d get 2 am calls. I learned to write patient reports in the middle of the night. I practiced finding things to talk about with anyone – an important skill when you have a stable patient and a 30 plus-minute ambulance ride to the hospital. I saw hoarder houses. I learned what it looks like when people fall and can’t get up. I saw what happens when a blood sugar gets too low. I reinforced the knowledge that drunk humans are poor historians.

After running all night (that’s what we called being on the ambulance responding to calls), I’d change into my business-very-casual work clothes and go to work. Then class. Then lab. The hours studying merged as they always do. But, as I prepared for the MCAT (an entrance exam for med school) I knew exactly who to ask to explain some of the physics concepts that weren’t sticking – the brilliant kid with the Vermont accent on my ambulance crew. He’d driven trucks almost as long as he’d been walking and hadn’t done much school. He was smart and if he’d wished to follow different stars he could have. 

“I don’t know the physics equations or anything,” he said when I asked if he could explain how hydraulic lifts work and the physics of pistons.

“That’s not an issue, you understand the concepts,” I said.

I could do pages of equations and get the answer, but it was the meaning behind the symbols and numbers I wanted. And as he drew out a dump truck to explain hydraulics, drawing to explain just as my father and step-father always do, I realized that I liked the people in Vermont more than I’d expected I would.

School, my first job after returning to Vermont, and my time on the ambulance ended around the same time. I transitioned to a new job as an EMT in the emergency department (ED). I learned how to place IVs and draw blood. I saw how the brain, heart, and bones can break. I sat with families as their loved ones died. I saw babies be born and people smile despite the unluckiest circumstances. I learned from fellow EMTs, nurses, and other key players in the ED. The ED attracts fiery spirits and I enjoyed being among them. The patients came and went – suicidal thoughts, dog bite, chest pain, weird rash, car crash, fall, stroke, homeless, ski accident, rape, stomach pain – and I learned about humanity. Healthcare gave me a new angle from which to view Vermont. I saw the stoic Vermonters I’d known growing up. I saw people who had just immigrated to this frigid, snowy state. I met people who have the lives that make up the opioid epidemic. I met folks like me and very different from me.

The people of Vermont gave me a window into medicine. I got into medical school and I decided to study at our state school.

While much of my time in Vermont has been centered on learning medicine, that is not all Vermont has been. I rediscovered the mountains and the forests. I spent countless hours walking along Lake Champlain. I heard the hermit thrush sing as I wandered in the forest. I was reminded how both loud and quiet the trees are. Between the mountaintops and the lake, I also found my life partner. We were hiking and feasting buddies at first, but life has a way of pushing the limits of friendship. I also found friends with whom I cackle and giggle, enjoy the sunset and a stroll, and who I know are standing by ready for anything when the going gets tough. And the going is tough sometimes because becoming a doctor is a long road.

Since returning to Vermont, I rediscovered why Vermonters are stubborn, fierce, loving, and independent – just spend a winter here and you’ll understand. And, while Vermont has been so much more than I imagined, I must say goodbye for now. Every time I leave a place, I can not promise I’ll return for good or stay away forever. I can only promise that the people and hidden hallows that shaped me while I was here will always be with me no matter where I am. As I look ahead to the last years of medical school, I plan to complete them in Connecticut (my Vermont medical school has a clinical partnership there).

With excitement that I’m moving once again to a neighborhood where we speak Spanish and with a heavy heart for the dearest friends I’ve left in my home state let me say, “Until we meet again dear Vermont, may the snow be deep in winter and the summer be sparkly and green.”

The Sunny Side

Last week I flew to Chicago for my last (most likely) medical school interview. I had the window seat on the plane and, surprisingly, wasn’t sleeping as we approached Chicago. I was excited to spend 24 hours in the city and get a feel for a place I hardly knew. I gazed out the window as we started our decent.

Before we decreased our altitude, we zipped along above the clouds, through a bright blue sky with sparkling sun. A thick layer of clouds was below us. The view of bright blue above white divided by shining sun rays conjured images of every version of “seeing the light” imaginable—end of the tunnel, heaven’s gates, nirvana…to name a few. The clearness and stark lines between the blue and white were beautiful.

Slowly, the plane’s path dipped so that we began to approach the clouds. We must have been far above them because it took us a while before we got close to the wall of white. I knew the clouds were a penetrable, gaseous/small particle entities, but they looked solid and impassable. We approached them quickly, and soon the sunny view of blue was obscured and the windows were masked in white. We were in the middle of the clouds and there was nothing to see.

Our journey continued rapidly and, in no time, we were below the clouds, a snowy and gray scene was visible below us. The sun seemed to have vanished, leaving a stark winter city scene. There were no leaves on the trees and the buildings added to the gray of the air between the land and the clouds. It looked cold and brooding. If I hadn’t just observed the sunny blue above I wouldn’t have known it could exist in the same place as we now were.

I smiled as I stared at the houses and streets, a bird’s eye view of the cityscape. I guess it’s just a matter of knowing where to look to find the sun. I held the vision of sunlight within me as I caught the train from the airport to where I’d spend the night before my interview and school tour. I’d been nervous before starting my trip, but I wasn’t anymore. I felt lucky.