Narrative Essay On Medical School

Last December, our lovely guidance counselor, Mrs. McBride, forwarded an email to all juniors urging anyone interested in entering the medical field to apply to MU’s High School Mini Medical School. I generally blow off all the emails sent from her because they are usually full of irrelevant content, but this email ignited (vivid verb) such a fire in me that 15 fire trucks could not have put it out. The ponderous, mango colored school bus full of screaming children dropped me off at my house that chilly afternoon in December. Before I got to the door, I shouted, “Mom, start saving your money because I’m going to Mini-Med this summer!” The morning of April 15th, I received my acceptance letter. Shaking with excitement (participial phrase), I called my mom in the middle of art class, not caring about the cell-phone use policy. June 26th-30th I spent the five, most
action packed days of my life on Mizzou’s campus learning about everything from genital warts to necrotizing fasciitis. I held, not one, but four cold, inert human hearts. Grasping human hearts and other organs was a blast and all, but throughout the week uncertainty dwelled(vivid verb) in the back of my mind . Am I actually smart enough to go down this path?
This kid beside you took calculus as a sophomore, and got a 34 the first time he took the ACT; do you really think you’ll be able to do this?
There is only one other kid from another small school here, the rest don’t even know half the people in their graduating class; do you truly believe colleges will pick you before them?
Swirling doubt made me question whether I should just drop out of high school right now and become a garbage man. Oops, excuse me, sanitation specialist. Whatever word you want to use-- garbage man, waste management professional-- I was convinced my future acquired (vivid verb) a one-way ticket to the most rancid of career paths. I was assigned to Lab Group B along with seven other eager campers. Cole Bredehoeft, a third-year medical student with as much energy as 14 nuclear explosions,(simile and appositive) guided(vivid verb) us through the fast-paced week of lectures,labs, and learning. His love for science, especially infectious diseases, continued to fuel my dream of one day becoming a doctor, but being surrounded by peers four times more intelligent than me made my confidence plummet to depths lower than the Mariana Trench. Cole never opened up about his journey to medical school until the final day of Mini-Med when I mustered (vivid verbs) up enough courage to share my insecurities with someone. Heart pounding (absolute), I pulled Cole aside after our last small group meeting in a cold room, abandoned (adjectives out of order) under MU’s nursing school. Voice shaking(absolute), I asked, “Do you have a couple of minutes to talk?”
He replied, “Yes, of course! They don’t pay me to look pretty all day.”
Feeling slightly more comfortable, I started, “I’m from Harrisburg, a tiny town just north of here, that has a population of less than 300 people. My school barely has enough funding for school buses, let alone fancy anatomy classes. The ACT scores I’ve heard people say they have are outrageous, and mine is a measly 26. I’m just feeling really unsure about whether I can actually do this...” “Wait, wait, wait. Before you fall deeper into this black hole of self doubt let me tell you a little bit about my past. I was raised in Green Ridge, Missouri and graduated in a class of less than 50. I didn’t take an anatomy class until the first year of medical school, and the first and only time I suffered through the hell that is the ACT, I got a 26 too,” Cole stated.
“Really?” I asked
“Yes, really! Don’t count yourself short just because you’re from a small town and didn’t get a perfect score on the ACT. I believe you are perfectly capable of flourishing in medical school and accomplishing whatever you want in life, and I’ve only known you for 5 days.”
He continued with his life story, but I was too mesmerized by the fact I had been doubting myself for an entire week only to find out there was someone just like me thriving in the third year of medical school.
Cole was not just a regular medical student; he was his class’s Vice President and ranked number three out of his class of over 200. In the minute and a half it took Cole to tell me about his life, I went from feeling like a sheep without its wool armor to a self-assured lion ready to bare its sharp teeth. Leaving campus, all the other Mini-Med students were revealing to their parents their awesome, blood filled week enthusiastically. Walking down the long hallway to exit the building, tears welled in my eyes and the goofiest smile appeared on my face. I told my parents as they were giving me a very concerned look, “I can do this. I can get into medical school, and I will succeed. In ten years, I’m going to be a neurosurgeon, not a sanitation specialist.”
Before this moment of clarity, I believed my small town upbringing defined(vivid verb) my future, but now I know one does not rely on the
other.