It's My Party and I can Cry if I Want to

There are moments to celebrate in life. Yesterday was one of those moments. I reached a milestone that seemed unattainable four years ago and I can hardly believe that I, and others who have tread the same path, have come so far.

Every year, a process called "The Match" is played out in virtual reality where medical students take the step into the realm of "responsibility" and try to attain a job they desperately need as student loans come out of their grace period and start taunting for attention. The students pick a specialty to which they think they would like to devote the rest of their professional careers, apply for it and keep their fingers crossed. For specialties like dermatology, opthamology, surgery, and plastics, individuals who want to enter these holy realms would also need to have their toes crossed and overcome the pucker factor because demand for outweighs the supply. Trading in these trades is risky business and for the pucker factor to not swallow you whole, there'd better be a Plan B. So, the typical medical student will spend October to January job hunting, going for interviews, smoozing up to program directors, secretaries and what else, to try to secure a place. For a non US graduate like myself, the prize is all the more sweeter if the job is secured at some flashy place like Harvard or Yale.

Job hunting is not cheap and what with the unsurmountable loans behind me and no rich parents to pay my way, I had to get a loan to job hunt, covering expenses like hotels and air fares and car rentals. It's a drop in the bucket to the investment I took out on myself that is probably worth the value of a small house.

February 27 came around. This is the day when "The List" of places you want to be is due to be handed into the virtual space that is the National Residency Match Process. The system also gets the program's list of their most favorable candidates, people they won't hate to be with for the next 3 years. The programs are supposed to gleam your entire history and character from a short 10 minute interview with you. Bonus for people good at acting and keeping their serial killer identities covered. The system then runs these two lists together to try to "match" up place with candidate in some funny mathematical algorithm that is hidden knowledge that uses ancient egyptian pi charting to tabulate results. It is supposed to be instantaneous, but you are made to wait one whole month before you know. And even then, you won't know where you will be working for the next year, only that you will be working the next year. Some unfortunate people end up not having a job for one year and they will have to go through the agony again.

Monday, March 17 rolls around. St Patrick's Day, Did I Match? Day, and also, the day my little weenie dachsund, Sampson, decides that heaven is a far better prospect than this earth where a brain tumor was slowly squeezing his brain outside his skull. Talk about mixed emotions and no wonder why I have been feeling apathetic about the entire process. March 17 is Weenie's last day with us. The leather couch which has been his residence for the past 8 years will never be the same. I was going to toss it in the trash because it has been peed and pooped on. Now, I can't make myself part with it.

So, I find out, amid tears and like a huge major hole in my heart, that I matched.

Yesterday came around. The agony is intensified because I was made to wait two days to find out where I matched to give a chance to those who have gambled on risky business, and then promptly lost, to go to Plan B. These two days are also for those who didn't even try to go through the interview process and sell themselves a chance to fill vacant spots because sometimes, it is not only the student who takes a gamble.

After months, I'd known that I wanted to end up in Ohio, either Columbus at the Ohio State University, or in Cleveland, at Case Western Metrohealth. We were making plans to move, looking at properties for sale in the area, waiting with great glee to be neighbors to one of my extremely good friends, who had accepted a job in Cleveland.

And here it is, the moment of truth: I will be going to the University of Arizona to specialize in Internal Medicine.

So much for cold weather and a change of scenery. Mitch will probably not ever see the Rocking Roll Hall of Fame or be at the edge of Lake Superior.

One part of me is shouting, jumping up and down because Cleveland is a depressing city. Having been there three times, I got more depressed with each visit. We now don't have to worry about moving and moving costs and selling our condo and moving to a new place with sunshine for about 3 months out of the year. The other part of me is sort of muted, not really believing that I have come this far, and really really sad that Weenie will not share this part of my life because growing old with brain tumors suck. This part is also sad that I will not spend residency with my good friend and her family. Instead, we will be thousands of miles away.

U of A was my third choice. It sort of surprises me but like I told my dad, who was very much into calculating the Law of Averages and averaging the fact that 90% of graduates attained residency in their 1st and 2nd choices and was overwhelmingly convinced I would end up in Ohio, you never know with the Match. You also don't know what went wrong, if anything did go wrong, with not getting the top two picks. Did I smell bad at the interview? Was I too forceful? Did I seem over eager? Was I eating with my mouth open and had spinach stuck in my teeth? Did I not have a leverage? Was it because I was from Ross? These things go through my mind and make me spin. Truthfully, I will never know and it probably doesn't matter because there is still a percentage of people who did not end up being employed this summer. I am not one of them.

So it seems like we will be stuck for 3 more years in the middle of Hell. At least Tucson is south and close to mountains and has less of an urban effect. And I will be indoors most days anyway.

This victory over odds is bitter sweet. Four years ago, I was crying on my couch because no school would accept my MCAT score of 24 except Ross. Today, I not only graduated but did it with honors, proven to the entire world I have what it takes and am on the threshold of entering a new phase in my life. The bitter part is that my dog won't be with me.

Here's to you, Weenie. Sit. Stay. Good dog.