Detached Memories

Warning: mind ramble.

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There are certain moments in life we remember with clear precision. I remember these with a sense of detachment; seeing myself walking through each moment, unable to stop forthcoming events.

1. The day my nan - or naniji - died. I was young. I didn't know her well. My mother picked up the phone, cheerily greeting her sister in India. Then she went silent. I remember how the thud of the phone echoed through the house. How my father dropped the tools he was using to tile the bathroom floor, running to her.

I remember tip toeing down the stairs; watching through the gaps between the banisters. My father held her as she cried.

2. January 2014. Another phone call - one a friend received. We were sitting in a computer room during a free period. She laughed loudly initially as she spoke - normal. But her tone abruptly changed; her laughter tainted with fear. Adamant her friend was telling her a sick joke. Then her head bowed, resting on the table. She left the room. Her friend was dying.

She died the next day. 18 years old.
She was broken. Tears flooded down the face of the girl who was, and is the definition of strength. Herself, another & I in an empty bathroom. I wished I could do anything to stop her pain; to bring her friend back.

Later I realised we were almost the same age. She had left lasting memories and strong relationships. While I had lived every day in the hope of achieving my dreams on another. I had put off things with the justification that the future would bring them to me; trapped in the limbo of the waiting game. Why was life cruel to her? She had more than I; why was it snatched from her?

3. Another childhood memory. The day before my great aunt died - an aneurysm - she happily sat with us at a family gathering. Chair adjacent to the door. To this day I still remember her smile outlined in rouge lipstick. Her kind eyes.

4. August 2013. Shadowing a junior doctor in a hospital in Cardiology. Seeing a dying man. Chesnut ward. His skin was tainted with jaundice. He panted for breath. His eyes stricken with pain. The pain of incapability clung to my chest - I hated not being able to help. Standing on the sidelines as a man was slowly dying. I can't imagine how he must have felt. Surrounded by the faces of strangers on your deathbed.

I think that's what frightens me the most about Medicine - not being able to save someone. And being the last person they see before they die. What gives someone that right? What can you say?

5. Bristol.

Thinking of the word makes me grit my teeth. Being borderline - being an almost grates on my nerves beyond measure. Images of every single MMI station constantly flash in my mind. Every simple error makes me clench my fists. Waiting list. Borderline.

Nonetheless, I am grateful. Being in the 1000 interviewees out of 5000 total applicants was something I never imagined possible. Besides, anger is good revision fuel. Whenever I lose hope, I pick up the Bristol prospectus, glare at the cover, shout a few profanities, before returning to work again.

Life is odd.