Ice Queen

A few weeks ago, I found myself stuck in a conversation of my least favorite sort. I was taking an end-of-year-three exam that involved different scenarios with actor-patients, each with his or her own presenting symptoms, history, and physical exam findings from which I would need to riddle a diagnosis or at least the next diagnostic steps I wanted to take. Having finished one such encounter with time to spare, I sat quietly in the hallway that connects all of the exam rooms, staring alternately at the ceiling, the floor, and my lap so as to avoid giving the impression that I might be attempting to communicate answers with other students via eye contact or facial expressions.

The man proctoring the exam stuck up a conversation with me, asking what area of medicine I planned to pursue. I explained that I hope to do a residency in pediatrics, followed by a fellowship in pediatric hematology/oncology. Then I braced myself.

I am well accustomed to people’s responses. Even before I shifted my focus to pediatric oncology, I had spent ten years planning to treat cancer patients of some sort, and so I was used to people’s facial expressions – which landed somewhere along the spectrum between slightly troubled and downright aghast – and their comments. Wow, that’s tough and, I don’t think I could do that and even, Won’t you be really sad?

But this man decided to take it even further. He chose to pontificate. Grimacing, he began, “Wow, that’s got to be really hard. To do that, you have to have no emotions at all; you really must be made of ice.”

Over the years, my response to the usual expressions of dismay has evolved. Previously, I was so uncomfortable with the discomfort of others that I grew almost apologetic, my voice rising in uncertainty as I explained the reasoning behind my decision as if imploring them to agree with me. Then I grew slightly more confident, presenting my thoughts earnestly, feeling the importance of making others understand my point of view. Now that I am inching closer to my goal – and to my thirtieth birthday – I just get pissed.

I agree that oncology of any sort is rife with challenges, and treating kids with cancer is another ballgame that most people can’t imagine. I’ve had plenty of doctors in other specialties tell me stories from their experiences in pediatric oncology during medical school. They describe situations that I find myself wanting to run towards even as I fake-sympathetically nod and cluck at how terrible the field is. I even realize that I could still change my mind. But what I can’t deal with is people who judge and criticize others’ career choices just because that area wouldn’t work for them. Do you want to know the truth? I really couldn’t stand surgery. There is not a cell in my body that so much as whispered of an interest in it. But that’s just me. Not only do I understand that others may disagree vehemently, I am thoroughly glad that they do, because we need surgeons and it would be best if the people who do surgery actually liked what they are doing. I’m really glad that some people out there enjoy it, because it means that I don’t have to enter a field that I don’t like. (Same goes for lawyers, engineers, accountants, etc.) I’d just like to politely suggest that they show the same deference for my career selection.

As much as I would have liked to walk away, I was stuck. I couldn’t exactly quit the exam midway through, nor could I excuse myself and go speak to one of my classmates, so I nudged us along to another topic. He asked where I planned to practice, and I gushed about Tay’s and my love of New England, adding that we are avid skiers. He asked if I had skied out west, and I said no, not since I was about four. And then suddenly there we were, back in judgment-ville. “You’ve never skied out west?! And you call yourself a serious skier??”

This time I didn’t shy away. “What can I say?” I shrugged, meeting his eyes without faltering. “I'm an Eastern skier. I love to ski the ice.”