It’s 9am as I enter the back of the lecture hall. I glance towards my usual seat — left side, off center, four rows back. I pause at the top of the steps. My eyes adjust to the dim of the indoor lights against the dark industrial carpet. From the back of the lecture hall, the seats slope down. Everyone gets an unobstructed view — stadium seating without the stadium. The slope of the steps takes an effort of concentration. Half as high as a regular step, the ground seems to meet me too quickly. The spaces between each step are just a little too wide for my normal walking stride. There is an awkward rhythm that feels like limping as I move towards my seat.
When I had tried sitting at the back, the professor looked like a toy doll moving back and forth across the stage in a Punch and Judy puppet show. I felt distracted, as if I was looking for the puppet strings. From the front, I had to crane my neck up to see the projector images. After trying out all the options during the first semester, I now had a regular seat — left side, off center, four rows back. I knew the students that would sit next to me. We had become creatures of habit. Next to me was the guy with all the colored pencils and highlighters and the girl with the organized notebook dividers. We had all made it into medical school, but these were the smart seats.
A few weeks ago, I had discovered that the 8am professor was lecturing from the book — verbatim! This should not have been a surprise since he wrote the book. I’m a visual learner, so I had to go home and read the book again in order to retain any of the information. (Auditory learners can just go to lecture and remember everything. That’s not me.)
I would stay up late into the night to study. We had an exam every Monday morning. There were two good things and one bad thing about this. We only had one week of material to cram into our heads, and after the exam we were done with that week of material. I’ve forgotten more things than some people ever learn. Honestly, it was like drinking water from a firehose. You just can’t get it all down, but you just keep trying. In the process, you get soaked… and your stomach hurts. Now this is still the good part. The bad part was that I spent every weekend studying.
After several weeks of exhaustion, I realized that I could sleep in and read the 8am book at my own pace without missing any water from the firehose. My day started promptly at 9am. To tell the truth, I did feel guilty missing class. I’m just that kind of person. But I’d been doing this for a couple weeks now, and I was passing the Monday exams.
I thought of the new rhythm that I was finding. I had discovered my favorite study spots in the library. I changed locations regularly so that I wouldn’t get bored. Meals broke up the day. I would eat with housemates, laugh and chat, decompress the day. I would hang out with friends to study together. I discovered the ballroom dance club on campus which gave my brain a rest from the firehose. I found a tai chi group on Sundays. I found a stride that didn’t feel like limping.
The chatter of the 9am lecture hall brought me back into the moment. People were streaming out of the lecture hall for a break as I was coming in. I felt like I was driving on the wrong side of the street in traffic. The buzz of voices got louder and louder around me, and that’s when I realized that they were talking about me. Did I miss something? Maybe I should have come to class. But each week there were less people; I was not the only one trying to get used to the rhythms of medical school.
“When did you stop shaving?” said my friend.
I suddenly realized that the entire lecture hall was just shocked that I could grow a beard. I had been clean shaven until a week ago before spring break. Another of the rhythms in my life that changed out of sheer laziness. Why should I shave everyday? When life feels like drinking water from a firehose, you try to take back any little bit of time that you can. Those intense days of medical school followed by long hours of residency training leave me exhausted, even just thinking about it. The pace of life was faster than I could digest. Today, as I craft stories to tell others, I look back on those days with the time to gaze at my navel and process through the anxiety and fears of those long ago moments. Now the work is making the space in life to breathe, reflect, and live in the moment.
I still don’t shave every day. The beard is now turning white. I don’t go to 8am lectures. The brain is not what it used to be. The ground seems awkward some days. I’m still getting used to the rhythms of life.