Before I had kids, I knew there was nothing in the world that could make me as happy as being a doctor. I know because I tried everything else. I fought the desire to be a doctor over and over again. I told myself the hours were too long, the training too expensive, the sacrifices too great, the work environment too threatening. I listened to the dire warnings of miserable med students and miserable physicians.
But everytime I went back to volunteer at a local clinic for the uninsured, I knew they were wrong. My heart went out to these patients who all worked full-time jobs just to pay the bills, but didn't have health insurance. I saw a 54-year-old woman with Type II DM who couldn't afford her meds and was walking around with a HgA1C of 11.5. I met a 58 year old man who had waited three months for an appointment for shortness of breath-we slapped a pulse ox on him and he was satting in the 70's at rest. Despite his severe (undiagnosed) COPD, this guy had been dragging himself to his blue collar job every day, because he didn't get paid for sick days. I could go on and on, but you get the idea. I knew this clinic was where I needed to be. I knew they needed me to become a physician and come take care of these patients.
I can honestly state that I didn't give a flying hoot about money. I figured I would make enough to repay my loans and since I've never had much money in my life, I wouldn't miss it anyway.
I grew up in a working-class family myself. My dad was a blue-collar worker who got laid off from his job when I was in 6th grade, which is when we went on welfare, food stamps, and Medicaid. I worked at babysitting jobs until I was old enough to get a real job and then I worked mostly in restaurants. I served customers, prepared food, mopped floors, and cleaned bathrooms to pay my way through community college.
One of my fondest memories was one day when I was working the cash register at the local sub shoppe. In walk two gentlemen who are obviously professors- it's quite apparent from their demeanor. One guy is wearing a T-shirt with this equation on it:
They come up to my register, order their subs, and continue chatting with one another, mostly oblivious to me. You should have seen the guy's face when I asked him why in the world he was wearing a T-shirt with the Schroedinger equation of quantum mechanics on it. Priceless! I loved it- he obviously though I was some idiot blue-collar bimbo and he about fell to the floor when I said that.
OK, I have digressed. Let's suffice it to say that I worked my way through community college, then transferred to a state university and applied to med school. Since I had no source of income other than my measly restaurant jobs, I could only afford to apply to one school. I applied Early Decision to the closest school, was initially waitlisted, then ultimately rejected.