2020 CaRMS Tour
Air Canada flight 101, Toronto to Vancouver.
Boeing 787: Big plane, nearly 300 people on board.
One hour and five minutes from our destination, with a book in my hands and my eyelids growing heavy, I heard ‘Help please!’ followed by an overhead announcement: “Paging a doctor or any medical help to door 3 on the right side of the plane please!”
I was near door 3, about four meters from the person in need of help. My heart quickened, and I could feel each beat in my face and neck. I thought, “Wow, they told us it would happen one day. This is it. Maybe I can help,” but my enthusiasm vanished the very next moment. I shrunk into my seat too self-conscious to move. Imposter syndrome, bad, and I knew it.
Throughout the crowded cabin, I saw heads on swivels, searching for our heroes. Should I really stand up and proclaim that I was the “medical help”? How audacious! I’m only a 4th year medical student, and there must be someone more capable than me on this massive plane. I couldn’t move. I stayed glued to my seat, as invisible as ever before.
To my relief, three women arrived from somewhere in the back of the plane. Real doctors or nurses with real life-saving know-how and skill. The opportunity to rise out of my seat and introduce myself quickly elapsed. I would just be a nosy fraud if I got up now.
With a storm churning within me, I needed to reflect. As I turned inward to digest this new gumbo of emotions, I tasted deep shame. I felt cowardly. A painful lump grew in my throat, and my chest felt heavy; I felt tears well in my eyes. I indulged myself in these feelings; I let them wash over me, I let them soak in like water on a dry sponge. I’ll be a doctor in a few short months. I better get my act together.
Air Canada flight 101, Toronto to Vancouver.
Boeing 787: Big plane, nearly 300 people on board.
One hour and five minutes from our destination, with a book in my hands and my eyelids growing heavy, I heard ‘Help please!’ followed by an overhead announcement: “Paging a doctor or any medical help to door 3 on the right side of the plane please!”
I was near door 3, about four meters from the person in need of help. My heart quickened, and I could feel each beat in my face and neck. I thought, “Wow, they told us it would happen one day. This is it. Maybe I can help,” but my enthusiasm vanished the very next moment. I shrunk into my seat too self-conscious to move. Imposter syndrome, bad, and I knew it.
Throughout the crowded cabin, I saw heads on swivels, searching for our heroes. Should I really stand up and proclaim that I was the “medical help”? How audacious! I’m only a 4th year medical student, and there must be someone more capable than me on this massive plane. I couldn’t move. I stayed glued to my seat, as invisible as ever before.
To my relief, three women arrived from somewhere in the back of the plane. Real doctors or nurses with real life-saving know-how and skill. The opportunity to rise out of my seat and introduce myself quickly elapsed. I would just be a nosy fraud if I got up now.
With a storm churning within me, I needed to reflect. As I turned inward to digest this new gumbo of emotions, I tasted deep shame. I felt cowardly. A painful lump grew in my throat, and my chest felt heavy; I felt tears well in my eyes. I indulged myself in these feelings; I let them wash over me, I let them soak in like water on a dry sponge. I’ll be a doctor in a few short months. I better get my act together.
