Would You Rather

13 - WYR: grad school or med school?

FINLEY

"Okay, so, tell me the plan." My advisor is sitting across from me in her office, hands folded in front of her.

I drop a folder on the desk and spin my laptop around to her with my spreadsheet, the spreadsheet open. I've applied to my schools, but I'm just starting the lengthy interviewing process. I like statistics a little too much to let it go completely uncontrolled.

I walk her through it, where I applied over the summer, where I have yet to hear from, the American schools I applied to, ones that I've visited, and what I'm doing to prepare for interviews and further steps.

It takes going on an hour and when I'm done, she's looking at me, assessing me.

"Okay, all this," she waves at my laptop and my folder. "This is fantastic. You're incredibly organized. However, and don't take this as anything other than what it is: Finley, you've been working in my lab for four years. Are you sure you don't want to go to grad school to do research?"

I sit there for a moment. "I'm going to be a doctor."

"I know," she nods. "But I've seen you in a lab, Fin. Your data analysis skills are... one of a kind. You like the control of an experiment. You thrive off learning new things. I believe that you will be an incredible doctor, that I know without a doubt, but is it... something that you want. Something that you will love. Or are you doing it because you feel like you have to?"

I reach forward and shut my laptop, "I don't think you understand what this means to me."

"I do, Fin, because I was in the same spot-"

I stand up, sliding my laptop and my folder into my bag, "no, I don't think you were in the same spot, Professor Andersen. I don't want to be an academic. Academic doesn't... doesn't do what I need it to do." Academic doesn't fix things. Academic doesn't make the type of money I need to make.

I bid her goodbye, short and kurt, telling her that I'll be back in a month for another check in. She's in charge of my lab, yes, but I'm not in that lab during the times she is. If she wants to bother me about grad school over med school, she's going to have to wait another month. She's going to have to wait until December until we're meeting weekly to go over preparations to go to the conference.

On my way out of the building and toward home, my phone rings.

"Hey, Brodie."

My older brother yawns on the other end of the line, "hey, Finley."

"What's with the call?"

"Am I not allowed to call my sister?"

I roll my eyes, cradling my phone by my ear under my hood while I put my gloves on. I'm going to need my hands out of my jacket to hold the phone and I don't have it in me to be bare-handed in this type of wind.

"You're allowed to call your sister," I respond. "You just normally don't call at four on a weekday."

"I got bored and I haven't talked to you in, like, weeks." There's a silence on the line for a long few seconds before he clears his throat. "Also, I watched a dude get caught on the rig today and get most of his hand cut off, so. I needed to hear people's voices. Y'know?"

I smile a sad smile against the receiver. I felt the same way the first time I watched CPR fail while working on the ambulance. I needed to check in on everyone when I got home. Make sure that I saw their face or heard them speak before I went to sleep. "Yeah, I know. When are they moving you to pipeline stuff?"