It's all fun and Grey's until someone gets cancer...

I picked at the fraying edge of the quilt, keeping my eyes down. "Deep breaths, no tears," I told myself. The pounding of blood behind my ears became deafening. I struggled to keep my mind blank, failing to push out the bad thoughts and worst case scenarios that wriggled to the front of my mind. "But we caught it early, sweetie.  I'll be fine," my mom said as she wiped tears off her own face. I could count on one hand the number of times I had seen my mom cry in my whole life. Tears that were always the result of a sappy movie or a knee whacked on the coffee table—never because of something like cancer. "Why did you wait so long to tell me?" I asked as indignantly as a scared 17-year-old could. "You never even mentioned doctor's appointments!" My mother hid her diagnosis for months to spare me the misery of worrying.

My family is fortunate enough to have both my mother and father in remission after being diagnosed with cervical and thyroid cancer, respectively, within three years of each other. To my unending frustration, both of my parents waited to share their diagnoses with me until the day before their surgeries in an attempt to lessen my worry. Nevertheless, I pictured my mother and father each sitting alone in the cold, sterile doctor's office. Spouse at work, kids in school, there was just one person at the time who was there for each of them. The one person to whom all of their hopes and fears and prayers and questions were directed: their doctor.

One night during my second year of college, I was studying in the dormitory lobby where I worked as a Resident Assistant. Notebooks and papers for classes I could take as an Undeclared major were strewn chaotically around me, but I managed to find a stray napkin to hand to the student sitting across from me. "You're so easy to talk to. I can't believe I'm telling you this—I've never told anyone this. Just...thank you," said John, one of the more than sixty residents who lived on my floor. I watched John's hands shake as he wiped the tears from his face with the napkin, and my chest tightened—I felt stunned to have made such a connection with a practical stranger. Over the half hour we spoke, I learned John had acute social anxiety and was consequently struggling with roommate conflicts. John told me how relieved he was to finally share with someone the feelings of frustration and panic that accompanied freezing up when he tried talking to a peer. I felt honored when John told me my easy demeanor made him feel comfortable enough to approach me in the lobby. The feel of my mother's doctor's hand on my shoulder after her surgery suddenly sprung to mind. I shook off the memory. I couldn't do that, I thought. It's too hard.

Serving as a Resident Assistant to hundreds of students throughout my undergraduate career has been personally satisfying—I have enjoyed the opportunities to connect with and help students through times of feeling vulnerable or stressed. It was not until I began assisting with clinical research trials for an internship for credit hours that I experienced that feeling of fulfillment in a medical setting. On my very first day as a research assistant I was chatting with Jane, a patient who was in a phase three multiple sclerosis trial, while waiting to begin her tests. Jane had spent several years as a patient in the trial investigating the efficacy of a new drug for the treatment of multiple sclerosis. She was excited to tell me that the previous week in yoga class she had accomplished the dead man's pose for the first time. "I didn't even notice I'd done it at first; my yoga instructor came over and asked me if I saw what I was doing!" she exclaimed. Jane had never been able to lay flat on the ground, without elevating her legs or rolling over into the fetal position, to accomplish the yoga dead man's pose. I will never forget the brightness in Jane's eyes as she relayed her excitement over something I had considered so simple—laying flat on the ground. This investigational drug gave Jane back something that multiple sclerosis had taken away, and I was thrilled to be given the chance to witness the tangible improvement in her quality of life as a result. Learning about monoclonal antibodies in immunology class and then having the opportunity to apply that knowledge to understand how a drug targeting CD20-expressing B cells can prevent devastating relapse symptoms in multiple sclerosis is thrilling in and of itself. The combination of my thirst for knowledge with the satisfaction that arises from connecting with another person provided me with an elation I'd never felt before. That wriggling thought in the back of my mind returned---could I do this? Be a doctor? Do I have what it takes? The investigational drug will be submitted to the FDA for approval in the upcoming months. I picture thousands of amazing people just like Jane who will be telling doctors and members of their healthcare team about how this treatment has improved their lives. Yes. I want to be on that team.

I can still recall the feeling of dread that washed over me when I heard that my parents had cancer. That panicked feeling will always feel fresh.  In my mind then, a cancer diagnosis equaled a death sentence. My mom's face when she told me her diagnosis floated before my mind as I saw John wiping tears from his eyes in the dorm lobby. Jane's excitement about her bounds in yoga reminds me of the joy I feel after every check-up confirms my parents are still in remission. The fear, confusion, and turmoil that my parents' doctors helped manage gave me a deeper appreciation for the importance of being able to engage with another person emotionally, in addition to saving a life. Each of these moments have given me the courage to pursue a career in medicine. A path where I must devote every ounce of willpower imaginable, and more, to accomplish both sacred tasks—treating the body and spirit. And in turn, become the person who can rest her hand on a seventeen-year-old girl's shoulder and tell her that her mother's cancer is gone.