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The Language of Medicine    (Continued)

Page 2 of 5

I diagnosed diseases within my own class and dressed wounds ­procured at recess. My friends wanted to be veterinarians, but my dad inspired me down my path. “What does your dad do, Stephanie?” inquired my first grade teacher. “He's a doctor,” I replied, “He kisses owies.” And I knew that was what I wanted to do some day too.

Through my formative years, I accompanied my dad on morning rounds on Sundays. I was awed by his poise as he taught his residents the essential minutiae of reading a chest X-ray or performing a bronchoscopy. I was a sponge, absorbing his riddles of nonsensical vocabulary like they were essential to my survival. Alveoli, bronchioles, pleurisy, and pneumothorax – I wrote it all down, knowing that it was never too early to start studying for my MCATs.

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