The Language of Medicine (Continued)
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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