It is said that the most effective and caring doctors must first experience what it is like to be a patient, for knowing the stiff feel of a hospital bed and the ache of an IV provides inestimable empathy that will only aid a career in medicine. Optimists might say that I was able to receive this valuable lesson early, but optimism was scarce during my two-year tour to various hospitals in Florida.

It began fairly innocuously with a trip to our local hospital for vague stomach pain. Hospitals and doctors’ offices have fascinated me since adolescence; something about “places of healing” always held some mysticism, and doctors are the closest thing an atheist can get to miracle workers. It was when I was sent to the hospital in the adjacent city and got my first bitter taste of Gatorade infused with contrast that I knew that mysticism would soon be challenged. After waiting twelve hours in the hallway of Winter Haven hospital— they had no space for me in a room— only to receive my first inconclusive CT scan, I was officially a long-term project. Diagnoses of polyps, food allergies, and even malignant tumors were proposed and subsequently ruled out by more inconclusive tests.

Ultimately, the actual sickness was not the worst part of this journey, but the waiting. Those long, lonely moments in between tests where I mostly tried to complete the schoolwork I was missing or fostered my love for early Michael Crichton novels. It is during these times that patients are left alone with prospects potentially more dangerous than their illness, their thoughts. Thoughts of how the hospital smelled like my grandmother and the terrifying significance of that, and of the possibility that these travels might not end. It was enough to shake anyone’s hope, let alone desires to go into medicine, but those periodic visits from the doctor served to nurture that excitement for the field. Those ephemeral respites from the silence were infinitely interesting, and while it was no Andromeda Strain, the mystery of my true illness provided intrigue that stifled the boredom that is often the bane of most long-term patients.

Like any good mystery novel, there finally came that “eureka” moment with my journey to Shands Medical Center as well as one of my first conclusive tests. Unlike previous scans, this required the use of the infamously repellant barium, a taste that I still vividly remember. I was apprehensive, but the nurse assured me that the taste was exaggerated, as nursing students at the University of Florida are often forced to drink some in the pursuit of their degree. True or not, this display of empathy was what ultimately motivated me to go through with the test, and what led to the correct diagnosis of gastroparesis. This is a fairly rare disease where, quite frankly, my stomach simply would not function. While the result may seem anticlimactic, it taught me some essential lessons. On a superficial level, it solidified my long-held desire to go into medicine, but it also taught me that empathy for others is one of the most vital tools at our disposal. If that nurse had not empathized with me, would I have gone through with the test? Who’s to say; all I know is that I am proud I did.Currently, I have worked my way back into school as a member of my school’s inaugural International Baccalaureate Program, and that empathy I so treasure has really helped me form a group of reliable friends that I know would be there for me throughout any tour I must endure.