My purpose in life
I often think about the meaning of life and my purpose in this enigmatic Universe. I am always astonished at all these beautiful things it offers and I get impatient thinking that everything is momentary and it can disappear in a second. The unknown gives me insecurity. What is beyond? Does everything stops after death? Is there anything after life? I guess I’ll find out at the right moment so why worry? If I am here I should focus on my purpose…What is my purpose? So here we go again, the same questions.
I will share two moments in my life that made me reflect for minutes, hours, days…
The anatomy class
It is perfectly normal for a med student to study on a corpse. At first you are a bit nervous. And curios, really curios. You are disgusted by the smell of formaldehyde, but then you get used to it and you start working. Then you realize..’this was a real human once’. I am always amazed by their hands, the facial skin(especially in mans because you can see in some cases the hair grown just like in the 3rd or 4th day after shaving) and the forehead, so inexpressive – I hope this description is not too dark and creepy.
The point is, that body was once a human, a real human. She or he breathed and smelled a lover’s parfume, saw through his/her eyes the flowers, the grass, the colors, felt on the skin the wind, the rain and the warming sun, ate some delicious cookies from their grandmothers, ran as fast as they could, they cried, they screamed, they felt pain and joy, they laughed, they loved and were loved, they were alive! And then I look at the shelf in front of me and I see those huge jars exposing death fetuses. They never had the chance to be born!
In the OR
Last week I scrubbed in a surgery. It was not my first time in an OR, but it was the first time for me to watch an open-heart surgery. Mario, 18 months, had surgery for his congenital heart defect – Tetralogy of Fallot. Classically there are four defects: a ventricular septal defect(a hole between the 2 ventricles), an overriding aorta, pulmonary stenosis and right ventricle hypertrophy(enlargement of the ventricle). Four defects of such a beautiful and strong heart! Making a tiny heart beat again just with your hand, that is what made me wanna cry and smile at the same time. I know that this is nothing new, everybody has an idea of how this procedure is performed, we all watch movies and tv series. But belive me, it’s so magical when you actually see it with your own eyes. A baby boy, worming up from 34 to 37 C, getting his blood back in his body from the by-pass machine, is reborn as his heart beats again healty. I was socked that none of the doctors seemed impressed. Not anymore when you do this daily.
Couple days after I went to the hospital to see Mario. It was late, but Mario didn’t want to sleep at all so we started playing. He was laughing. He seemed so happy and his little heart was now fine.
So I asked myself again: what is my purpose? What can I do in this world when sometimes things are so unfair. I am convinced that nothing is random or accidental, but it’s hard to keep this conviction when you see a 18 months old baby struggling to breathe on his own. I think that my purpose is to build moments. Moments like the one when Mario and I were playing in the hospital at 10pm. My goal is now to relive suffering of those in pain and to offer peace to the people who love those ones. I want to and I will be a good doctor. And I am doing that for anyone who is in pain or need. I am doing this for your smile, for a just a moment of joy, when you’ll forget your pain.
p.s. This is a fragment of my own diary. Whenever I have an issue, I try to figure it out writing it. The answer comes immediately when I do this. I wrote this because in the last couple months I felt useless and meaningless. I realized with some help from a good friend that everything becomes relevant and meaningful when you change “I” into “US”. I thought I should share this with you. Also this is my first post.
p.s. I apologize for any grammatical errors. I still have a lot to learn.
