Deleted Scene- Medical School Interview, Part Three

Readers: This is the third of many scenes which I wrote for IN STITCHES, but didn't make the final cut. Over the next several months I'll post many of these 'deleted scenes.'

The interviewer blinks. Well, one of his eyes blinks. I can’t see what the other eye is doing. He waits for my answer.
“I’ve thought a lot about how I want to serve humanity,” I say, leaning in, meeting his stare with a grave look of my own. The truth is I’ve been preparing a list of key touchy-feely responses to this question for weeks. I let them fly. My mouth starts moving and I hear myself blather “family practice,” “rural,” “Appalachia” “the less fortunate,” “the homeless,” “inner city,” “free clinic,” and, my favorite, “I have a need to give back.” I stifle the voice in my head, the one I use with friends when we satirize this very moment, the one that threatens to blurt, “prescribing privileges,” “six figures,” “nice car,” “hot chicks,” “won’t accept Medicaid,” and “breast augmentation.”
Dr. One Eye keeps his one eye trained on me.
“You have a need to give back. A need.”
“Well,” I say, “A desire. Maybe that’s more—”
“Allow me to peruse your personal statement.”
Great. This guy hasn’t even read my application. He rifles through my folder, nods at a page, finds my photograph affixed to the corner and compares that face to mine, confirms that the photograph is indeed me, lowers his eye and begins reading—for five full minutes. I squirm in my chair, my eyes tracing the veins on his bald spot as he labors over the most dreaded part of the application. Took me hours to write the personal statement. As cautioned by my friends who applied last year—you have to become noticed without going over the top. You want to appear memorable, in a good way. If you’re up for a Nobel Prize or climbed Mount Everest, be sure to squeeze that into your personal statement, but always connect it to medicine. As I reached the summit of Everest, I thought about this unfortunate handicapped child I met while volunteering at the clinic—
“I find the personal statement the most telling part of the application,” my inquisitor says without looking up. “Ah, yes. Hmm.”
Hmm? I crane my neck to see what’s caused him to hmm.
He raises his head and looks at me with the slightest hint of a smile.
“Fascinating,” he says. “So you were a Candy Striper.”
“Yes, ah ha, for two years, in high school.”
“Two years.” He slowly closes the manila folder of my application as if shutting a door.
_____________
More to come—

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Dr. Drew Ordon From The Doctors TV Show Reviews IN STITCHES!

Celebrity plastic surgeon and star of TV's The Doctors Dr. Drew Ordon has been kind enough to provide this review of IN STITCHES:

"My fellow plastic surgeon Anthony Youn, M.D.'s book, In Stitches, is a brilliant and bouncy read. Humorous and energetic, the author takes us along with him in medical school on his way to becoming a surgeon. He makes you feel as if you are along for the ride. Rich with dialogue, I found myself rooting for him in all sorts of circumstances from his first surgery to hitting on co-eds."

Thanks Dr. Ordon!

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Deleted Scene: Medical School Interview, Part Two

Readers: This is the second of many scenes which I wrote for IN STITCHES, but didn't make the final cut. Over the next several months I'll post many of these 'deleted scenes.'

The interviewer yanks off his glasses and drops his head an inch above my folder. He squints at my transcript.
“Hmpf,” he says. “Your GPA. 3.94. Impressive.”
I whistle out a breath. The interview is turning around.
My friends were right. You have to relax during your interview. The application process is a crapshoot and the interview is only a small part of that process. It’s unlikely that these fifteen minutes are going to make any difference, unless you’re a superstar or a freak. You are only guaranteed admission if you’ve discovered the cure for swine flu, escaped from a communist country in a small boat when you were four years old, won the Gold Medal in figure skating at the Olympics and you only have one leg, or your father paid for a couple of buildings at this particular med school. I’m sitting here 0 for 4, so I might as well relax.
“Unless you’re a star, don’t stand out too much,” my friends have said. “Fly under the radar. Appear hard-working, sincere, and personable. Interviewers are screeners. They’re looking for a red flag—applicants who shout obscenities, political slogans, or drool on their shoes. So be cool and try not to piss the guy off.”
“So, 3.94, huh?”
“Yes, sir,” I say.
“Top five percent of your class.”
I smile modestly. “Only two B’s in my entire four years of college.”
“What happened there?” he grunts. “Why not all A’s? Why not a 4.0?”
My smile sinks.
Dr. Evil slaps my folder. “And your MCAT scores. An 8, 9, and 10. Are these right?”
“Um, yes— ”
“Did you actually study for the MCAT?”
“I thought I did. I bought several review books.”
“Maybe you should’ve considered taking a review course.”
“Apparently,” I mutter.
“Well, a lot of people do poorly on standardized tests,” he says. “Few of them become doctors.”
He folds his hands and leans across the desk, one eye staring at me, the other looking off into space.
“So, tell me, Mr. Young, how do you plan on serving humankind?”
It is hot in here.
_____________
More to come—

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Deleted Scene: Medical School Interview, Part One

Readers: This is the first of many scenes which I wrote for IN STITCHES, but didn't make the final cut. Over the next several months I'll post many of these 'deleted scenes.'

For those of you who may wonder, yes, I did go to medical school.
I attended Michigan State University College of Human Medicine, the setting of much of IN STITCHES. Why Michigan State? Well, for one reason, they let me in.
Actually, I applied to several medical schools and got accepted to most. There was one school, though, that I applied to and received neither an acceptance nor a rejection; I never heard from them at all. Just as well. I didn’t want to go there anyway. Too far from home, too rigid a program, and the medical school interviewer freaked me out. Here’s that interview.
Oh, the school? I can’t tell you. Let’s just call it Case Eastern Reserve.
______________
I can’t get over this guy’s cred—the wall of his office is plastered with diplomas, awards, certificates of excellence, framed yellowed scientific journals containing articles he wrote, and pictures of him shaking hands with four different Presidents. You’d think he’d rate a bigger office. This is the size of a closet, dingy, dominated by a cruddy old desk, one visitor’s chair with the stuffing spilling out, and a lone smudgy window overlooking a dumpster.
We’re four minutes into the interview and so far all he’s talked about is himself, his career, his accomplishments, spoken in a mumbled garbled voice as inviting as someone trying to clear a throat full of phlegm. I felt nervous for the first two minutes, now I’m bored and planning my escape.
Then I notice his eyes. They go off in opposite directions. His right one’s looking at me, his left one’s looking out the window. Where do I look? I alternate and feel like an idiot. I choose the wall behind him where I focus on a photograph of my interviewer, much younger, shaking hands with a confused, stone-faced President Ford.
Finally, he speaks.
“Hmpf,” he says, rustling through a folder that I assume contains my application. “So then, Mr. Young.”
“Youn,” I say. “It’s Youn.”
“Ah,” he says. “Hmpf.”
Is it hot in here?
______________
More to come—

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