FanStory.com - Med. Schoolby Terry Reilly

I never wanted to be a doctor.

For my mum and dad it was an easy call. Both medics, they saw it as a natural progression.

In their defence, they may have thought they could wield some influence, pull some strings.
Give me an edge?

A less generous appraisal might criticise their failure to read the signals.
I loved books, reading, poetry. I loved music, jazz and classical. I loved Impressionist painting.

I passed five Scottish Higher exams. The equivalent of English 'A' levels.
Three 'A' grades, English, French and Maths. 'B' in Physics, 'C' in Chemistry. A scientist in embryo?

Anyway, I was accepted to study Medicine at Glasgow University. My father's Alma Mater.

I went with the flow to begin with. Head down, grind away, suck it up. Fly the flag for the family.
I hated most of it. Dull, turgid, unimaginative. Huge quantities of stultifying information to absorb.

And the practical stuff. I loathed the Anatomy classes. Dissecting naked formalin-preserved bodies.
Unfortunates who perished on the streets of the city, unloved, unwanted, unclaimed by relatives.

Subjected to the ultimate post-mortem degradation. Clumsily hacked to shreds by aspiring surgeons.
It upset me, offended me, revolted me. Also, I was useless. I had no skill, no manual dexterity.

I bunked off, missed the weekly session. I failed, of course. I don't know how I passed the resit.
But I did. That was the first time I began to wonder if medics were dumbos.
If I could progress to the next level, hating what I was doing, having no aptitude, what of the others?

It became more interesting after Second Year. More oriented towards the understanding of diseases and illnesses, their diagnosis and treatment. My curiosity was piqued.

And I was getting a better life balance. Classes, study, revision and leisure.
The leisure veered wildly between healthy physical pursuits, swimming and tennis, and crazy nights in the Student Union drinking pathological quantities of beer and picking fights with anyone who was equally pugnacious.

But Saturday nights in the Union were special. Live bands in the main auditorium. Dancing. Girls! Yes!
The non-student girls from the inner city knew this was the place to come for entertainment. Shop girls and office workers.
They were granted cheap admission. They wanted to pick up a bright guy with proper money-earning potential. We patronisingly called them "the wee hairies." But they were dolled up to the nines, they looked great, they talked no pretentious "Unibabble". And they delivered (mostly) what they promised!

Anything I knew about sex when I got married was down to the lust for life and love I was so lucky to share with a new girl each Saturday night. A University education which was not just academic!

From Third Year onwards we spent increasing periods of time on the wards of our local teaching Hospitals, mixing learning on the job with continuing attendances at academic lectures. I found this more rewarding. Talking to patients, real people, in the context of their serious health needs helped to enliven the whole experience and make the learning process more meaningful.

Nor was it overlooked that this would provide opportunities to meet nurses! Wowzer! Every med. student's fantasy. (I guess the girls hoped to ensnare a Junior doc.) Although we recognised that we would be at the bottom of the food chain we lived in hope we might be able to impress "the Angels." We were allocated to each ward in pairs. Although I was pleased that my companion was a friend, a really nice guy, there was a down side. He was a sportsman, very fit. Taller than me, blonde wavy hair, and much better looking. And he spoke with an American accent having spent school time in the States. Damn! What chance would I have lurking in his shadow? I got lucky. One of the junior doctors asked me to give an i/v injection of a cancer-blasting drug to an elderly man who was in a bad way. That was fine. Within my competence, and I did my best to be upbeat and reassuring. Some minutes later, I was approached by the Junior Sister. Wow! What a babe! Light blue eyes, shiny black hair, such a pretty face. And a really neat figure. And the dark blue uniform!

She asked me to sign my name on a med. card confirming my identity and the details and dosage of the administered substance. I did it, of course, and took note of the Irish name on her staff badge. She must have noticed my name was also Irish. In Glasgow, then, things like that really mattered. I nearly blew my chance to smithereens. I made some really dumb, smartass comment like thanking her for taking time out of her busy day to come and chat me up. Nooo! She threw me a dagger look and turned briskly away. As I watched those shapely legs encased in black nylon disappear into the distance I cursed my crass stupidity. That was that.

Only it wasn't. I saw her the following week at a staff party and plucked up courage to approach her.
I was relieved to discover that she was prepared to talk to me. As the evening progressed, and after a few dances, we seemed to be getting on really well. She was in between boyfriends. We kissed at the end of the evening and agreed our first date in a few days time.

To cut to the chase, it all progressed very satisfactorily thereafter. Ann told me at some point that her initial thought was that I was an arrogant asshole. However, the Irish name was a big plus in my favour. She also confessed that she had asked the junior doctor to allocate the injection to be given by my handsome colleague, John, so she had an excuse to interact with him, but John was already doing something else. I told you I got lucky!

Those events took place 55 years ago. We celebrated our Golden Wedding Anniversary last January. We have two smashing adult kids, one of each, and two delightful grandkids, one of each.
The Good Lord must have been watching over us throughout. Ann certainly deserved his support; I'm
less sure I did!

I reckon the story of how my medical career developed is also worth telling, but if you have managed to read as far as this without losing interest or falling asleep you do not deserve to be punished by having to plough through another thousand words of purple prose. Maybe next time.

Thanks for your attention and patience. God bless, Terry.