dream
Tuesday, September 20

I am walking home with one of my friends from medical school, HD. In my dream, I had done very well in school, and HD and I were talking about where we were going at the next level of education. While HD listened patiently, I was bemoaning the difficulty of obtaining a genuine, meaningful recommendation letter.

“The thing is, H, how are we supposed to get a meaningful personalized letter when these professors hardly know us, and we all ask them for letters?” I asked.

This issue was irritating because (in my dream) I had done very well in school, and was in position to get into a very good medical school/residency/fellowship (I don’t remember what the next level was). Yet, despite that assurance, a very strong letter from a professor would really have carried me up and through with no hesitation, I was sure. Instead, I was left with a strong academic performance, but doubt as to where I was going next.

H shrugged, and replied, “I don’t know, J. I don’t know.” H had done much worse than me academically (in the dream), yet was not concerned about his future, because he had such a great relationship with a professor in H’s major/specialty, Professor Y, that his next step was assured.

As we came to an intersection, we saw Professor A. He was the professor of a subject, a subject that was my major/specialty. He was also the author of the strongest recommendation letter I had. The Professor was struggling to walk across the intersection in the snow (I wasn’t aware it was snowing in my dream until this point), carrying several packages.

H and I saw him and yelled out, “Hey, Professor A!” (Although he was my professor, even H had taken Professor A’s class at one point)

From 20 feet away, we saw Professor A break out in a huge smile. “H! H, my boy! How are you?” and, struggling with his packages, he joyfully said, “I’ve got a Christmas present for you, H! What a coincidence to run into you here!”

We reached him just as he finished speaking, but I never broke my pace, and continued walking, step by step, though I wanted to run.

In a part of my heart, I had been hoping. That even if Professor A had only recognized H from a distance, that when he saw me as well, that he would be glad to see me. After all, Professor A was my professor, damn it! He had written my letter of recommendation! I didn’t need or want a present from him. I don’t know what I had expected. For him to be glad to see me? Acknowledgement that he recognized me? I guess it was for him to show the type of warmth and enthusiasm he had shown H. But I had seen his eyes as he looked from H to me and back to H. It wasn’t that he didn’t recognize me. He had seen me fully, as we had drawn closer. But that simple sweep of his eyes was painful, because I knew that he had beheld me, and I was nothing to him.

So I walked steadily on, not a break in my step. Even in the snow, I knew what my friend H was feeling. H was a good guy, a great guy. I could feel his embarrassment and sorrow through the cold of the snow. If he could, I knew he would rather not have any of it, for my sake. But I knew that he would stay with Professor A, because he did not want to hurt the old man.

As I was walking, I looked down at my shoes, and thought about the way I was dressed. Typical winter student garb: Heavy dark wool coat, scarf, jeans (what were getting wet) and sneakers. I was filled with anger at my pathetic garb, my stupid path that required me to be poor when others on their paths were well on their way to success. I kept walking, hoping that someone would bump into me, hoping that I would be able to punch someone, feeling invincible, yet knowing that I would get my ass kicked.

*Dream shift – continued*

I was in rounds at work. ICU rounds which last for hours (4 hours standing with no break is a killer). I was with my fellow interns, residents, and pulmonary fellows (all of whom are Indian. Why are all the pulmonary fellows Indian? I have no idea why. Is there are reason why all buff white guys must go into orthopedics, why all little Asian guys have to go into ophthalmology or medicine, and why Indian guys go into pulmonary/intensive care? It’s a mystery of medicine. Sorry, I digress from my dream.)

The lead fellow was teaching in his odd voice. He had a Indian accent, which was not difficult to understand, but he also had a lisp, which made it much more difficult. He was teaching all of us a point of intensive care, by demonstrating the point through a story.

“Listen to me: There was once a man who had a low-profile job. A low paying job. He toiled at his difficult work, day after day. Every day was a struggle for him, but every day, he continued to toil at his work. He achieved more than some, he achieved less than others, but regardless, he continued in his work.

Then came a time when his work was coming to an end. All his work, and those nights of toil, was finally going to pay off. He would be recognized by his peers, by his family, and achieve world-wide recognition. Finally, the life that he had been dreaming about, the life of fame and glory would be his. When the man’s mind knew that the work was completed, the moment he said, “I am done,” the man died.

The man knew he was dead, and did not know where he was. It was neither clouds nor flames, nor earth as he knew it. Then the man began to see scenes from his life.

The man expected to see scenes of his life’s greatest achievements. His degrees, his awards, the time he had made a speech to a large prestigious, intelligent crowd to thunderous applause.

Instead he saw scenes of all his struggles. He relived the each and every moment of doubt, hurt, and struggle. All the little moments that no one saw, that no one every would see, those moments when it was difficult to do what was right, when his mind rebelled against his heart, when it would have been so much easier to do what everyone else was telling him to do, all those moments were relived by the man.

When it was done, the man was spent, weakened by the tension and pain from the struggles relived, but he felt a great presence of approval, an acknowledgement greater than he had ever known, and the man was at peace.”

As he finished the story, the pulmonary fellow looked up from the ground, and looked at me, and as though my hoping for the story to be true made it so, I knew he was speaking to me, and I became overwhelmed with emotion.



My dreams are usually weird to begin with, but post-call dreams are beginning to scare me.

This dream was arrogant/complimentary (I laugh to imagine doing well in school, as the dream took as a sure fact), disheartening, and discouraging, revoked painful feelings, and then took the initiative to comfort me through the dream?! How bizarre is this? My dream was my accuser and my healer. Does this mean I think so highly of myself that I think I will received this way in heaven? Does it mean that I hope to be received this way? I could accept that latter, except that the dream and reality are not exactly congruent. Because, although I have definitely had many moments of struggle and doubt, I have very often (especially recently) chosen exactly opposite of what I knew to be right and good.

I’m going to stop thinking about this dream. One day, I will be able to collect all my dreams, and see what they mean.

yakob at 5:39 PM

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