Next week, my fate is decided.
It's something called "the Match," a complicated process in which fourth year medical students are giving residency training positions.
(For the "complete" inner working of the process, see here.)
And it happens next week.
And you can all be incredibly grateful that you don't live with me. Because this is all that I have talked about for months now. Hubster is sick of it.
I have been waiting for this day for years. As soon as I was accepted into medical school, my mind immediately skipped forward, like it always does, to the next step: residency.
I took specialty questionnaires, and then researched residencies for the specialties the questionnaires pointed me to during first year. I thought I had made up my mind during second year and researched pediatric residencies (looking mostly at call schedules and insurance coverage.) Third year, well, I was too tired to think about it. But then fourth year again was spend studying residencies, first pediatrics, then family medicine, and ultimately anesthesiology.
After waiting so long, it's a little unbelievable that it is happening on Thursday. It's actually going to happen.
I'm a sloshing mess of anxiety, excitement, panic, relief, jitters, dread, and anticipation. Most of the time, I'm not sure which emotion is dominant.
Not knowing has held us all in limbo. "Are you guys going to the family camp-out?" Don't know yet. "Will you be able to come of vacation with us?" Don't know yet. "So, where are you guys going for residency?" Don't know yet.
A week from now, I will know where my family and I am going to be living for at least the next four years. A week from now, we will be house hunting for real, and not just wistfully. A week from now, I can start planning again.
A week from now, I will be one step closer.