University of Maryland School of Medicine - Terrae Mariae Medicus (Baltimore, MD)

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Life Cycles 00 sont les neiges d’antan? Where are the snows of yesteryear? — Frangois Villon, 15th Century March 1987: “UNIVERSITY OF MARYLAND AT BALTIMORE,” read the stencilled blue capitals on the cover of the tattered green notebook. I dissect the notebook, pitch the obsolescent notes, and mount the green cover in my scrapbook to mark the start of the pages from medical school. The snapshots and memorabilia prompt a crowd of recollections. August 1983: On the hot sidewalk outside the School of Medicine, I sit atop a gray trunk about the size of a military footlocker, waiting for a ride. Inside the trunk is a disarticulated human skeleton. Classmates — a day ago, strangers — haul their bulky trunks to their cars or, like me, wait on the Baltimore Street sidewalk for transport. Carrying soda cans, passersby thread their way through our impromptu boneyard to the bus stop. October 1983 : 1 abandon the lofty goal of getting a medical education for the realistic one of passing a series of exams. I quit attending class because my grades improve when I study at home. My cats seem pleased to have a human around the house, and it is peaceful to watch the leaves fall. December 1983: Christmas in California. The “idiopathic” disease that is slowly destroying my father’s lungs has forced him to take oxygen by nasal cannula around the house. His physician struggles for a gentle way to tell me that his course will be ineluctably fatal and agonizingly slow. My parents and I dine at their club; my dad slings his portable oxygen cannister over the handles of my mother’s wheelchair and pushes her briskly to the dining room. June 1984: CAPP summer. I do a rotation at Springfield State Hospital, but get away for concerts at the Meyerhoff and weekends at the beach. On the phone, my dad asks me about the side effects of prednisone. December 1984. The class celebrates the end of finals with a bash at a local 4