Since explaining my tumultuous relationship with the bureaucracy governing the Malaysian Medical Council a couple months ago, my housemanship application has made a solid stride of progress. Name shenanigans sorted, I am now officially on the waitlist. At any moment, I could receive an email, or a flurry of pings from Telegram which will determine the next two years of my life, wherever that may be. But this is a stretch because everyone knows that this step is what will take at least 6-9 months. That said, it could very well be sped up, and I can feel my intestines knotting up.
I graduated 1 year and 10 months ago. I wonder what purpose the experiences I've gathered in the time since are going to serve in my new environment. I will be working twice to thrice as much, and making twice to thrice less money, all while being fully clothed, masked, and tethered to my magenta stethoscope and responsibilities in a way that I have not been for so, so long. There is not a cell in my body that doubts my ability to handle it all when it comes, but leaving behind this life I have carefully curated over the last 10 months is not going to be easy.
I am coin rolling on a marbled surface, teetering on the edge between apprehension and excitement. In other words: I am utterly terrified.
Blessed New Moon as I timidly approach the destiny carved out for me by my predecessors. 'Dr. Seetha Govindaraju' does not have the same ring to it as 'writer' but I pray for the possibility of the two worlds existing as one with the same hope the coin rolls with, confident, whichever side it lands on. Time for bed now.
P.S. Correction, I mean Dr. Seetha A/P Govindaraju.
(If you don’t get that reference, then please get yourself up to speed with one of my favourite stories of Malaysian efficiency/ why you should take official government documents seriously.)