If anyone is looking for me, tell them I’m staying in Schroedinger’s box.
You know the one – perfectly built (theoretically, at least) to avoid giving answers of any kind? The one that changes depending on if you look at it or not?
The one with the cat in it?
That’s the one. I’m the girl crammed in there, wondering if sitting with my knees hugged up to my chin is really all that much more dignified than the fetal position.
It’s the uncertainty I hate. My life is hurtling by around me and I’m sitting here, wondering if it’s moving or I’m moving or it’s all in my head. I schedule patients for next summer and one moment I’m convinced I’ll still be here to greet them in July, then the next I know I’ll finish working at the end of June and head off to my next adventure. I see patients for a non-stop week, then I fly off to an interview that everyone says is a good sign and guarantees I’ll be gone come summer.
But the letter I got just says I’ll be considered on a rolling basis. That’s bad, right? It means that they don’t think I’m as good as the others they hope to interview. Or maybe they’re just waiting to see if I get into the grad school for the MD/PhD program. That wouldn’t be so bad. It’s not a yes, it’s not a no, it’s not even a “you’re on our wait list.” It’s just a “wait.” The decision may already be made and I just can’t see it.
If I don’t observe it, has it been made?
I know I should be out there exploring, making new friends, becoming more independent, but why put the effort in if I’m leaving in six months? Who needs a new group of friends to promise to keep in contact with even though you all know life will get in the way? If I’m still here, it’s going to be a lonely fall.
“I’m only here for a year,” I tell one person at church when she asks; “It’s for up to two years,” I tell another ten minutes later. I don’t know which scares me more – knowing a rejection letter could be in the mail, or knowing that most likely I won’t have any mail when I get home. I can’t move, I can’t stay, I can’t talk, I can’t shut up. I’m getting sick and tired of “maybe,” “Wait,” “Either/or,” “both,” and it’s not even January yet. Most schools say they may not tell me if I’m in or out until March, so I guess I’m moved in for the long haul.
Oh well. At least the cat will keep me company.