0.I – Get Set
0.I – GET SET
Seven years ago, at the unripe and non-tender age of nineteen, I left my country, Malta for the very first time. It was a five-day trip to Barcelona. I still remember every single detail, exactly like it were yesterday. My friend, a traveller by all accounts, thought it was absurd how someone like me; adventurous, spontaneous, curious, had never been abroad. I think I owe it to her that she insisted we’d go there together.
Five years ago, I left Europe for the first time. This time round, it’d be to Colombia. I’d be visiting my boyfriend there, having been in a long-distance relationship for quite a while after he had to leave Malta when his visa expired. It was also around the time my father had died, smack right in the middle of my studies in med school. I remember wanting out – out of my routine, my studies, my comfort. I wanted change. And I got what I wanted. I came back a changed man. I had rediscovered myself in the depths of the Sierra Nevada’s jungle. Colombia had stolen my heart and from thereon, Latin America felt as if it were my home.
Three years ago, I decided to take a year-long break from life and travel all around the world as soon as I’d be done from med school. I’m the impulsive kind. I decided I’d do it, so that was that – the decision had been made. My friends would go on to become doctors and I’d go on to explore the world before coming back and follow in their suit. But then COVID-19 happened and I ended up having to drag along.
Fast forward by two years. I started working and was this close to finishing my internship and I already had my itinerary all figured out. I’d be travelling all across Latin America for the upcoming eight months, then I’d come back, start my specialisation and then go on with my life. In less than a week I’d be finishing up my contract. I’d no longer be a junior doctor. I’d have my warrant and could start practicing outside of hospital, outside of my country. Maybe I could actually do some voluntary work abroad, though I didn’t want medicine to be the focus of my travels.
I’d given medicine the best years of my life. I mean, don’t get me wrong, it’s my one true passion. Becoming a surgeon meant everything to me. But I also loved to travel, to explore, to experience. And I couldn’t do that whilst working. I had to make a decision. It was either now or never.
Doubting
Not applying for my next position was me committing to my decision. That’s it. It was done. The path had been chosen and there’d be no going back. I gotta admit, it was heart-wrenching. Seeing my friends going all abuzz about it made me feel all kinds of things. Jealous, depressed, dejected, inferior, insecure. Like I’d be falling behind everyone. I always secretly prided myself in being one of the best doctors of our cohort – a yearlong break could very well change that. I knew I’d be going through with my plans, but admittedly, all these thoughts did kinda get in the way of me being excited for my journey.
On my very last day of work, I couldn’t help but break into tears. I’d be saying goodbye not only to my colleagues, but to whom, by then, were family. Day in, day out we’d work together. And suddenly they’d go on with their lives and I’d be leaving everything behind. I knew it’d just be a year, but that’s enough time to make a gap, to drive a wedge, to create distance. And who knew how things would turn out, maybe life would take me elsewhere. Maybe I’d apply for my specialisation in another country, hell, maybe I wouldn’t even apply for a specialisation, maybe I’d end up a shaman in the middle of the jungle or murdered in the middle of a gang fight.
As a planner, as someone who always like to have a stable routine, all these doubts were secretly killing me. I couldn’t let my friends know about all of this. I was so resolute, I didn’t want them to think I was chickening out now would I? And so I held it all in. Until my friend came rushing from the opposite end of the corridor bawling her eyes out. When something like that happens in a hospital, people automatically assume there’s been a tragedy. Well, in a way, it kinda was for me.
It didn’t take long for me to join her in her weeping. We had been working together for six months straight. We’d known each other for years, but in those six months, we became joined at the hip. I’d miss her so much – I’d miss my job so, so much! The theoretical aspect, the practical aspect, the patients, their relatives, the fun and laughs, the exhaustion and despair, every single thing. The hospital was my home, my sanctuary. My friends had to literally drag me out of there as I did the whole ‘walking backwards whilst looking wistfully at the hospital I’d be leaving behind’ thing. I cried all the way home and had to take a detour so my eyes would dry up before I got there and my family would think I’m a freak.
The worst part wasn’t leaving my job. The worst part was not knowing what I’d be leaving it for. It felt like it was the worst possible time to do this. I was doing so well, and I’d be giving it all up for what – a holiday? It was easy to understand why I had up and left everything to go to Colombia, if only for a short while. I needed perspective, to ground myself. But now I was fine, I was happy, I wasn’t lost or miserable. I was actually thriving! Why the hell would I be doing this?
I think it was the conservative mentality that I was surrounded by that made me have all these doubts. In my country you go to school, you start working, get promoted and have the job of your dreams, that’s it. A break is seen as losing momentum, a way of throwing years of studying and work in the rubbish. It’s not a break, it’s a stop. And I had to fight off these thoughts that were so subconsciously rooted in my head.
Committing
It wouldn’t be just a holiday. It’d be me pursuing other passions, expanding my knowledge, focusing on myself. It’d be me prioritising myself for once. Something I had been neglecting for quite a while. I might not have necessarily wanted to do it, but I needed to do it. I needed to go out and explore the world for myself. It would make me a happier, better person, and, certainly, a happier, better doctor. How could I ever say I wanted to practice travel medicine or work as a surgeon in the tropics if I held myself back from such experiences? And so, fully conflicted but nonetheless resolute in my choice, I started packing. A huge 60L bag and a smaller 30L one, victualled with anything and everything I might or might not need during my eight months on the road.
I had no expectations, no set goals, apart from the very basic. I wanted to explore and learn, feast my eyes on incredible vistas and practice new skills. But that’s it. I didn’t feel like I needed to rediscover myself or come back a changed man. But I was just going with it. The very act of travelling would be enough. Anything else would just be a bonus.
The day I had been preparing for over two years had finally arrived. My friends came to see me off the airport. They were quite emotional, some had what most would describe as an emotional breakdown. I stood there, calm and composed, without any expectations – having had already cut my losses and said my goodbyes. I wasn’t even excited, I felt nothing. And with that, I left Malta.