Graduation
II.III.V
GRADUATION
By early 2022, most COVID-19 restrictions had lifted and, for most people, the pandemic was old news. In hospital, it was anything but. That said, our class was finally given the go-ahead to have a proper, traditional graduation.
Over a year before this, we’d had a pretty unofficial and unceremonious graduation – if one could even call it that. We gathered at the university campus wearing formal clothes, were handed our degree scrolls in a run-down office, then headed out for a nice dinner before getting fashionably drunk. It was the perfect graduation ceremony for me. No family, no relatives, no fuss.
But now, much to my dread and very much against my wishes, we’d be having the official ceremony. The toga-and-biretta kind. I seriously considered skipping it altogether, but my friends-slash-colleagues insisted I couldn’t pass it up. Add peer pressure and a raging case of FOMO, and I caved.
I still remember standing in the living room wearing my toga and biretta, feeling utterly ridiculous. And not just because of the ridiculous outfit.
There I was, posing for photos with my mother and brother. You see, this is how graduation days are meant to go. The whole family comes together to celebrate their offspring’s achievement. Photos are taken, glasses clink, hugs are shared. A normal milestone, marked with the people who matter most.
Only this was never gonna happen for my family. As I stood there next to my mother, forcing a smile, my heart felt shattered. This should have been one of the happiest days of my life. Instead, I was miserable. Standing beside me should have been my dad. He was the one who paid for my tuition and got me through med school. He supported me throughout my studies, and it was thanks to the money he’d saved that I could attend conferences, electives, exchanges, and voluntary work placements. If I had one person to thank, it was him. This was as much his win as it was mine. And he’d never get to celebrate it with me.
I can’t say my mother didn’t play a role in my education. In fact, our relationship broke down because of it. She had to start working to put me through the school she thought was best. While she grew to resent me for it, the reality is that I still benefited from a top-tier education. She tended to my practical needs throughout the years – despite showing little interest in the emotional side of motherhood. She was always quick to boast about my achievements to others, yet never showed much curiosity about my studies or the hell that med school puts you through.
And my brother? I barely mention him for a reason. Most days, I forget he even exists. When we were kids, he was my first, best, and only friend. Then he grew up, got friends of his own, and left me behind. Over the years, we drifted further and further apart until we led completely separate lives. Even while living under the same roof, we merely co-existed. That said, during med school, his presence was impossible to ignore – mostly because he never once bothered to turn the volume down while I studied. I survived med school despite him.
So no, I wasn’t thrilled to be sharing this day with them. Or rather, with her – since my brother didn’t even bother showing up to the ceremony. Not that I wanted him there. But it still stung.
Fast-forward to the ceremony itself. Around a hundred newly qualified doctors gathered in front of the Old University, right in the heart of the capital.
As jaded as I felt, seeing us all there was surreal. Nearly two years had passed since we finished med school. Two years of learning, adapting, and growing. Two years of being shaped into the doctors – and people – we’d become. Two years that felt like a lifetime. Looking back, I barely recognised myself. Med school taught us medicine, but those two years taught us how to practise it. How to actually be doctors.
It was incredible seeing everyone again. Faces I’d seen daily for five years. Faces I still saw regularly at hospital. Faces I hadn’t seen in ages, some having moved abroad to practise medicine elsewhere. This ceremony brought us all back together. I was proud of us when we finished med school. But standing there now, having survived two brutal years, I was even prouder.
We then headed inside the grand Old University building – a definite upgrade from the shabby office where we’d been handed our degrees the year before. Once seated, the university rector welcomed us, followed by a speech from the Dean of the Faculty of Medicine and Surgery. He covered all the expected clichés – most of which I’d already lived – before reading the Hippocratic Oath aloud:
“
Fully aware of the grave responsibilities of the medical profession, and of the commitment that I am personally taking, I solemnly promise that:
I will use my medical knowledge to the best of my ability for the benefit of people’s health.
Patients will be my first concern. I will be honest, respectful and compassionate towards patients and I will ensure that their rights are fully respected, particularly the rights of those who lack means of making their needs known, be it through immaturity, mental incapacity, imprisonment, or any other circumstance.
I will take care of all patients equally, irrespective of social, racial, political or ideological differences. I will not put profit or advancement above my duty and service to patients.
I will recognise the special value of human life and never do anything deliberately to provoke the death of any human being. I will not provide treatments which are pointless or harmful or which an informed and competent patient refuses.
I will in emergencies do my best to help anyone in medical need.
I will strive to maintain full confidentiality about my patients, bearing in mind that the relationship between doctor and patient is based on mutual trust and respect.
I will recognise the limits of my knowledge and seek advice from colleagues when necessary.
I will do my best to keep myself and colleagues informed of new developments and ensure that poor standards or bad practices are exposed to those who can improve them.
I will show respect for all those with whom I work and be ready to share my knowledge by teaching others what I know.
I will try to influence positively authorities whose policies harm public health and oppose policies which breach internationally accepted standards of human rights.
I will strive to change laws which are contrary to patients’ interests or to my professional ethics.
May God help me keep this promise.
”
As he spoke, my eyes welled up and my heart raced. I remembered watching Richard Webber recite his version on Grey’s Anatomy, thinking how inspiring and sacred it sounded. Hearing it spoken aloud at my own graduation hit just as hard.
Only now, I truly understood its weight. How impossibly difficult it can be to live up to those promises. How do you remain compassionate at 3AM while inserting a cannula in a patient who’s spitting at you? How do you suppress apprehension when treating someone covered in needle marks who carries blood-borne diseases? How do you reconcile yourself with prolonging the life of a cancer patient who’s begging you to let them go? How do you justify not informing the police when a patient tells you they plan to kill their brother?
If those two years taught me anything, it’s that medicine – much like life – isn’t black and white. Every patient I’ve encountered since becoming a doctor has reinforced that. Sometimes doing right by the patient means stepping outside rigid protocols.
After the Dean’s speech came our version of a valedictorian – the student who’d achieved the highest marks in med school.
Seeing a woman standing at that podium filled me with pride. Long gone are the days when medicine is dominated by male idiots. While plenty of glass ceilings still remain, having her represent our class felt like a victory. As she spoke about our five-year journey, we couldn’t help but reflect on everything it had taken to get there. Five years of relentless studying and suffering. Five years of growth, friendships, and adventure. Five years that ended with us becoming doctors.
Then came the last, and most important, part. We were called up one by one to receive our degrees – again. When my name was called, I walked up onto the stage (without falling) and took the scroll. I smiled, shook a hand, nodded politely for the cameras, and scanned the audience, wishing my dad was there to see it. As I walked back to my seat, all I could think about was that the person who made this possible wasn’t there to witness it.
Sitting there, feeling immeasurably grateful for the journey, I was glad I hadn’t missed out on it after all. I couldn’t have been prouder if I tried. And so, with our birettas thrown into the air, here’s to the Class of 2020!
