Hi! So I just stumbled onto this site and I was wondering if anyone could critique my essays. Thanks a lot
Schools Applying To: NYU, Fordham, UConn, Northeastern, BostonU
His grayish eyes turned black as his stare penetrated into my conscience like two black holes. I watched his bemused expression change from confused to utter fear as he drummed his weathered fingers on the side of his bed. "I don't know how I got here. I'm not supposed to be here. Please get me out of this place miss, I'm begging you".
"Um, I'm sorry...would you like the green or the blue toothbrush?"
"I would like to leave."
"Well...umm...I don't know if I can..." I stumbled through my cart and my words. "Can I interest you in a National Geographic, or a US Weekly, perhaps?"
"For the love of God, get me out of here." He spit his words out slowly, enunciating each syllable as if it induced pain. Suddenly everything happened so quickly. His breath came short as his hand reached toward mine; he grabbed it. I staggered to release myself as my shift supervisor, Mary, rushed into the room, ushering me out.
"Dr. Nguyen will be right out with you Mr. Anderson, just be patient. Ha, because you're a patient, ha-ha get it. Oh you don't...okay". Mary looked at me, shaking her head. "Psych patients. Can't work with them, can't give 'em a frigging toothbrush." I smiled sheepishly, trying to conceal the tidal wave of emotions that ran through my body like a live wire.
As I lagged behind Mary, I glanced back at Room 409. Mr. Anderson lay comfortably
watching Wheel of Fortune, completely oblivious to the intense presence of fear he had just suffered two minutes ago. I followed Mary to the elevator, stared at the floor, and counted the cerulean and ivory laced tiles as I walked past.
I have always been a Type-A person with a chronic case of perfectionism. Like an
artistically orchestrated symphony, my life plan seamlessly intertwined with my daily routine, working toward a common goal. Although a downfall, I never liked hesitating and I had an absolute fear of failing. My medical aspiration was no different. For as long as I can remember, I've always had an interest in the body. I would detect imaginary diseases for my friends and family purely for the opportunity to play doctor and "diagnose" them. When the prospect opened for junior volunteers at my local hospital, I jumped at the task. Finally I would be able to stride through the halls of a hospital with a purpose, like I belonged. I would be able to participate in amiable, pleasant banter with the patients, making their day better. I would be a Dr. Cox or Dr. House, clad in scrubs and a laminated name badge, only smiling when it was absolutely necessary. However, my initial thoughts shattered during my first week. My experience as a junior volunteer at Richardson Methodist Medical Center displayed to me how unrealistic it is to be so sure of everything all the time. This is in no way a bad thing, in fact, it taught me that it's okay to doubt yourself, take a step back, and have a holistic approach. In every way possible, this experience changed my life.
When you step into a hospital, there is one small but undoubtable thought that enters your mind; people die here. Don't let the clean, Pine-Sol-scented linoleum floors and Alaskan landscape portraits fool you; a hospital can be a very morose environment. A bit morbid, I know, but I'm pretty sure every person who sets foot in those white halls knows the inevitable feeling. Usually, I try not to allow such negative thoughts to flow through my mind; I wanted to be a physician after all. However, the reality set in during my first week of volunteer work at the hospital. Outfitted in a standard, hospital-issued blue polo and bottled emotions, I stood with my other four co-volunteers waiting to hear our individual assignments. Our shift supervisor, Mary, grinned at us with exuberant enthusiasm. Surprisingly, her assurance melted away my anxiety. Here I was in a hospital, fulfilling my dream. I'm young, I'm here to help people, and I'm going to be a doctor. My child-like excitement and confidence lasted me throughout the training session and into our first assignment. Just as things began to get comfortable, Mary announced that as the first day she would allow only one of us to shadow her as she delivered magazines, toothbrushes, and other necessities during Patient Hospitality. With my new found eagerness, I volunteered myself, thrilled at the chance to finally be able to meet with patients. It seemed like my plan was finally coming into shape.
Walking down the hallways of Medical Plaza II, I noticed that people weren't smiling as much as they were downstairs. Granted, Medical Plaza II was a separate ward of the hospital specifically for patient rooms, not the main hospital with the lobby, chapel, and the Starbucks gift shop. Nevertheless, the lack of smiling faces fazed me for a while. My image of doctors rushing past, speaking in a flurry of medical terms, and pushing stretchers at high speed melted away as well. I shook it off as we entered Floor 400. Mary explained to me the procedure: knock on a patient's door and wait for a response. Once hearing a voice, quietly enter and ask the patient whether they'd like a magazine, toothbrush, or anything else of that nature. It seemed easy enough for me; I was literally bouncing on the balls of my feet. Mary allowed me to go to the first few rooms by myself, just to get the feel of things. As I walked down the hallway, leaving Mary behind, I peered through the door cracks at the patients on the other side. To my disappointment, the majority of the patients either were sleeping, watching T.V., or too involved with their own lives to engage in pleasant banter with me. Once again, I was fazed, but that didn't matter. As long as I could offer my services to a grateful patient in need, it would all be worthwhile. Walking up to Room 409, I read the name on the clipboard. Anderson? Sounds friendly. I knocked the door. Mysteriously, the force of my fist pushed the door ajar. I entered inside with my cart trailing behind.
Although one may think I was shocked for life following my experience at the hospital, I actually benefited from it. Throughout my life, especially during my high school career, I have been almost-overly certain on everything I wanted to achieve. Doubting was a foreign concept; doubting led to failure, which something I feared to experience firsthand. My time as a junior volunteer at Richardson Methodist Medical Center actually gave me reservations on why I wanted to become a doctor in the first place. Was it for the money? Was it for the reputation? Was it for the ability to stride down hospital hallways in a white lab coat, shiny I.D badge, and a black stethoscope around my neck? I was forced to answer these questions during my three month duration at the hospital, which, in retrospect, ended up satisfying my medical ambitions even more. A hospital's purpose, first and foremost, is to help people in need and doctors satisfy this purpose with the knowledge required and proper training. Life does not imitate art in this case. Shows like Grey's Anatomy, Scrubs, and House are not accurate representations of what hospitals are actually like; real experience is. By seeing patients, nurses, and staff workers first hand, I know what it means have a community of people working for the sole purpose of helping one another. I ultimately would love to join this community. Due to my experience at Richardson Methodist Medical, instead of pursuing a degree for the wrong reason, it will be for the right one.
Schools Applying To: NYU, Fordham, UConn, Northeastern, BostonU
His grayish eyes turned black as his stare penetrated into my conscience like two black holes. I watched his bemused expression change from confused to utter fear as he drummed his weathered fingers on the side of his bed. "I don't know how I got here. I'm not supposed to be here. Please get me out of this place miss, I'm begging you".
"Um, I'm sorry...would you like the green or the blue toothbrush?"
"I would like to leave."
"Well...umm...I don't know if I can..." I stumbled through my cart and my words. "Can I interest you in a National Geographic, or a US Weekly, perhaps?"
"For the love of God, get me out of here." He spit his words out slowly, enunciating each syllable as if it induced pain. Suddenly everything happened so quickly. His breath came short as his hand reached toward mine; he grabbed it. I staggered to release myself as my shift supervisor, Mary, rushed into the room, ushering me out.
"Dr. Nguyen will be right out with you Mr. Anderson, just be patient. Ha, because you're a patient, ha-ha get it. Oh you don't...okay". Mary looked at me, shaking her head. "Psych patients. Can't work with them, can't give 'em a frigging toothbrush." I smiled sheepishly, trying to conceal the tidal wave of emotions that ran through my body like a live wire.
As I lagged behind Mary, I glanced back at Room 409. Mr. Anderson lay comfortably
watching Wheel of Fortune, completely oblivious to the intense presence of fear he had just suffered two minutes ago. I followed Mary to the elevator, stared at the floor, and counted the cerulean and ivory laced tiles as I walked past.
I have always been a Type-A person with a chronic case of perfectionism. Like an
artistically orchestrated symphony, my life plan seamlessly intertwined with my daily routine, working toward a common goal. Although a downfall, I never liked hesitating and I had an absolute fear of failing. My medical aspiration was no different. For as long as I can remember, I've always had an interest in the body. I would detect imaginary diseases for my friends and family purely for the opportunity to play doctor and "diagnose" them. When the prospect opened for junior volunteers at my local hospital, I jumped at the task. Finally I would be able to stride through the halls of a hospital with a purpose, like I belonged. I would be able to participate in amiable, pleasant banter with the patients, making their day better. I would be a Dr. Cox or Dr. House, clad in scrubs and a laminated name badge, only smiling when it was absolutely necessary. However, my initial thoughts shattered during my first week. My experience as a junior volunteer at Richardson Methodist Medical Center displayed to me how unrealistic it is to be so sure of everything all the time. This is in no way a bad thing, in fact, it taught me that it's okay to doubt yourself, take a step back, and have a holistic approach. In every way possible, this experience changed my life.
When you step into a hospital, there is one small but undoubtable thought that enters your mind; people die here. Don't let the clean, Pine-Sol-scented linoleum floors and Alaskan landscape portraits fool you; a hospital can be a very morose environment. A bit morbid, I know, but I'm pretty sure every person who sets foot in those white halls knows the inevitable feeling. Usually, I try not to allow such negative thoughts to flow through my mind; I wanted to be a physician after all. However, the reality set in during my first week of volunteer work at the hospital. Outfitted in a standard, hospital-issued blue polo and bottled emotions, I stood with my other four co-volunteers waiting to hear our individual assignments. Our shift supervisor, Mary, grinned at us with exuberant enthusiasm. Surprisingly, her assurance melted away my anxiety. Here I was in a hospital, fulfilling my dream. I'm young, I'm here to help people, and I'm going to be a doctor. My child-like excitement and confidence lasted me throughout the training session and into our first assignment. Just as things began to get comfortable, Mary announced that as the first day she would allow only one of us to shadow her as she delivered magazines, toothbrushes, and other necessities during Patient Hospitality. With my new found eagerness, I volunteered myself, thrilled at the chance to finally be able to meet with patients. It seemed like my plan was finally coming into shape.
Walking down the hallways of Medical Plaza II, I noticed that people weren't smiling as much as they were downstairs. Granted, Medical Plaza II was a separate ward of the hospital specifically for patient rooms, not the main hospital with the lobby, chapel, and the Starbucks gift shop. Nevertheless, the lack of smiling faces fazed me for a while. My image of doctors rushing past, speaking in a flurry of medical terms, and pushing stretchers at high speed melted away as well. I shook it off as we entered Floor 400. Mary explained to me the procedure: knock on a patient's door and wait for a response. Once hearing a voice, quietly enter and ask the patient whether they'd like a magazine, toothbrush, or anything else of that nature. It seemed easy enough for me; I was literally bouncing on the balls of my feet. Mary allowed me to go to the first few rooms by myself, just to get the feel of things. As I walked down the hallway, leaving Mary behind, I peered through the door cracks at the patients on the other side. To my disappointment, the majority of the patients either were sleeping, watching T.V., or too involved with their own lives to engage in pleasant banter with me. Once again, I was fazed, but that didn't matter. As long as I could offer my services to a grateful patient in need, it would all be worthwhile. Walking up to Room 409, I read the name on the clipboard. Anderson? Sounds friendly. I knocked the door. Mysteriously, the force of my fist pushed the door ajar. I entered inside with my cart trailing behind.
Although one may think I was shocked for life following my experience at the hospital, I actually benefited from it. Throughout my life, especially during my high school career, I have been almost-overly certain on everything I wanted to achieve. Doubting was a foreign concept; doubting led to failure, which something I feared to experience firsthand. My time as a junior volunteer at Richardson Methodist Medical Center actually gave me reservations on why I wanted to become a doctor in the first place. Was it for the money? Was it for the reputation? Was it for the ability to stride down hospital hallways in a white lab coat, shiny I.D badge, and a black stethoscope around my neck? I was forced to answer these questions during my three month duration at the hospital, which, in retrospect, ended up satisfying my medical ambitions even more. A hospital's purpose, first and foremost, is to help people in need and doctors satisfy this purpose with the knowledge required and proper training. Life does not imitate art in this case. Shows like Grey's Anatomy, Scrubs, and House are not accurate representations of what hospitals are actually like; real experience is. By seeing patients, nurses, and staff workers first hand, I know what it means have a community of people working for the sole purpose of helping one another. I ultimately would love to join this community. Due to my experience at Richardson Methodist Medical, instead of pursuing a degree for the wrong reason, it will be for the right one.
