A Child with Heart Disease Becomes a Doctor

The medical licensing exam, which spans over two days, was the final hurdle to clear after six years of medical school life, a rite of passage to be reborn as a doctor. In the biting cold of early January, my breath fogged up beneath my nose with every exhale. The exam venue was a high school classroom nearing its 40th year without a curtain over its windows, and my seat was unfortunately right by the window. The single-pane glass was no match for the chill outside, but it seemed to help in keeping me alert. I warmed up with a cup of cold coffee, waiting for the test that was about to begin. The first session on the first day was on general medicine, where I had to solve basic medical knowledge questions within 80 minutes.

As the scheduled time arrived, the invigilators entered the classroom, gave a brief explanation of the upcoming test, and distributed the question and answer sheets. They instructed us to wait with the papers faced down until further instructions were given. Shortly after, a bell rang through the classroom speakers to start the exam. At once, everyone flipped their papers over and began working on the questions. I took a deep breath, opened the first page of my question sheet, and started answering each question calmly.

However, not long into the exam, an unexpected situation arose. About ten minutes after I started, I began to feel a troubling sensation in my lower abdomen. It was a regretful moment, akin to leaving a rest stop just after the bus had departed, realizing I should have used the restroom. The urgency grew stronger over time, exacerbated by the diuretic effect of the coffee and the cold weather. It’s said that the more you try not to think about an elephant, the more it stays on your mind. The more I tried to focus away from it, the more urgent it became. Not even halfway through the first hour, I had to raise my hand to the invigilator at the front. Expecting me to request a change of answer sheet, the invigilator brought a new one along. Upon arrival, I asked if I could possibly visit the restroom. The invigilator, taken aback by my unexpected request, firmly stated that leaving was not an option during the exam.

The invigilator’s response was understandable. Considering it was a national exam, exceptions were out of the question. If I were to leave for the restroom and return, it could raise suspicions of cheating. Fortunately, the invigilator wasn’t completely inflexible and offered an alternative. I could go to the restroom on the condition that I wouldn’t return to the exam room. It was a tough decision since I hadn’t finished going through all the questions.

As time passed, my condition reached a critical point. Despite the ongoing exam, I was ready to dash to the restroom at any moment. However, leaving without completing the exam would mean failing the national exam, and consequently, retaking it the following year. How I managed the remaining hour would determine the next 365 days of my life. I told the invigilator that I would complete the questions and submit my answer sheet before heading to the restroom.

From that moment, I rushed through the questions as if lightning fast. Initially, I planned to revisit the questions I was unsure about, but there was no time for that. I poured all my focus into answering and marking the answer sheet without any review, ensuring not to leave my candidate number and subject number unchecked. After completing the answer sheet, I raised my hand again, with more than 30 minutes left until the end. In my dizzy state, I had accomplished what seemed impossible.

The invigilator emphasized that if I handed in my answer sheet and left now, I wouldn’t be allowed back in for the remainder of the time. Then, a deputy invigilator was called to observe me in the restroom and guide me to the invigilator’s waiting room afterward. As soon as I handed in my answer sheet, I didn’t look back and headed straight for the restroom. I narrowly overcame the pressing situation. Throughout, the deputy invigilator stood behind me, which didn’t bother me at all. At least now, I felt like I could survive.

The invigilator’s waiting room was set up in one corner of the staff room. I warmed myself near the centrally placed oil heater, waiting for the first hour to end. As I sat there, various thoughts crossed my mind, mostly regrets about ‘why I had done that.’ From drinking coffee in the morning to wearing light clothes on a cold day, I regretted everything. Besides, had I just visited the restroom before the exam, I wouldn’t be killing time in this waiting room.

Eventually, I decided to look on the bright side. There’s a superstition that changing answers during an exam often leads to mistakes. Perhaps, not having the luxury to change my answers might have been a blessing in disguise. Even if I failed the national exam, I could always say it was because I had to go to the restroom. In any case, I was proud of myself for managing to complete the questions under such pressing circumstances.

For the next day’s exam, I made full preparations to avoid repeating the same mistake. I wore sports clothes under my trousers to stay warm and, of course, didn’t drink any coffee. Thanks to the harsh experience of the first day, I managed to complete the second day’s exam without any issues.

A week later, it was the announcement day for the exam results. That morning, I closed the door and sat in front of my computer. It’s said that 9 out of 10 candidates pass the medical licensing exam. However, the pressure of such a fact was overwhelming, especially since I couldn’t be sure of passing due to the incident on the first day. It was possible that I could be among the 1 out of 10 who fail. I opened the National Examination Board’s website and the announcement page for the results. After taking a deep breath, I entered my name and personal identification number, then closed my eyes and pressed the enter key.

The result must have already appeared on the screen. All I had to do was open my eyes to check it. But I wasn’t ready yet. After calming my mind for about ten seconds, I slowly opened my eyes. Through the slits of my eyelashes, obscured by my view, I could see a sentence that wasn’t there before I closed my eyes.

“Congratulations on passing the 70th Medical Licensing Examination.”

That’s what was written. It really was written there. That sentence was now telling me that I had become a doctor.

“Wow, I’ve become a doctor.”

The first thing I wanted to do was tell my parents. I opened the door and stepped out. My father was spreading the newspaper on the living room floor, reading an article. He was unaware that today was the announcement day for the exam results. I wanted to share this touching news in some grand way, but at that moment, no particular method came to mind. I just walked up to my father and stood silently in front of him. He looked up at me, wondering what was going on. That’s when I finally spoke.

“I’ve, today, I’ve finally become a doctor.”

Then, my father responded calmly,

“Well done. Live as befits a doctor.”

It was a typical response from my father. After a moment of silence, he posed a question to me,

“Do you know what commonality exists among jobs that people admire, like doctors, judges, and prosecutors?”

I didn’t say anything, just waited for him to answer.

“Their existence is justified by someone else’s pain. Never forget that.”

For a while, I had forgotten what the essence of being a doctor was. Why I wanted to become a doctor and what had been fading from my consciousness while I was chasing exam scores. On the day I became a doctor, my father reminded me of it all. He was asking who I truly was.

“In terms of ‘who I originally was,’ there was another person I had to tell the news that I had become a doctor. It was Professor Yoon, my primary physician. The first time Professor Yoon met me was when he was in his mid-thirties, and I began my life in a hospital next to Daehak-ro as a patient with a congenital heart disease. Over 20 years have passed since then. He was nearing retirement in three years, and that newborn baby had become a doctor.

A few days later, it was time for my regular check-up, which comes every three months. For the first time as a doctor, I visited the hospital near Daehak-ro. That day, as usual, I arrived at the pediatric outpatient clinic. Adults with congenital heart disease sometimes receive treatment in pediatrics for continuity of care. Occasionally, stories of adult congenital heart disease patients who visit pediatrics are introduced in the media, and I am one of those cases. I waited in an empty seat in front of the consultation room until the outpatient nurse called my name.

I looked around the waiting area for a moment. I had spent countless hours in this space. From my forgotten childhood through school days when I had to miss classes unwillingly, to now, returning as a doctor. I was lost in thought for a while. How much time had passed? The outpatient nurse called my name.

Upon entering the consultation room, a few children who had arrived earlier were waiting their turn in the same space. The contents of the consultation of the child in front were audible to those waiting behind. Nowadays, everyone is sensitive to privacy, so even if the patient being consulted is a young child, the next person doesn’t wait inside in advance. But back then, it was accepted without question. Given the influx of patients from all over the country, there were no complaints about waiting together in the same consultation room. In a way, there was a vague sense of solidarity among those in similar situations.

When it was my turn after the children’s consultations, I politely greeted Professor Yoon and took a seat. As always, the consultation didn’t take long. The professor asked if I had any discomfort, asked me to lift my clothes with both hands, and moved the stethoscope. Then, he instructed the resident beside him on what to record. Turning back to me, he said the heart sounds were fine and told me to take care and see him again next time. He turned his head back to the monitor to prescribe medication for me. That’s when my moment arrived. Before standing up from my seat, I told Professor Yoon,

“Professor, I’ve become a doctor too.”

Professor Yoon paused his work for a moment and turned back to me. He said with a firm voice,

“Good, work hard from now on.”

At that moment, I felt a lump in my throat. He didn’t say, “You’ve had a tough time.” He said, “Work hard from now on.” His words started with ‘from now on,’ not ‘until now.’ He was talking about the future I have to face, not the past I have gone through. For that moment, he saw me not as a patient but as a doctor. I was grateful for that brief glimpse of his true feelings.

I looked around. A child who had finished his consultation earlier and his mother trying to put on his clothes to leave, and other children and their mothers waiting their turn behind me, had all heard the conversation between the professor and me. In fact, I spoke loudly so that they could hear it too. I wanted to let them know that ‘someone who passed through the same consultation room grew up to become a doctor.’

In track and field, there’s a term called ‘the barrier.’ It originates from the belief widespread in the athletic world in the early 20th century that ‘if a human tries to run a mile in under 4 minutes, their heart will not withstand it and will burst.’ At that time, the ‘4-minute mile’ was considered an insurmountable ‘barrier’ for humans. However, this barrier was broken on May 6, 1954, by Roger Bannister, a medical student at the University of Oxford, who ran a mile in 3 minutes and 59.4 seconds.

What’s even more astonishing is what followed. Less than a month after Bannister broke the 4-minute barrier, 10 people did; a year later, 27; and two years later, over 300 athletes surpassed the barrier. In fact, ‘the barrier’ existed in people’s minds. Once someone breaks it, it’s no longer a ‘barrier’ for those who follow.

I wanted to show those children and their parents that congenital heart disease is not a ‘barrier’ that blocks their lives. As someone who has walked a step ahead on the path they must follow, I wanted to let them know that they too can live their lives doing what they wish in this world.

I still vividly remember. When I announced that I had become a doctor that day, their tired eyes sparkled for a moment. The ‘barriers’ in the hearts of the children and parents in the consultation room were starting to crack.