Choosing Not to Hide Anymore

It was a world I had never experienced before. The classroom was filled with students known for their academic excellence from all over the country. Not only were their abilities exceptional, but their backgrounds were impressive too. It wasn’t rare to hear about someone’s parent being the director of a general hospital or another’s father being a renowned professor. And there was another friend of mine who had graduated from Geochang High School and entered Korea University College of Medicine with me; his father was also a doctor. I wasn’t particularly envious. It was just a realization that ‘These people come from a different world than mine.’

In truth, I had no time to envy them. I had another concern. I didn’t want to reveal to them that I had undergone heart surgery. Not only did I not want to disclose it, but I also hoped no one would accidentally find out. Moreover, these were future doctors. The thought of them possibly reading about my condition in a textbook was horrifying.

This fear wasn’t unfounded. I had already experienced it painfully in high school. When I returned to high school after my heart surgery, there was a kid who mockingly said, ‘Hey, isn’t Seung Keon’s heart going to stop?’ as if it was a joke. Perhaps it was meant to be funny, or maybe said without much thought, but I still remember those words and his face.

To the friend who moved on to medical school with me, I expressed my hope that people in med school wouldn’t know about my illness. He was a good friend. He sincerely tried to keep my secret. Not only that, but he also took me to the gym regularly to help me build up my strength, so that even if my condition was revealed, I wouldn’t lose confidence.

Entering medical school, I approached everything with the mindset of starting anew. And this new beginning was marked by a rice wine (Makgeolli, a traditional Korean milky rice wine) bowl ceremony. Korea University has a tradition called the Makgeolli bowl ceremony, a sort of initiation for newcomers. While there are various views on it today, back then, it was considered a rite of passage.

A few days after the entrance ceremony, the much-talked-about bowl ceremony took place. About 120 new students were there, and we were divided into groups of 12 across 10 tables in the medical school cafeteria. A blue plastic sheet was laid on the floor in front of each group, and on it, a small table for the ceremony with a bowl for rice wine was set up. One person from each group had to step forward, fill the cold noodle bowl (typically large, around 16-24 oz or 500-700 ml) with Makgeolli, drink it all, and then return to their seat.

We started with clenched fists chanting, “Shall we drink it, or not? Shall we drink it, or not?” The medical school student president demonstrated first. He finished his bowl of Makgeolli in a few seconds, heating up the atmosphere. Then, one by one, students from each table started to empty their bowls of Makgeolli. Some paused and covered their mouths with their hands but eventually, without exception, emptied their bowls. After finishing, they would shake the empty bowls above their heads, followed by cheers. Then, the seniors waiting behind would take them to the bathroom to vomit everything they drank.

When it was my turn, I felt shy, typical of a freshman, and approached the table with the Makgeolli. The bowl looked much bigger up close, and I wondered if I could finish it. But then I thought, ‘Ah, what the heck. If they can do it, so can I.’

Eventually, I lifted the cold noodle bowl with both hands and started to pour the Makgeolli into my mouth. The heavy liquid filled my stomach. I took a breath halfway through because I was out of breath, fearing my stomach might burst. I wanted to stop, but I couldn’t. Quitting and going back to my seat seemed like it would make me a joke for a long time. ‘Well, somehow it’ll work out,’ I thought and finished it all. I had no time to feel the joy of accomplishing it, as I immediately rushed to the bathroom to throw up everything. I returned to my seat with a sense of relief and joined in singing the ‘Makgeolli anthem.’

But in reality, I was someone who shouldn’t drink alcohol because I was taking warfarin. Having an artificial valve in my heart increases the risk of blood clots, and warfarin lowers the risk by reducing the blood’s clotting ability. Warfarin is metabolized in the liver, and so is alcohol. Just like traffic congestion when too many cars try to pass through a narrow road, drinking alcohol can slow down the metabolism of warfarin, which could drastically increase its effect. An increased effect of warfarin means the blood doesn’t clot as it should. Even a small injury could lead to dangerous, uncontrolled bleeding.

However, avoiding drinking sessions during college life was impossible. I never initiated drinking, but I never turned down an invitation either. Looking back, it was a foolish and even dangerous act. Yet, I didn’t have the courage to tell them why I couldn’t drink. At that time, the fear of being seen as different was greater than the fear of what might go wrong because of drinking.

Not wanting to be different was the same with studying. The medical school curriculum is divided into two years of pre-medical courses and four years of medical courses. Pre-med includes basic subjects like chemistry and biology that are foundational to medicine, along with humanities. Most pre-med classes are taken in the medical school building, but many are also taken in the engineering or humanities buildings.

The medical course is the actual process of becoming a doctor. It takes four years, with the first two and a half years consisting of theoretical lessons. This includes basic medical sciences like anatomy and pathology, as well as clinical medicine such as internal medicine and surgery. From the first year to the second semester of the third year of the medical course, it’s a grueling time spent buried in books in the classroom. It feels like the tension of being a senior in high school continues, and there’s a good reason for it. In medical school, unlike other departments where students move between classrooms, students stay in one classroom, and professors come in to teach. There’s also a system where failing even one subject means repeating the entire year.

I pledged to aim for the middle ground, but even that was not easy. The night before the exam, I ended up staying up all night in the medical library with friends. Most of the time, we would end up ordering black bean noodles and falling asleep on the library sofas. Truth be told, students who stay up the night before tend to not do well. Confessionally, my grades weren’t that great. But I was satisfied with graduating in six years without being held back. At the graduation ceremony, out of the 120 classmates who entered as freshmen with me, only about 50 were graduating together. I was proud of myself for making it through the middle.

On the other hand, I wanted to keep the surgery I had undergone a secret until the end. That’s why I drank diligently, and that’s why I stayed up all night together. But there were also moments of crisis. Among them, two episodes remain in my memory.

Once, after a club after-party, we were gathered at a chicken place. One senior, as if he had obtained some great piece of information, asked me, “I heard from a friend in another department who went to Geochang High School that you had heart surgery, right?”

I tensed my facial muscles, fearing my expression might give me away. How well I had kept it a secret, I couldn’t let all my efforts go to waste now. Recalling the irrelevant proverb that even if you enter a tiger’s den, you can survive if you keep your wits about you, I casually replied, “Ah, that’s about another friend with a similar name to mine. Not me.”

To add detail, I added one more sentence, “I hear that story often.”

Whether that senior believed my words, I don’t know. But I chose to believe that he did. Maybe that was enough. Perhaps what mattered to me wasn’t so much the actual perception of others as it was my belief that they would perceive it that way.

Another incident happened when I was in college. I still went for outpatient treatment at a hospital on Daehangno (a famous cultural and educational street in Seoul) every three months. As always, the familiar pediatric professor was sitting in the consultation room.

The professor greeted me, asking how I had been, then said, “Shall we listen?” while picking up a stethoscope. I lifted my shirt in response. While the professor concentrated on the sounds with the stethoscope, I silently looked at his gray hair. After a while, he turned to the resident next to him, gave some instructions, and the resident quickly typed them into the computer without missing a word. The professor then turned back to me and said, “You’re doing fine. Take care and see you next time.” That was the end of the consultation.

That day was no different from any other outpatient visit until I saw the resident’s face before the consultation. As soon as I saw the female resident next to the professor, I froze. She was a kind senior who usually took good care of her juniors. I had never expected to meet a school senior outside of school, let alone in that consultation room. The senior and I looked at each other with surprise. Then, without saying a word, she began to scrutinize the monitor with the consultation notes. It might have been just my feeling, but her expression seemed to stiffen at that moment.

After the consultation, I didn’t go straight home. I waited outside the door until the professor’s day of consultations was over. After the last patient left, I carefully opened the consultation room door and went in. The professor was getting ready to leave, and the senior was still there, summarizing the day’s consultations. I told the professor that the person next to him was my school senior and that I had something to tell her, so I came in. The professor said okay and left after saying he’d see me at the next consultation. The nurse also packed her belongings and left the room. Now, it was just me and that senior in the room.

“Were you surprised?” I asked, thinking it might be difficult for the senior to start the conversation. She replied, “Yes, I didn’t know you were being treated here.”

I directly stated my request, “Senior, please don’t tell anyone at school about this. I beg you.”

The senior agreed. I chose to believe her again. She was a good person, but more than that, thinking that way made me feel at ease. The thought of my medical history becoming known at school was terrifying. I could only hope that the senior would keep the secret.

Knowing that I was different made me strive not to be different. At the same time, I tried hard to hide the things that made me different. But now, thinking back, what others thought of me wasn’t the real issue. I didn’t have the courage to reveal myself to the world. More fundamentally, I couldn’t accept myself as I was. Fortunately, I had the opportunity to correct that before graduation.

While the medical course is like an extension of senior year, there’s another turning point when you reach the second semester of the third year. That’s when clinical training starts, moving from the classroom to the hospital. This is commonly called ‘Policlinic’. Medical students are still students at this point, but they first enter the hospital wearing white coats, making it not so easy for outsiders to distinguish whether they are doctors or students. Before starting the Policlinic, there’s a modest event called the White Coat Ceremony. For reference, what we commonly refer to as a doctor’s coat is called a ‘White Coat’ in English-speaking countries.

The Policlinic period lasts from the middle of the third year to the summer break of the fourth year, a total of one year (emphasizing the academic year structure commonly used in South Korea, which might differ from other countries). Students spend a month in major departments like internal medicine and surgery, and one to two weeks in minor departments. After completing a year of Policlinic, it’s summer of the fourth year. From then on, medical students focus on preparing for the National Medical Licensing Examination, commonly known as the ‘National Exam’.

Before the official preparation period for the National Exam, there was an external internship for the last month of the Policlinic. The intention was to allow students to gain diverse experiences by stepping out of the affiliated university hospital. Students utilized this one-month period according to their plans. Some went abroad for medical volunteer work through religious organizations, while others visited institutions where patient care wasn’t the main task, such as government agencies. Some even hung their names at a friend’s hospital and went on overseas trips.

Perhaps it was similar to the homing instinct of salmon. I decided to do my internship at the pediatric thoracic surgery department of the very university hospital where I had my surgery. With that decision made, I first went to see Professor Yoon, who had been taking care of me. I told him I had the opportunity to do an external internship, and I wanted to spend that time here. The professor agreed to help me enthusiastically. Why wouldn’t he? A patient he had been caring for since infancy was about to become a doctor. For reference, Professor Yoon’s department is pediatrics. Although I had surgery in pediatric thoracic surgery, I received post-surgery care from Professor Yoon, who specializes in cardiology within pediatrics. Professor Yoon immediately connected me to a professor in pediatric thoracic surgery. That’s how I spent a month in pediatric thoracic surgery.

I vaguely remember the day of my surgery. At 6 a.m., much earlier than usual, I headed to the pre-surgery waiting room. My mother held my hand until I was taken to the operating room. Then, it was my turn, and I lay down neatly on the mobile bed, looking up at the ceiling. As the bed moved toward the operating room, the fluorescent lights on the ceiling passed from my feet to my head. When I arrived at the operating room, several people were already busily moving around, and I could hear the beeping of complex machines. Soon, I was transferred to the operating table, and someone put a clear mask over my face, telling me I would fall asleep now. How long had it been? Suddenly, the surroundings brightened. I was in a different place. The beeping sounds were distant, and the figures of the medical staff checking on me entered my blurry vision. It was the ICU after the surgery.

Returning to the space where I first came as a patient, now as a medical student 10 years later, felt different. At that time, I was wearing striped hospital pajamas (a common patient attire in Korean hospitals), whereas now I donned blue surgical scrubs (the standard uniform for medical professionals in the operating room). Previously, I lay on the operating table, but now I stood beside it. From the moment I fell asleep until I woke up in the ICU, a previously hidden and mysterious phase of the process had now unveiled itself to me.

Early in the morning, young patients were brought to the operating table. Even kids who would cry and fuss just from getting a vaccine remained surprisingly calm in the face of incomparable heart surgery. They obediently moved from the mobile bed to the operating table when told. They complied when asked to lie down. Soon, they fell asleep, their chests were opened, and their hearts were revealed. Watching this, I was lost in thought.

‘What kind of life awaits these children? Like me, they will secretly shed countless tears. But they must overcome. For that ordinary life that seems trivial to others.’

After the day’s surgery schedule was completed, I visited the dark operating room alone in the late afternoon. The floor of the operating room was cleanly swept, and the machines were quietly asleep. It was hard to believe that this place had been bustling just a few hours ago. My eyes were drawn to the empty operating table in the center. I touched the spot on the table where I had lain for surgery 10 years ago.

I closed my eyes and recalled the evening before the surgery. Looking at the medical library from the hospital room window, I had pledged, ‘Not a life looking at the medical library from a hospital room, but a life looking at the hospital room from the medical library. A life looking after patients.’ Did the me lying on the operating table then truly believe that this pledge would become reality? And does the current me truly believe in myself?

It was then that I finally realized. The past and present me cannot be separated. I’ve decided not to hide anymore. And I’ve chosen not to hide. I’ve decided to pay more attention to how I view myself than how others might view me. I’ve chosen to believe in my past, present, and future.

I’ve spent a lot of time caring about the eyes of others. There’s a lingering regret that I could have lived a bit more confidently. But on the other hand, thinking back, maybe those memories of being conscious of others allowed me to pay more attention to my own voice later on.

They say no experience is meaningless in this world, and that’s true. Even the days as a medical student, desperately trying to blend in, were part of the journey that made me. After taking a long and roundabout path, here I am now. Of course, my life is still a long way from complete.