It was the best of times, it was the worst of times. Now far be it from being a trite, let alone plagiarized, way to start a story; it is true; it was. "It" can stand for anything in just about anybody's life, but this particular "it" has to do with veterinary medicine.
Looking back on everything though, even the worst of times seem pretty good; and wrought with stories to tell; mostly again and again, over and over, and in excruciatingly pointless and sometimes painful detail. Those who know me will agree this is true, but they are also some of the ones who suggested I write. Why not put that excruciating detail to good use. I mean, you have to fill up the pages with something. Without detail, this would be a pamphlet.
But "it" was just about the worst thing that could have happened to me at the time; getting into veterinary school, that is. Let me explain -- in detail.
I didn't go away to college. Unlike my high school friends, I was an only child, several months younger, and also didn't hate my parents. So I had no real reason to leave. I was going to stay at home. I was going to commute to college. I was going to save money. I was going to be a loser.
While my friends were busy with eleven credits in their first semester, I was taking twenty-two. While they were having raging keggers in their dorm rooms and forming aversions to Southern Comfort; I was watching Early Edition on Saturday nights with my parents.
However, my intention all along was to get into vet school. I was trying to do it in three rather than four years. Like I said, I was a loser. I took classes in the summer; sometimes accelerated. Summer I, Summer II. Well, honestly that was only one summer and that was to try and catch up to my 3-year plan. I didn't make it. So here I was, one semester short of applying to vet school my junior year of college. What was I to do with close to seventy credit hours in sciences; mostly the biological ones? Most sane people would maybe take a break. Not me. I decided to continue on and get an entirely unnecessary and useless Bachelor's of Science Degree in biology. That's right, a B.S. I'm actually pretty good at that, as you can tell from the first few paragraphs.
So with that under way, I applied the next year to Michigan State -- and ONLY Michigan State. Ballsy move yes, but a money saving one nonetheless. Not only are the applications fairly costly, what with having to pay to get your GRE score transferred to however many colleges you choose, and with the actual application fees; turns out that out-of-state tuition is twice as much. So, yes. ONLY Michigan State.
The plan at that point was if I wasn't accepted, to spend the year after graduation doing the only thing someone with just a B.S. in Biology is good for, besides being a lab assistant. Substitute teaching! Actually, anyone with over ninety college credits can be a substitute teacher. You don't even need a full degree -- in anything! All you need to be able to do is relay a predetermined lesson plan to students and do magic tricks. The second talent doesn't tend to go over well with jaded high school students, so learn some slightly dirty jokes. Ones that one get you in trouble with the administration, but are still funny to teenagers.
For Michigan State, I figured getting in wouldn't be a problem. Up to that point, I didn't always think that way throughout my educational career. But at that moment, I did. This was one of the rare moments I didn't pace the entire campus after a test I was sure I had failed, talking to myself and berating myself for being so stupid that I'd never get into vet school and had ruined everything. Nope, not one of those times.
Overall, I was smart and did fairly well in school, so don't think that this is one of those "lift yourself up by your own bootstraps" kind of story. It's not. You want that, go talk to fucking Horatio Alger.
Which brings us up to speed, for the most part, with vet school being the worst thing that could have happened. Now this is not that could have happened ever. Rather, this is that could happened for my undergraduate career; that could have happened to my overall GPA; that could have happened to my concern for college, homework, projects, and tests.
I still remember where I was when I found out I got accepted. Well, I was at home opening the mail. It would have been much more interesting and slightly cooler if it had occured during something exciting; but how else would you find out? Singing telegram? Skywriting? Nope. Big letter, little letter, that's it.
Now everyone always hopes for the little letter. Big letter meant rejection. Mostly because you should always kill a tree to tell someone no. You need to dehydrate yourself by using so much saliva to close a gigantic envelope. This is in direct comparison to some of life's other situations of rejection. Asking someone out, for instance. You get a long-winded explanation and then a phone number. Not good. Check that number. It's probably to a sausage factory in mid-Michigan. Sometimes, you just need a good, old-fashioned no, or sorry. Prize bottle caps got it right; but graduate school rejection letters never just tell you TRY AGAIN -- at least not in large block letters. Instead they send you the big letter, filled with the "try again" form for reapplication. However, on this fateful day when I drove home from school, I found the little letter. Glory of glories, the little letter! Opening that envelope, I confirmed that little actually meant good; and nothing any woman ever told me could make me think otherwise.
After opening the little letter, I then realized that I no longer had to do any actual hard work in my undergraduate classes. This is why getting that letter and getting into vet school, was the worst thing that could have happened, so to speak. The detriment it created was best verbalized by my current Cell Biology professor, Dr. John Thomas (he's not a British penis!).
Dr. Thomas seemed to be straight out of a New England boy's boarding school. As if he was disillusioned until his literature teacher opened his eyes to life via poetry. Also straight out of a boarding school, because he seemed to be about that age, late teens to early twenties, very fresh faced, and about the same height. Actually, he was about the same height as if he was from a junior boarding school. Short, yet totally gray-haired.
I had him first for genetics. When we went to lab, he would bring twenty feet of extension cord, zippers, and anything else that could help to visualize the DNA molecule. He made it incredibly fun and easy to learn not so fun or easy subjects. Plus his test weren't multiple choice; they were essay. And I don't care who says what, essay and short answer tests have it hands down over multiple choice. Essays are open minded, showing your understanding and explanation of a topic, and are very difficult to get entirely wrong. They show what you know, not that you know how to fill in little damn bubbles with a number 2 pencil.
Due to those wonderful essay questions, I saw on many of my tests that I was consistenly scoring high in the class. The reason I knew, was because Dr. Thomas might have thought he was teaching elementary school, and not upper level college courses. He would have "good job", "super!' or the like on your tests when they were corrected. All that was missing was a scratch-and-sniff sticker of a gorilla that smelled like bananas. He also pointed out when you were at the top, or close to it. Second highest! That was nearly every exam in genetics and then into cell biology, as well.
After I was accepted to vet school, things changed. One of my last exams with Dr. Thomas, and also with my undergaduate studies, was adorned with a "what happened?" tucked neatly next to a lackluster score. Not horrible, but not comparable to how I had been doing.
What happened? I got into vet school, dammit! I made it! I was finished! Little did I know, the fun was just beginning.
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