My short white coat i s too big.
I thought i t might be the right size--
But
The sleeves, too long
The pockets, empty
And I ’m never sure how many buttons to button.
When ordering it, I struggled to fill in
the name above
the left side pocket.
Surely not the same name I’ve carried with me
the name of my childhood
the name when I couldn’t watch PG-13 movies
the name I placed on my application to this place
before I even knew I was getting i n.
And surely not Dr. Wang.
(yet, at least)
I imagined differently
the day I would receive a short white coat.
A ceremony
Joyous, l oud
Rows, filled
Beaming faces both
Of friends and colleagues and family and faculty
Some here for the first time,
Some as part of
A long celebrated tradition
They would not bear to miss
This year
in the place of donning
by kin
(those supportive warm hands)
Instead
A single wire hanger
On a rack
Lined up for takeaway logistics,
Not alphabetical celebration.
It hung behind me in my car
as I ignored it
too scared to try i t on
Then placed it
directly
in the closet
to hide the truth of it.
The first time I wear it
It bounces back rays of muted daylight,
Pixelated on the Zoom screen
As the SP gives me garbled feedback I don’t understand.
I nod as I worry the tightly sewn, unwashed buttons between my fingers
(as i f that would make me deserve i t more)
At times my white coat seems heavy
With the burden of knowledge
Weighted with the future responsibility of decisions
Mistakes that could cost a life.
Heavy, yet
I realize acutely
that the pockets are empty
--lord, tell me what to fill them with--
--tell me what to fill me with--
examination tools? notecards? textbook knowledge? volunteering? seminars? the voices of
professors in my head?
My white coat didn’t come with a manual.
At times, my white coat is flimsy
How could that single garment
Transform me i nto a hero
Who directs a team,
and teaches next generations,
And saves a l ife?
My white coat didn’t come with answers.
At the end of the day,
my white coat is a privilege
Though white does not show much.
The white doesn’t show
The whiteboard marker on my hands
as I draw out the brachial plexus yet another time
The white doesn’t show
the wetness of tears
From a patient harboring a condition with no cure
The white doesn’t show
the humanity of blood on the examination table.
My short white coat is full
of both remembrance and promise
I slip my arms into the sleeves
as I recall the longing for this moment and this day
Admiring the short white coats of my past
as real medical students donned them proudly
When I wasn’t one
While wearing it now, recognizing
the silent promise that it will one day
grow i n length
to become the long white coat
I dream of now.
For all the things i t lacked,
My white coat did come with
a rectangular note
from the graduating Class of 2020.
A wish-us-well
For the journey we have just started
That they just completed.
The journey that goes on
and on
to the next
and next
and next and next
and
That note was a missive from the future
that things will be okay.
That I can do this.
My white coat is too big
The sleeves are too long
But I roll them up
And get to work.