Just over a year ago, I stood, heart racing and hands trembling, in front of my mailbox. Any other Thursday I would have nonchalantly checked my mail as I came home from work, but today was an entirely different story.
A friend had texted me earlier in the day to let me know that decision letters had been delivered by our state school. I had only been offered two interviews, and the letter which innocently lay in my mailbox represented my highest hope for attending medical school that year. I paced for a full two minutes in front of my mailbox before I built up the courage to open it. I probably would have paced longer, but someone came down my hallway, and I felt a bit foolish dancing around in front of the mailboxes.
Four attempts at inserting my key in the lock later, I was holding a too-thin, white, letter-sized envelope in my severely shaking hands. Suddenly, I desperately needed to know the contents of that letter, and I ripped open the envelope with fervor akin to a starving man diving into a steak dinner. I never made it past the first line. The phrase
We regret to inform you…
jumped out of the page.
Panic gripped me, and it seemed that I could barely breathe, but no tears clouded my vision as I stared mindlessly at those dream-shattering words. I stumbled down the hall to my apartment, where I collapsed in my desk chair.
In an attempt to think of something, anything, else, I opened the browser on my laptop and checked my e-mail. I immediately noticed that I had received an e-mail from the one other school I had interviewed at, my last chance for the year. I quickly opened the e-mail, only to discover that I had been waitlisted.
Utterly shocked, I crossed the room and lay down on my bed with one thought on my mind. What in the world am I going to do now?