By Namitha Shaji
Yesterday, I was standing in front of a formalin-drenched corpse, with a scrunched-up nose and a scalpel in my shaky hands.
Yesterday, I was introducing myself to strangers in this scary new place called medical school.
Yesterday, I was going on my very first road trip with them.
Yesterday, those strangers became family.
Yesterday I was trying to stuff my head with names of drugs and diseases I could not even spell right.
Yesterday, I sutured up a wound for the first time; I was pretty proud of it.
Yesterday, the crying little girl in the children’s ward smiled when I gave her a chocolate. It made my day.
Yesterday I was excited; I had delivered a baby for the first time, he felt so warm in my arms.
Yesterday, arteries squirting blood did not disgust me; bones and flesh jutting out of a person’s body did not frighten me.
Yesterday, I was in graduation robes, right arm outstretched, saying, “Primum non nocere.”
Yesterday, I was legally allowed to add a prefix to my name.
Yesterday was the last day of a six-year-long journey.
Yesterday, I was laughing.
Yesterday, I was crying.
Yesterday, I was wishing time would stand still.
Yesterday changed me; it showed me life, it showed me death; it made me stronger.
Yesterday taught me a lot of things.
Today, I realize there was something it forgot to teach: how to say goodbye.