I’m Not A Doctor, And Daddy Isn’t Over It Yet

Both of my parents are medical doctors, and I am very proud of them. Not only did they go to medical school, but they also did it in a foreign land and in a foreign language (Russia/Russian). I took Microbiology, Chemistry, and Anatomy & Physiology I and II in college and it was no walk in the park — and it was all in English, although it often felt like Latin. So for my parents, I salute them. Oh, and they both did it on scholarships – something they never fail to remind me.

When I was growing up, I was always told that I was going to be a medical doctor. In fact, it was so ingrained in me that as a little girl, when I would introduce myself, it’d go something like this: My name is Vera Ezimora, I am X years old, my daddy’s name is Dr. X Ezimora, and my mommy’s name is Dr. (Mrs.) X Ezimora. I am from Anambra State — blah blah blah — and when I grow up, I will be a medical doctor. Crazy introduction, but that was what mommy and daddy taught me to say! Look, don’t judge my parents, I was their only child, so there was no one else to take some heat off me.

So, for the longest time, I grew up believing I would later become a medical doctor. I was told that medicine was naturally within me. Both of my parents had siblings who were also professionals: doctors, surgeons, lawyers, etc, so I believed that this was my natural calling. The only problem was that I loathed everything that had to do with medicine.

I did not like going to my dad’s clinic or any other clinic or hospital; I hated the smell. I did not like seeing needles, and the only thing I hated more than seeing them was having to take one. Ugh. I still have a big scar on my right butt cheek from a needle. I was sick and daddy tried to inject me, but I refused to stay still, and that was how it happened. It’s still there, sitting on my upper right butt cheek. So if you ever see a picture of a brown right butt cheek with a scar (looks like a big dash) floating around the web, it just might be mine. I now wear it as a badge of honor. It reminds me of a time when I was brave enough to challenge the needle and damn the consequences. Yup.

It used to take hours – I’m not exaggerating – to give me an injection because I hated it. One time, I even ran out of the hospital and they chased me and brought me back to take that injection. My hatred for and fear of the needle surpassed the normal child’s hatred and fear. For me, God had somehow made me not want to have anything to do with medicine. So while I spoke the words out of my mouth that I would be a doctor, everything else about me said otherwise. What I loved doing was writing, reading, laughing, participating in school plays and dances, having fun, etc. If saying I was going to be a doctor was all it took, then I would have been a doctor ten times over.

In America, I tried to be a doctor. My high school year book says I want to be a gynecologist. Ha! But at the time, that was the plan. In college, I ended up going for nursing. I did all my prerequisite courses and passed them, then two semesters into nursing school, it was all over. Story for another day. One day, I’ll be giving a speech about this, I promise. I talked about it a little bit at the Prudential Panel at BlogHer, but not in detail.

The highlight of this story is that my daddy isn’t over it yet. He mentions it every time he can, even when the conversation isn’t really about it. Is it ever about it these days? For example, remember I was featured in a CNN article, as I mentioned in my July journal. My mommy had to show it to my daddy because he isn’t tech savvy in the least bit and there is no way I could have sent him to CNN.com by himself. He still doesn’t even fully understand what a blog is. The man can perform surgery, but he cannot comprehend blogging. He read the article, saw my name and picture, and said, “That’s good, but I really wish she was a doctor.”

Oh, daddy! That ship has long sailed. Somebody please tell me daddy.