Almost there - Clinically Certified (Part 1): Getting there

It's a blazing 33 degree Celcius weather. I can't concentrate on my thesis so here I am, updating my blog. Not that there is a lot to update about. But I thought perhaps, memoirs from the last two years since I have not blogged much due to time constraints.

Summer 2007/08

It was the same sweltering weather. The same old routine - thesis, assignments, and the neverending lists of applications and interviews. By the end of it I counted 18 applications, 12 interviews and a million decisions.

Four distinct memories come to mind. My first interview for a Clinical Masters took place in Queensland. It was 30th of October, in the midst of exams and 4th year thesis submission. 'Yay, day trip!' I thought.

I boarded the flight feeling sick to my stomach. By then I'd already been absolved of my 'flair' for motion sickness. It wasn't the food either. Just nerves.

I had a bag packed with my interview clothes, water bottle, accessories, my ethics book (no kidding), and of course a list of questions I thought they were going to ask. I really really wanted to get in.

I remember stepping out of the airport and being engulfed in this sudden heat wave. Travelling by train and then bus to the St Lucia campus of Uni. Queensland caused no trouble. I arrived at 11am, my interview was at 2.15pm. I fell in love with the campus immediately. Open spaces, riverside breeze, friendly people, great research. Needless to say, I flunked my interview. If there was a slam dunk for sinking your chances I did it, not once, not twice but several times that afternoon. I shook like a leaf during the interview (mind you, there were two nice ladies), sweat pouring (talk about disgusting) and trembling voice. At one point one of the interviewers asked me if I was ok. Everything went to hell pretty quickly after that. All I wanted to do was get the hell out of there and back to Melbourne.

Even knowing how badly I did then, I still cried my eyes out when the letter came.

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That wasn't the only crying I did that summer. The ever elusive letter from Uni. of Melbourne was devastating. Looking back, I don't know why I wanted it so much, other than the fact that it was Uni. of Melbourne, which made less sense now. You'd think I would know better after my fantastic hands-on practical experience at Swinburne. But no, I was gutted. After just getting off from an incredible year at Swinburne, I was flying high, proudly making anyone who would consent to read my thesis and flashing my stellar grades at anyone who would listen. I am reminded time and time again of how vulnerable (and silly) I was to let my self-belief ride so much on my grades and academic endeavours.

"Daddy, am I good enough?"