Ten years ago tonight, R.E.M. was inducted into the Rock N Roll Hall of Fame. A milestone for sure but in and of itself not surprising given the band's influence. So I simply say "Happy Anniversary!" and offer you this clip of the band's opening song at the ceremony, "Begin the Begin", one of my absolute favorites and a special treat because it's not as often played as other R.E.M. one-offs.
More personally poignant is that ten years ago tonight, I was watching R.E.M.'s induction on television in my wife's and my small second floor apartment in the heart of Chicago's Little Italy neighborhood. I knew R.E.M. had been elected to the Hall of Fame but forgot that March 12th was induction night. I randomly found it flipping channels and watched an awesome induction of Ronnie Spector and an awkward induction of Van Halen minus any actual Van Halens. R.E.M. was the headliner inductee band, naturally, and the wait was worth it.
I was so nervous that night and being able to divert myself on the induction ceremony was a godsend. My anxiety stemmed from the fact that it was Match week, the week senior medical students find out where life will be taking them (and their families) after medical school ends. The Monday of Match week, each student receives an early morning email that either says (paraphrasing) 'you matched -- see you Thursday to find out where you will be going for residency' or 'you didn't match -- time to scramble for a residency spot anywhere you're lucky enough to be accepted.' I was relieved that morning to be in the first group. I wasn't really worried that I wouldn't match -- medicine-pediatrics residencies weren't that competitive at that time, and I'd also had a back-up plan should all the med-peds spots fill. But even still, to wait three more days before knowing where I would match -- where my wife, my dog and I would spend the next four years. Rather unsettling.
It was a big week emotionally. Monday, as I wrote, I found out that I'd matched. My last ever day of medical school was Wednesday (I finished early as I'd intentionally foregone vacations) and on Thursday March 15, 2007 the big reveal would occur. In the interim, I endure a sort of a triduum of transition or more practically a shit storm of uncertainty. For as medieval as medical school had been with its overwhelming knowledge consumption requirements and its daily reminders of how small and ignorant I was, it's all I had known for four years. How would I make the transition residency? Where would I live? Would we buy a house? Would my wife find a job? Would we be happy?
Three days of not being here or there or anywhere. Three days of precious, precious alcohol. And within those three days, three hours of the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame and about thirty minutes anchored to my favorite band.
I'm only thirty seven, but I've lived enough for little moments like this to add up. I love living in the wider world because it is full of amazing people and littered with a few bad people all shuffling along the mortal coil. We are all trying to stay out of each other's way and grab a little piece of tranquility and yet we affect each other so greatly. My career in medicine (at that time just beginning) and R.E.M.'s run as a college rock band turned alternative music standard bearer (at that time starting to set) have nothing to do each other. And yet these two events intertwine in a memory of terror and joy and new adventure.
More personally poignant is that ten years ago tonight, I was watching R.E.M.'s induction on television in my wife's and my small second floor apartment in the heart of Chicago's Little Italy neighborhood. I knew R.E.M. had been elected to the Hall of Fame but forgot that March 12th was induction night. I randomly found it flipping channels and watched an awesome induction of Ronnie Spector and an awkward induction of Van Halen minus any actual Van Halens. R.E.M. was the headliner inductee band, naturally, and the wait was worth it.
I was so nervous that night and being able to divert myself on the induction ceremony was a godsend. My anxiety stemmed from the fact that it was Match week, the week senior medical students find out where life will be taking them (and their families) after medical school ends. The Monday of Match week, each student receives an early morning email that either says (paraphrasing) 'you matched -- see you Thursday to find out where you will be going for residency' or 'you didn't match -- time to scramble for a residency spot anywhere you're lucky enough to be accepted.' I was relieved that morning to be in the first group. I wasn't really worried that I wouldn't match -- medicine-pediatrics residencies weren't that competitive at that time, and I'd also had a back-up plan should all the med-peds spots fill. But even still, to wait three more days before knowing where I would match -- where my wife, my dog and I would spend the next four years. Rather unsettling.
It was a big week emotionally. Monday, as I wrote, I found out that I'd matched. My last ever day of medical school was Wednesday (I finished early as I'd intentionally foregone vacations) and on Thursday March 15, 2007 the big reveal would occur. In the interim, I endure a sort of a triduum of transition or more practically a shit storm of uncertainty. For as medieval as medical school had been with its overwhelming knowledge consumption requirements and its daily reminders of how small and ignorant I was, it's all I had known for four years. How would I make the transition residency? Where would I live? Would we buy a house? Would my wife find a job? Would we be happy?
Three days of not being here or there or anywhere. Three days of precious, precious alcohol. And within those three days, three hours of the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame and about thirty minutes anchored to my favorite band.
I'm only thirty seven, but I've lived enough for little moments like this to add up. I love living in the wider world because it is full of amazing people and littered with a few bad people all shuffling along the mortal coil. We are all trying to stay out of each other's way and grab a little piece of tranquility and yet we affect each other so greatly. My career in medicine (at that time just beginning) and R.E.M.'s run as a college rock band turned alternative music standard bearer (at that time starting to set) have nothing to do each other. And yet these two events intertwine in a memory of terror and joy and new adventure.