It was like being struck by lightning during the chorus, the recognition that Paul Simon was singing directly to me. “Medicine is magical, and magical is art,” he sang, and I turned up the radio, convinced that I was supposed to hear these lyrics—a tender moment in which I was vulnerable to possibility. The hair on my neck stood up and warmth washed over me, the telltale signs that this insight was true and real. I sang along, and it was like hearing “”The Boy in the Bubble,” a song from the album Graceland, for the first time.
I had been spending a great deal of time building an academic program, an internal medicine residency to be specific. Much of this process is exactly what you think it is: meetings, emails, committees, planning, list-making, and such. New to graduate medical education, it took me almost a year to settle into the often tedious rhythm of this job, all the while an indistinct voice pestered me. I wasn’t sure what it was trying to say, but it wouldn’t go away. That is, until, in this cosmic instant, I knew exactly what it was saying to me.
Viewed through a traditional lens, a medical residency is—mostly—a job and—partially—a school. It’s actually both, but the work dominates to the point that its long hours are famous in the American psyche. A residency must provide oversight to young doctors so they can, in a controlled environment, learn to see patients on their own. And, at the same time, these doctors need academic lectures, the rigorous kind which form the nerdy soul of internal medicine. This is serious business and hard work. But, the more I sang, the more I was convinced that I was going to be a program director who would do something radical.
A week before my car singalong, I had listened to an interview with the film director Sir Steve McQueen on the BBC. His insights on the creative process at large, and his specifically, resonated with me. So much so that, when I heard him, I stopped jogging and typed notes on my phone. When I did this, my dog Trixie gave me the look, the one that said, “Again—really?” She sat on the gravel and stared into the sky as my fingers tapped, alternately shaking and nodding my head. Warmth engulfed me.
I was spellbound by Sir Steve’s unwavering commitment to “the work,” a humility and philosophy which made him approach each project like it was his very first day. This sincere, innocent, and honest take on creative work spoke to me, in part, because I have always believed that medicine beckons me to do the same. I had tried for years to figure out how to show up and see each day anew. I had often spoken and written of the intersection of my work and art, ancient alchemy which could produce magic, if only I could get out of the way.
While doing the tedious, but necessary, work of residency building, I had become convinced that, if I was brave enough, I might actually listen to the voice inside me, the one that told me that I could possibly be building my life’s art project.
The residency-as-art might sound crazy to some, and I am sure it will to some in my institution—that’s OK. I’m taking care of the serious business, which is how I will be measured and graded by the academy. But to me, an internal medicine doctor for two decades, it feels like a stroke of genius, one so obvious that it has been hiding in plain sight. Maybe this is why it took Paul Simon to open the portal and share a glimmer of the magic, the one Sir Steve dangled in front of me.
It’s more clear with each passing day which lectures will comprise our curriculum, and it is satisfying to watch this architecture form a structure. My residents need to ultimately pass the American Board of Internal Medicine exam, and I think about this responsibility daily. This requires work, and at the same time we are mentoring them and teaching about congestive heart failure and diabetic foot infections, I am going to bring my artistic spark—the one that invites me to model a creative ethos for my young doctors, one which is constantly threatened in our impersonal medical “system.”
Sir Steve, Paul Simon, and I are kindred spirits, and I believe the intersection of our creative habits is meaningful, so much so that they are, basically, ghostwriting my residency curriculum. I’m not going to tell too many people about this, lest I freak them out. After so many years of not being true to myself, I am finally brave enough that, when the warmth floods me, I know that I am, in fact, receiving the inspiration that will help me produce young doctors who practice like artists. I just need to lead by example, showing them that “these are days of miracles and wonder.”
Ryan McCarthy is an internal medicine physician.
