The first time I applied (unsuccessfully) for medical school years ago I was also caring for my dying stepmother. I was pretty bitter, not at her of course (though sometimes I'm sure I could have been of more comfort if I'd tried harder), but at the world. It felt like I was losing my family and the future I'd worked for at the same time. Anyway, this chain reminded me of a beautiful email she sent me shortly after I'd done poorly on the MCAT. It was titled "A life of failure".
TLDR: Some things are more important than getting into medical school. Apologies to any Chinese historians out there for any factual inaccuracy, as my stepmom had a flair for exaggeration. But boy could she write.
"At work when I am tired of pretending I am working, I've gotten into the habit of reading a poem of this Chinese poet named Tu Fu (I can't help it, that's his name). I find that if I read one poem a day, I end up reading quite a bit of poetry, and it helps organize and calm me down a little. Anyway today's poem was a zinger, so I thought I'd send it to you. I'm sitting in the conference room at the moment typing away - too many people come into my office so I go to the conference room, where no one ever goes.
This office used to belong to Sun, a huge success of the 90's, which is now sinking into the bog - sic simper tyrannies (thus always to tyrants!). Bodes ill for the future, don't you think? It has a great view though. Grey city blocks and people flowing down the street, each with their special plan, success and destiny just ahead, undoubtably; I fully participate in this as well.
Well, now to the poet at hand. I'm afraid to say that Tu Fu's life was mostly a failure, destiny and path of success wise. He kept failing the big state exam that got you appointed to the emperor's court in an official capacity as assistant postmaster or whatever for Xiansiang Province, and thus gave you an allowance to write poetry while you served the state. This was a pretty standard deal for the time for a person of a certain class, but unaccountably, he messed up.
So with his wife and children, he proceeded to live on the handouts of others and shuffled around the country, since it was recognized that he had some piddling talent as a poet, although this was not much respected for various reasons having to do with the current political situation. Other poets were much more famous than he at the time, and he had a fairly short life and then died in obscurity, while his family suffered and faded away. Nice, eh? The paintings of him aren't very attractive, either.
He had a prodigious output of poetry however, much of which has survived, and gradually became recognized as one of China's greatest poets (not just because of the volume of material), which is better than nothing, but absolutely meaningless in terms of his own misery or that of his family, except it means you can get his work in translation and read it 1200 years later on the western or eastern coast of America.
So contemplate - your own sufferings will still have tremendous, crushing weight, but a few kind words and acts of yours may have some faint life as well while not helping you in the slightest may cheer other people up and make their lives better. Like mine for example, and what could possibly be more important than that? Isn't that both depressing and mildly, philosophically, the way it is? Think of Tu Fu.
Here's the poem.
Night Journey Thoughts
Bent grasses in slender breeze.
Boat's mast high in empty night.
Starlight shining near the plain.
Moon floating on river's light.
All this writing, but no name.
Illness and years, without a place.
Drifting, wandering, what am I?
A white bird over earth and sky.
Tu Fu (712-770 AD)"
