I turned twenty-two during the first week of PA school.  I was settling in well, getting to know my classmates and figuring out my classes.  Less than two weeks later, 9/11 happened.

I still remember standing in the break room, next to the vending machines, watching the second plane hit the towers.  Fearing for my aunt’s safety in Chicago.  Going to class, where the pharmacology professor (who looked exactly like a gargoyle) refused to listen to us that something big had happened.  Going to classes the rest of the day, and in a one-time-only occurrence, listening to the radio news during evening anatomy lab.  (Usually the cadaver lab was like a tomb during regular lab hours.  We played music on the weekends/off time, but the professor didn’t like it during official lab time.)  I went with two friends to try to give blood that evening after lab, only to find huge, impossible lines, then went home and called my mother.

The first year of PA school was full of all kinds of events, but that’s the one that sticks with me.

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