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Dr. John Watson perched on the edge of his twin bed, gazing proudly down at his brand-new general practitioner licence. He had received it that morning. I did it! he thought. I’m not only a doctor, but I’m also a general practitioner now! He smirked. Take that, Dad! So, you thought I’d never make it, did you? Well, you were wrong! There was no way I was not going to achieve my goal! And no, becoming a doctor doesn’t make me posh as you thought!
The newly certified GP looked up at the diploma that he had framed and hung on his bedroom wall following his graduation from medical school two years earlier, before he had finished his two years as house officer, and then had embarked on his training for his chosen specialty. Bachelor of Medicine, Bachelor of Surgery, and a Bachelor of Medical Sciences, he thought. MBBS. He glanced down at his licence again. And a licence as a general practitioner. A smile spread across his face.
Rising to his feet and crossing the room, John pushed back the curtains to let the shafts of sunlight in, and then, sitting down, he leaned back against his hardback chair, reminiscing. Remembering the vicious arguments that he’d had with his father while Hamish had been still alive. His father had given him such a hard time when John had first told him that he’d wanted to become a doctor when he grew up when he had been 14 years old, and a Year 10 student at King Edward VI Grammar School.
My dad thought I would be putting on airs if I went to uni and became a doctor, he thought, shaking his head. He thought I’d become posh if I did that; that’s something he never had any cop for. It would only have been acceptable to him if I’d got out there and got a job as soon as I’d passed my GCSE exams, instead of studying for my A-levels and going to uni. I strongly suspect he would have much preferred that Harry and I attend one of the local comprehensive schools as our friends on our street did, instead of going to KEGS and CCHS. But our mum wanted more for both of us. It is most fortunate that our grades on the 11+ exam qualified us both for grammar school, because I was so lucky to get to go to King Edward. I learned so much there, and it opened doors for me that would have surely been shut otherwise. He sighed. I wish that Mum was still here. I don’t regret that Dad is dead, but I do wish that Mum had survived the car accident. Perhaps with Dad gone, she would have been there for us more.
He sighed again. For that matter, I wish my godmother was still here, too! I still miss her. I would have loved to show Aunt Alice my new GP licence. She’d be so proud of me, I know. I would have loved to celebrate with her. “Aunt Alice” Templeton had been the Watsons’ across-the-street neighbour in Chelmsford and John’s godmother while she’d been alive. Even though she had not been related to John and his family, she had been practically a relative for all intents and purposes, a surrogate relative.
Scratching his neck, John took another long look at his general practitioner’s licence. Now that he had one, he would frame it and hang it on the wall next to his medical school diploma that he had received from the University of London at his graduation from King’s College London, and his more-recent Programme Certificate of Completion that he’d been given upon his completion of his two years as house officer. And now that he had his GP licence, he could go to the NHS and apply for a GP job in a surgery. But— He frowned. The question was, did he really want to?
The newly certified GP sighed and shook his head. No. If he was going to be honest with himself, he had to admit that he didn’t. He really didn’t want to work as a GP. He would if he had to, but in truth, he didn’t want to, not if there were any better options. He had never truly wanted to become a general practitioner; what he really wanted was to become a surgeon. The only reason he had opted to become a GP, to begin with, was because it was the programme with the most vacancies waiting to be filled. But the sad truth was, John knew that he would be bored silly if he had to spend his days giving vaccinations, diagnosing stomach viruses, ear infections, and ulcers, and stuff like that. True, it would mean job security, but it would be truly dull if he had to spend his days like that for the next 40 years. He wanted something more. Something exciting.
Suddenly, Dr. Watson leaped to his feet. Dropping his licence on his desk, he grabbed the phone book and looked up the London hospitals. Why not? After all, he was a fully certified physician now; perhaps it was not too late to train as a surgeon! That was what he had wanted to train for, to begin with. He began ringing them, one by one, to inquire about surgical training posts.
At last, an hour after he had started making the phone calls, Dr. Watson flopped down on his bed, frustrated. To his disappointment, not a single one of the London hospitals had any openings, not for surgical training posts. He swore. “There’s got to be a way!” he said to himself, clutching the corner of the mattress so tightly, his knuckles started to turn white. “There’s got to be some way I can become a surgeon! But how?”
With that, an idea exploded in John’s head. He wasn’t only a licenced doctor and a GP now, but he was also still a member of the Army Reserves! He had been one for the past seven years, ever since his first year in medical school, and he had advanced through the ranks to corporal. Would it be possible for him to become an army surgeon? There should be no shortage of posts waiting to be filled in the army!
Picking up his laptop, John opened it and did an Internet search for the British army; once the British army home page came up, he started reading it. Before he could make any decisions, he first needed to find out what his options were, and whether becoming an army surgeon was, in fact, feasible. He spent the next half-hour carefully studying the Web site in its entirety; in the process, he visited its different links and watched some online videos, while paying special attention to the Royal Army Medical Corps link.
Sure enough, it was just as he hoped: there was plenty of need for surgeons, especially in Afghanistan—mainly trauma surgeons. Well, with the war going on in Afghanistan, that was to be expected. Since Dr. Watson was already a reservist, albeit a non-commissioned officer, it would be easy for him to learn from his commanding officer what he needed to know, so that he could become a good army surgeon. It would, of course, mean becoming a commissioned officer, which would mean training at Sandhurst. From what John had discovered while surfing the Web page, since he was already a licenced doctor, he could apply to become a Professionally Qualified Officer. He clicked on the ‘start my application’ link and created an account; once that was finished, he proceeded to fill out the online application for joining.
I’ll have to go to Sandhurst once I’m accepted. If I’m accepted, he thought, as soon as he had finished filling out the application and had clicked on ‘submit’. Since I won’t be leading troops into battle, I’ll be taking a shorter course than a regular officer does. The hard part’s going to be explaining it to Harry; she’s going to throw a fit when she learns of my plans. He frowned at the prospect, and then a smile spread across his face. At least it’ll be easier to explain it to my commanding officer this weekend, when I go to my reserve unit. And if I am accepted, I won’t have to settle for being a GP!
He smiled ruefully as memories of what his late mother had told him about his dad came to mind. Mum once told me my dad was in the Army Reserves when I was born; in fact, he had been in the Reserves for several years at the time. It was only soon after my birth that he applied for a job at Britvic and was hired. I was only two when he decided to leave the Reserves, so I have no memory of his work there. I never saw him in uniform once I was old enough to remember. He shook his head.
I never expected that I would follow in his footsteps while I was growing up. I had no desire to be like him, and I still don’t. But I understand why he chose the Reserves. That way, he only had to work on the weekends, which gave him free time the rest of the week to do as he chose. Mum told me he was in the Reserves when she first met him, and that it had been his only job at the time. Like me, he was a non-commissioned officer; he was a corporal when he was discharged. And once I started attending Kings College, I quickly found out that I needed a way to support myself while I was a student there. Even though the government paid my tuition, that only covered classes; I had to pay the rest of my expenses on my own, and Harry wasn’t willing to help me. The Army Reserves worked out perfectly. I could earn the money I needed to live on, on the weekends, which allowed me the time I needed to study and play on the uni rugby team the rest of the week. And hey, being in uniform certainly made it easy to get dates! As of now, I’m a corporal, same as Dad was, when he was discharged. He smiled at the memory. And now, if all goes well, I’ll be joining the army as a surgeon!
He smiled at the prospect as eagerness welled up in his heart. He couldn’t wait!