Then I did. A letter from his father “It is with sadness that I must inform you that our son has died.” His father wrote. “He stepped on a land mine on his second day on patrol. You are invited to his funeral service” The End.

I had recently received a draft card, and the number was not all that high. My mother and I sat down at the round lace covered dining room table.

“You are NOT going into the military”

“But” I said “I could enlist in the Navy. That’s safe, and I could use my electronics”

My mother handed me a small piece of paper “Go to Mexico. When you get to Toluca, call this man. He can get you into medical school”

She had found a loophole. Medical students, and only medical students, were exempt form the draft. I had studied Spanish in high school.

The shadow of Ringo Bailey hung darkly over my every day in Connecticut. I got a passport, packed a bag, and flew to Mexico. Toluca was a quaint, quiet little town. Its medical school had just opened. Best as I could tell, there was one other American student there, so we were soon sharing a beer.

“This place sucks” he said

“Does”

“We should go to Guadalajara”

“What’s there?”

“Americans” he said, “Hundreds of Americans, even American girls!”

So we quit Toluca and took a bus the 800 miles to Guadalajara. If you have never ridden on a Mexican public bus, your life is incomplete. It is an adventure, sort of like skiing an interminable downhill, with twists and danger around every bend.

The Medical School of Guadalajara was every bit as advertised. Full of Americans who knew no Spanish, and Mexican staff who refused to speak English. I remember my first week.  There were six classes every day, in a large, complex and not air-conditioned building. Class one at 8. In you go, packed into one of a hundred seats set in a curve facing the podium and El Profesor. Before he speaks, a lackey has to take attendance. Now most Americans have two names. Not Mexicans. They have a first name, a second name from the father, a third middle name from the mother, then the father’s last name, then the mothers last name. So if every Mexican in the school was names Gonzalez (and lots of them were), they were distinguished by one or more of their other names. Maybe 70 students in the class. Imagine how long it took to take attendance.

After one full week of classes at Guadalajara, I had heard, at most, two hours of lectures (in Spanish), and thirty hours of Mexican names, over and yet over again. I had resigned myself to learning medicine from imported American texts. Then word

spread in the expat Guadalajara community: The State of Connecticut was opening a new medical school. This was hopeful news to me. For one, I was a Connecticut resident. For another, I hoped the new school would be more liberal with their requirements than some old, established school. Full of hope, I applied.

The response came quickly. “We appreciate your enthusiasm and willingness to repeat the First Year. However, any acceptance would be contingent upon your completing the following courses:

• Advanced mathematics to include differential and integral calculus
• Organic and inorganic chemistry
• Atomic physics
• At least two semesters of biology, including laboratory
• At lease one semester of chemistry laboratory”

To my desperate eyes, that letter was a “yes, but”. The admissions people doubtless thought they were dismissing yet another annoying unqualified applicant, but I saw the light in the tunnel. I resigned from Guadalajara, borrowed some money from my parents, and set off. Yes, the University of Connecticut would enroll me, a Trinity graduate, in six courses next semester: Physics, inorganic Chemistry, inorganic Chemistry lab, Biology, Biology lab, differential Calculus.

I rented a room in a small town just south of the campus, bought books, and began the most grueling year of my life. When not attending classes, and I missed none, I

studied morning through night, all weekdays, and all weekends. I never left the apartment except to buy food. Not never, not nohow. At the end of the semester, I received my report card:

• Physics- A
• Mathematics- A
• Inorganic Chemistry- A
• Inorganic Chemistry lab- B
• Biology- A
• Biology lab- A

I took no semester break. I immediately enrolled in second semester:

• Advanced Physics
• Biology and Biology lab
• Organic Chemistry
• Organic Chemistry lab
• Integral calculus

I busted my ass relentlessly and emerged from my apartment in June with straight A’s. I sent a letter to UConn Medical admissions with proof of my

accomplishments. In return, I received a letter of direct admission to the Class of 1974. And a personal note of congratulations from Dr Lepow, on behalf of the entire admissions committee.

Medical school was easy. My roommate Bob Whitesell told me the first of a farseeing line of vital tips,” small book-good book. Big book, bad book”. I eschewed the massive tomes of medicine. I bought the thin concise nursing texts, review summaries, and always the smallest books available for any subject. When we took Medical Boards part 1 after two years of medical school, I got top grades (as did Bob). The second two years were a different experience altogether. This was Clinical Medicine. See patients, write diagnoses and treatments, show a mastery of Pathology and Pharmacology. I proved to have an encyclopedic memory for Pharmacology. On the Pharmacology Boards at year four, I got 800, the highest possible score. This brilliance got me past other, lackluster, scores and, in June of 1973, I graduated M.D.

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