58
Vol. 66, No. 3 2015
Northeast Florida Medicine
Creative Corner
Recently, our son, Max,
was at a restaurant with
his friends. His cellphone
vibrated and he looked
at it. He looked up and
exclaimed,“Ijustgotintothe
UniversityofFloridaCollege
of Medicine!” His friend
Grayson,jumpedup,turned
to the bartender, pointed at
Max,andshouted,“Givethis
man a shot!” It was a great moment. Anytime you get into medical
school is a greatmoment.However,Max’smoment sounds perfect.
A long time ago, I was pre-med at New York University. I took
all the typical classes. I suffered through chemistry and biology
and physiology and physics and organic chemistry. I took all the
classes that have absolutely no relation to what makes a good
doctor. I took all the classes that I have never, ever used in clinical
practice. It’s a marathon.
As a lark, I decided to test the right side of my brain and
signed up for an acting class. It is the only class I remember and
the only class I use every day. There are many different types of
acting theories. One is the Lee Strasberg method. Some call it
Method Acting. This form of acting has been alive for centuries.
It has many guises: Romantic Acting, Emotional Acting, Divine
Inspiration, The Muses, Feeling the Role. All of these techniques
shareacommonorganicprocessofcreativitytoprovideanaudience
with a moving experience. The foundation of this technique is to
apply one’s experiences within the fiction of the story as if theywere
current. The Method Acting technique is an homage to Aristotle
who noted that evoking emotions in others is only accomplished
by invoking your own emotions. This is only possible by bringing
to the surface remote experiences from life. In essence, Aristotle is
merely the root of the “System” by Konstantin Stanislavsky, which
evolved into The Strasberg Method at The Actor’s Studio. They
all teach the following: acting is founded upon the actor’s ability
to remember his life’s moments at a moment’s notice and apply
them to every moment in the play.
Our class was taught by a woman who learned from Uta
Hagen, who practiced an offshoot of this technique. She asked
the class, “What is the smallest unit of time?” We all thought,
yet none of us could come up with an answer. A millisecond
is shorter than a second. I was sure there is something smaller
than a millisecond. However, our teacher pointed out that the
shortest period of time is amoment. I thought that was brilliant.
She said that life is made up of an endless string of moments.
In order to be a good actor you need to remember certain
moments in your life and draw upon them. She instructed us
to use those moments in order to play a scene. She offered that
when certain things happen in your life we should not just live
that moment, but remember it. Store it. Catalogue it. Moments
are our greatest resources.
I remember when I was accepted to the Sackler School of
Medicine. I came home and checked the mailbox. Waiting
for me was a thin letter. I had been behaviorally modified to
realize that thin envelopes are never good. A thick envelope
has lots of instructions and papers and forms.Thick envelopes
are good. Thin envelopes are always bad. Thin envelopes
mean you have been fired. Thin envelopes mean you have
been rejected. I opened my thin envelope and I was shocked.
“Congratulations! Welcome to the Class of 1990.”
No one was home. I got into my 1979 Formula Firebird,
turnedon the engine and the radio and lowered all thewindows.
Soon I was on the Belt Parkway in Brooklyn. I got into the left
hand lane and I was flying. It was neither legal nor mature,
but I was flying, emotionally and physically. I flew in that
left hand lane as Lionel Richie was singing “Dancing on the
Ceiling.” There was a cop sitting in his car underneath the
Verrazano Bridge. He sat there every day. I knew he was there.
Even now, when I visit my parents, he is still sitting there. On
that day, I didn’t care. I didn’t slow down. I didn’t look back. I
kept flying. In a moment, the police car was behind me with
his lights celebrating my acceptance to medical school, or so I
thought. I pulled over. My windows were down and my tunes
were blaring. He asked me to lower the radio.
“Oh, but it’s such a good song!” I replied earnestly. He was
not amused and I shut off the radio.
“License and registration, please,” he intoned.
I gave him my license and registration, and I gave him my
gloriously thin envelope.
“What’s this?” he barked.
“It’s my acceptance to medical school!”
“Well, I have to give you a ticket, Doctor,” he replied.
I could not stop smiling. I told the policeman, “Oh my
gosh, that’s the first time anyone has calledme ‘Doctor!’Thank
you!” It’s a moment I’ll never forget.
I told Max there are going to be times as a physician when
you’re tired and feel exhausted and, sometimes, even defeated.
You will be dragging yourself through the dimmed hallways of
a hospital at two in the morning. It will be just you, the nursing
staff, the transporters and a bunch of sick neighbors. They will
be counting on you. You may think to yourself that perhaps
you should have gone to business school or law school. If you
had chosen those paths you would be home in bed asleep. You
would actually be making a living. I told him, when you feel
that way, remember that moment when you were accepted. I
told him that when things at work become overwhelming, I
have always been able to hear Lionel Ritchie singing “Dancing
on the Ceiling” in my head, and I’m ready to go.
Cherish this moment, my son.
v
Moments
Mark Fleisher, MD
