scholarly journals Still want to be a doctor? Medical student dropout in the era of COVID-19

Author(s):  
Xiaoyang Ye ◽  
Muxin Zhai ◽  
Li Feng ◽  
A’na Xie ◽  
Weimin Wang ◽  
...  
1994 ◽  
Vol 39 (6) ◽  
pp. 630-631
Author(s):  
Danny Wedding
Keyword(s):  

2018 ◽  
Author(s):  
Christina Warner ◽  
Samantha Carlson ◽  
Renee Crichlow ◽  
Michael W. Ross

2020 ◽  
Vol 5 (1) ◽  
pp. 74-89
Author(s):  
Hugh Crago

In a seminal 1973 paper, Robert Clark described the very different “cultures” of the first and second year students in a four year clinical psychology PhD programme. The author applies Clark’s template to his own experiences as trainee or trainer in five different counsellor education programmes, one in the US and four in Australia. Each of the programmes, to varying degrees, demonstrates key features of the pattern identified by Clark, where the first year is “therapeutic” and other-oriented, the second is “professional” and self-focused. The author concludes that all the surveyed programmes exhibited some level of “second year crisis”, in which a significant number of students felt abandoned, dissatisfied, or rebellious. The author extends and refines Clark’s developmental analogy (first year = childhood; second year = adolescence) to reflect recent neurological research, in particular, the shift from a right hemisphere-dominant first year of life, prioritising affiliative needs, to a left hemisphere-dominant second year, prioritising autonomy and control. This shift is paralleled later by a more gradual move from a protective, supportive childhood to necessary, but sometimes conflictual, individuation in adolescence. The first two years of a counsellor training programme broadly echo this process, a process exacerbated by the second year internship/placement, in which students must “leave home” and adjust to unfamiliar, potentially less nurturing, authority figures. Finally, the author suggests introducing more rigorous “academic holding” into the first year, and greater attention to “therapeutic holding” of dissident students in the second, hopefully decreasing student dropout, and achieving a better balanced training experience.


Romanticism ◽  
2016 ◽  
Vol 22 (2) ◽  
pp. 203-212
Author(s):  
James Robert Allard

John Keats's time as a medical student provided much fodder for the imagination of readers of all persuasions. In particular, ‘Z’, in the fourth installment of the ‘Cockney School’ essays, took pains to ensure that readers knew of his time training to be an apothecary, working to frame Keats, first, as connected to the lowest branch of medical practice, and, second, as having failed as badly at that unworthy pursuit as he did at poetry. But what would ‘Z’, or any of his readers, have known about the training of an apothecary, about medical pedagogy, about the internal workings of the profession? As outsiders, what could they have known, beyond perception, conjecture, and opinion? And on what were those opinions based? This essay reads ‘Z’'s comments in the context of first-hand accounts of the state of contemporary medical pedagogy, seeking to account both for ‘Z’'s dismissal of Keats to ‘the shops’ and for the continuing fascination with his connections to medicine in these terms.


2010 ◽  
Vol 3 (2-3) ◽  
pp. 201-222
Author(s):  
Richard G. Walsh

Various modern fictions, building upon the skeptical premises of biblical scholars, have claimed that the gospels covered up the real story about Jesus. Dan Brown’s The Da Vinci Code is one recent, popular example. While conspiracy theories may seem peculiar to modern media, the gospels have their own versions of hidden secrets. For Mark, e.g., Roman discourse about crucifixion obscures two secret plots in Jesus’ passion, which the gospel reveals: the religious leaders’ conspiracy to dispatch Jesus and the hidden divine program to sacrifice Jesus. Mark unveils these secret plots by minimizing the passion’s material details (the details of suffering would glorify Rome), substituting the Jewish leaders for the Romans as the important human actors, interpreting the whole as predicted by scripture and by Jesus, and bathing the whole in an irony that claims that the true reality is other than it seems. The resulting divine providence/conspiracy narrative dooms Jesus—and everyone else—before the story effectively begins. None of this would matter if secret plots and infinite books did not remain to make pawns or “phantoms of us all” (Borges). Thus, in Borges’ “The Gospel According to Mark,” an illiterate rancher family after hearing the gospel for the first time, read to them by a young medical student, crucifies the young man. Eco’s Foucault’s Pendulum is less biblical but equally enthralled by conspiracies that consume their obsessive believers. Borges and Eco differ from Mark, from some scholarship, and from recent popular fiction, in their insistence that such conspiracy tales are not “true” or “divine,” but rather humans’ own self-destructive fictions. Therein lies a different kind of hope than Mark’s, a very human, if very fragile, hope.


Diabetes ◽  
2018 ◽  
Vol 67 (Supplement 1) ◽  
pp. 717-P
Author(s):  
EMILY H. GUSEMAN ◽  
JONATHON WHIPPS ◽  
LAURA L. JENSEN ◽  
ELIZABETH A. BEVERLY

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