I was raised by a French Canadian father and an American mother. I did my elementary and high school in French. It was then time for a change. Besides, growing up in Montreal, I'd always joked to myself: “Any university with buildings like these, must be great!”. It wasn’t just the buildings as it turned out. I knew that going in, and even more so after I left.
When I look back at my time as a medical student, there are many vivid memories that come to mind. Prof. Clermont pleading with us not to pierce his histology slides with the long objective of our microscopes, because “if you do, you’ll be piercing my heart!”, racing to the airport at 3 a.m. in an ambulance to pick up a sick toddler flown in from northern Quebec, free meals in the middle of the night at St. Mary’s Hospital, pushing a chronically ill 12-year-old in his wheelchair around Cabot Square after he hadn’t been out of the Children’s in weeks (the result: a huge smile) and of course, my graduation at Place des Arts on May 30, 1978.
More than one professor told us that, in 10 years, a significant chunk of what we were learning would be obsolete. McGill taught me how to think better and how to get the information I needed to handle any clinical problem at hand without drowning in the mass of data out there. And that was just one of many building blocks I received. It all allowed me to forge a great career, making giving back, well… effortless.