The year was 1969 and I was a Medical Student appearing for my practical finals in Surgery. The atmosphere was so tense you could slice through it with a knife. Two external examiners along with two of our own professors would be marking us that day. At 8am sharp, our class was herded into a room. The air was buzzing with intense emotions and racing pulses. It was quite possibly the scariest hour in our young lives.
Our futures depended on this – we needed to pass. The exam would test our ability to examine a patient, arrive at a diagnosis and then suggest a line of treatment. It was broken into two parts – the first would consist of one long case, which was the more complicated one and then two short cases, each lasting 10 minutes. At the end of the allotted time, we would present our cases to the examiners before being put through a long string of pointed questions. …
