HOW I GOT INTO MEDICAL SCHOOL

I was minding my own business, dishing out salads from the cafeteria line, when along comes this retinue with ties and jackets after the students went through. The last guy, short, balding and with a limp, asks me why I have such a long face. I wasn't aware I had a long face. I had never learned to hide my feelings.

I told him I just got my twentieth medical school rejection letter. I knew it was a long shot trying to get into medical school after only three undergraduate years, but some of my classmates had done it, those with four point averages. I only had a three point five, half A's, half B's. Not too bad, but not that good either, for an out-state student and Jewish besides. There was a quota for Jews.

It was the new South Quad in Ann Arbor, home of the University of Michigan, Harvard of the West. It was the first day of classes in my senior year and I was back working in the kitchen to pay my way. He asked me if I applied to the University of Michigan medical school. I said no, no chance. I thought there was no chance because they had about 1500 applications for 200 positions, and like I said, I was out of state, didn't have a four point, and was Jewish.

He said there was no harm trying. Why don't I go to the medical school and ask some questions and get an application? I said it was no use, there was no chance, thinking I knew it all. It was 1952 and I was 21, and I thought I knew the ropes. I didn't have a four point and I didn't have any pull, like my father being a doctor or an alum. My parents were immigrants from Russia and worked a grocery store in the Bronx. What was I doing in Ann Arbor in the first place? The U of M medical school was an impossible dream. In my twenty applications and numerous interviews, none had included the University of Michigan, even though I was in the undergraduate school.

He said it would be a good idea to go to the admissions office and ask some questions and get an application and fill it out. He said the dean of admissions was Wayne Whittaker, a good friend of his. What did I have to lose? I thought

only some time and more frustration. I was getting tired of rejections. He smiled and said he would be back the next day and moved on. I asked who that was. I was told that was Peter Ostafin, the dean of men's residence halls. I did not know what he was supposed to do, but whatever it was, it sounded kind of important.

I put the brief exchange out of my mind, but the next day, sure enough, he was coming through the cafeteria line again, and told me he made an appointment for me to see the dean of admissions of the medical school. Tuesday. Two thirty. Be there. I had a feeling of consternation. I didn't feel like wasting any more time. I had work and classes and needed time to study, but the semester was just beginning and I was free at two thirty.

I showed up at the admissions office and I was ushered in to see Dr. Whittaker. He said oh, you are Victor Bloom, you were recommended by my good friend, Peter Ostafin. Come right in! I was dumbfounded, but I came right in, hoping my stuttering would not ruin my chances. There were two of us there, a tall bright guy, Jim Youngblood, probably a W.A.S.P., and he was going to interview the two of us together. I immediately knew that only one of us would make it, and obviously, it would not be me, given he was not Jewish, had a four point, extracurricular activities and was a Michigan resident. I answered questions the best I could, but gave myself a failing grade. Back to the dorm to study and bus dishes.

Two months letter I get a letter from medical school admissions. I knew it would be my usual rejection letter. Amazingly, it was an acceptance. I later learned that Jim made it too. My guess was wrong. Somehow, finally, luck was going my way!

Years later I kept in touch with Peter Ostafin. I learned that he had a reputation for helping students. I tried to find out why he singled me out, recommending me without even knowing me, but he was always cagey in his answers. Later I learned it was the beginning of dropping the quota for Jews in the medical school. It was not exactly 'affirmative-action,' as my grades were right up there, and I did well, as expected.

It was an honor to be a graduate of one of the top American medical schools, and I could not help but believe I received an unusually good medical education, as many of my professors were nationally, and even internationally famous. My professors seemed like gods in their long white coats and austere expressions. They knew everything that was needed to be known, and taught us what they knew.

Years later, I was a professor of psychiatry and taught medical students, residents, psychologists and social workers at Detroit's Lafayette Clinic, sans white coat. I used my training and knowledge to help numerous psychiatric patients. Now in my late seventies I am still working and never stop appreciating those who helped me along the way. It could be said that Peter Ostafin, a former priest, was an agent of God, and I am the lucky recipient of His blessing. What happened somehow was meant to be, a miracle!

I have a special place in my heart for Peter Ostafin and for the unbelieving youth that I was, that day dishing out salads in the cafeteria line, with a long face.