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“What about Infectious Disease?”
Dr. Okafor bit her bottom lip, pondering a moment. “Not as far as I know, but you’re right, it would be good for them to be there, networking, too.” She turned to her computer. “I’ll see what I can do.”
“Great, thanks.” I returned to my office and the gala website, the bright yellow Donate button dominating the top of the page. I clicked the button, selected the option to purchase a table, and then hesitated at the Add a Cash Donation option. It was a good cause, and certainly research like Dr. Croft’s could use the funding.
I filled in what felt like a modest amount in the box. My banker would have to authorize the wire transfer, but he’d call in a little bit when he saw the charge. I sent a preemptory email to him to avoid the needless phone call and turned back to my most important task of the afternoon: Dr. Croft’s email.
She didn’t want to work with me. I still needed to show her that I recognized her amazing efforts—and wow her into wanting to work with me. Simple.
Dear Dr.the email now read.
Then our donut date popped back into my mind—not the moment at the end, but before, when she’d made it apparent she appreciated alliteration.
When it felt fairly feasible to form a friendship.
When I’d summoned her stunning smile.
The email practically wrote itself. With a little help from the thesaurus.
I checked my watch for the third time in twenty minutes. I’d done rounds with my patients this morning, shadowed by Davis, but I still felt as though I should be with them instead of hour three of jockeying antimicrobial stewardship calls.
I loved researching infectious disease—it always felt like we were on the verge of a breakthrough, one that would save lives now and for decades to come. But my heart kept pulling me back to my patients, the ones whose lives were in my hands at this moment. For people like Mr. Ambedkar, I was the one who might have answers and solutions for a problem that had plagued them. On my best days, I brought people healing. Hope.
My research job at the NIH would mean leaving all that behind.
I pulled my thoughts back to my task. Haunting the hospital rooms wouldn’t benefit my patients, I reminded myself. It would take research and facts to cure them, and I couldn’t do that hovering over their beds.
In the next lull between calls, I refreshed the page on the latest analysis I’d run, but the computer had no more information to offer me. With a sigh, I clicked over to my email to make sure there were no patient updates there. Dr. Ambrose was definitely more of a phone call or text person, but she wasn’t the only critical care doctor.
Instead, however, I found a name I didn’t know how to feel about. Davis Hardcastle. The subject line read simply,Task force.
Of course I knew how to feel about him. After the way this task force had begun, I braced myself for the ignorance and sexism that was surely awaiting me before I clicked to open it. I only got through the first sentence before I paused.
Dear Doctor,
I’m obliged for the opportunity to observe you today.
Was that... two phrases with alliteration?
No. Well, yes, obviously there was alliteration, but rhetoric did not make restitution for a lack of respect for my gender.
Your patient care and prescription protocols were perfect.
Perfect was an exaggeration. Under other circumstances I’d argue that was inappropriate adulation, but obviously he was attempting to be alliterative.
I scoffed at myself. Now I was doing it too.
Davis dropped the device with a list of questions about which of my decisions were based on the hospital’s SOPs and which exceeded the current minimum standard of care. Of course. Davis might claim he was trying to get a handle on how we prescribed antibiotics, but trust a man who didn’t think a woman would have sufficient authority to revise protocols to check up on a “female doctor’s” prescription practices.
Updating the hospital’s guidelines was apparently also part of our purview, so I attached a copy to my reply. I opened the file to glance over it. It really did need an update—some of these recommendations could actually increase our healthcare-associated infection rate. We really ought to offer individual subscriptions to the Sanford Guide to antimicrobial stewardship, as well as further trainings. This task force was definitely needed.
I added comments in the body of the reply, promising to look over the draft of state guidelines he’d sent, but before I hit send, I remembered I hadn’t read beyond his list of questions.
Bedanktfor bearing with me, he wrote. I Googled the first word—Dutch for thanks.I believe our efforts and your example will help the hospital, hopefully a hundred years hereafter.
Again, clearly an exaggeration, but also clearly bending the phrases to fit the gimmick.
It was a cute trick. I might have smiled. But we both knew that was all it was: a little ploy to get into my good graces. It had even worked a bit.
