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“Yeah.” That was a residency-level error, but everyone made mistakes. Even if I was still pretty sure making mistakes had already cost me far too much.
We discussed options for further testing, and Dr. Donaldson was gracious enough to nod at my suggestions, information which he had to already know. “You’ll be perfect for the NIH.”
“Thanks.” With another glance at the other fellow, I slipped out of the lab before my conversation with Dr. Donaldson could get off track.
It definitely didn’tfeellike I’d be perfect at the NIH. Or maybe I would, but I would never get to see the impact of my work.
It was a good thing for us to never see a patient again because they went on to live a long and healthy life. But to never see a patient at all?
I didn’t become a doctor to work in a lab.
I reached Mr. Clendenen’s room and knocked. He was lucid—happy to see me. The way his eyes lit up despite his constant pain: that was why I’d gone into medicine and into infectious disease. To give sick people hope.
“We’re doing everything we can,” I promised him once I finished my update. It wasn’t a lie exactly; I might not know exactly how, but I believed we could make this work. “We’re still searching for the right medicine to get the bacteria causing the problem under control.”
“Thank you, doctor.” Mr. Clendenen squeezed my hand, his already watery eyes tearing up. “I wasn’t sure—my wife—”
I suddenly had to fight back tears of my own. “It’s usually treatable. We’re testing more antibiotics on your samples, but if they don’t work, there are other alternatives.” They were more invasive than medication, but surely it was better than having a stomach riddled with ulcers.
Mr. Clendenen squeezed my hand again before I thanked him and left. I couldn’t go back upstairs yet, so I ambled through the halls to clear my head.
The exchange with Mr. Clendenen was a small, simple moment. I had moments like it every day, touching base with a patient, giving them updates, monitoring their condition. Speaking with them like a person.
But this one felt different. It felt like clarity.
I knew what I needed to do. I couldn’t spend my career in a lab, on a computer, running samples, analyzing data.
I needed to stay in patient care. Yes, I’d failed Davis miserably in this arena, but thirty years of servitude in front of a screen was a sentence I couldn’t bear.
I found myself standing in the atrium in front of the larger-than-life David Beaufort statue when it finally hit me: I would have to withdraw from the NIH position.
Now I was crying, too. I’d worked my hardest my whole education. The NIH position was a recognition of all that I’d achieved.
But it wasn’t what I loved.
As much as it hurt to let the NIH job go, it also felt clean, right. This was why I’d felt so sick over the job for so long. It was perfect, but it wasn’t what I wanted. I didn’t belong at the NIH.
I couldn’t have everything I wanted, obviously, but this was in my control.
Davis was not.
Three weeks ago, Cassie and I were friends. Maybe a little more. Now we hadn’t talked in more than two weeks—and after today we’d lose the chance.
Dr. Okafor came to my door at four o’clock. “Must you leave us?” she asked one last time. Her smile showed she already knew the answer, but she had to ask.
“Afraid so.” I shook her hand. “It’s been a pleasure.”
“We appreciate your work on the task force.”
It had been the reason I’d been hired, but the project was supposed to be a segue into a larger job. This wasn’t what either of us had planned on.
“Thanks for the opportunity,” I said. “And for understanding.”
She patted my arm and walked me out of the Division of Urban Health for the last time.
I didn’t feel as sad about my last day at Beaufort as I thought I would. The hospital had given me the job—and the people—to get me out here and show me that my life was not exactly what I wanted. And then it had shown me my new purpose.
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