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“Thanks, Melissa. I appreciate the moral support. I could use a friend about now. Listen—do you have any cases today? I could use the distraction.”
“Sure. I have a laparoscopic appendectomy this morning. Hang with me.”
Keep your friends close, your enemies closer. Melissa was certainly not my friend, but for the moment, she was my life support. We were kindred spirits now, both of us having experienced the aftermath of losing Amir. I walked into the OR with her, watching her prepare and drape the patient for surgery. Melissa was a little shaky, using uneven strokes to paint the patient with Betadine.
I stood next to her, watching her mid-sized hands make the primary incisions with precision. My stomach turned. It had been only a few hours, but all I could see were Amir’s glorious hands, genius mind, meticulous flow—he would haunt me in every operating room, down every hospital corridor. Amir. This CAN’T be over!
Melissa suddenly piped up: “The heartbreak gets better, you know. Time heals wounds—cliché but true. And surgery can be quite therapeutic, like meditation. It takes your mind right off of whatever emotional shit is ailing you.”
I smiled. “Thanks Melissa, that’s really kind of you to say.” I hoped she was right.
23. Show Me a Monkey . . .
In addition to the Amir issues, I was stressed about Match Day, the tradition whereby a student gained acceptance (or not) by a hospital where they had applied. The way that Match Day worked was that a student would apply to and interview at a series of programs and rank the programs in order of preference, while the corresponding programs ranked the students they wanted. It was an inherently cruel system, giving the impression of free will, but the program directors at each hospital really held all of the cards. March 15 was only a week away, and it was the day that would decide where I would be placed for residency for the next five years.
With all of the Amir drama going on, the upcoming residency match was taking a back seat in my heart, even though matching was virtually my entire reason for breathing. “Beware of the Ides of March,” rang in my head. Like most of my peers, I was expecting a catastrophe.
I had spent the last several months interviewing at various programs all over the East Coast, but it was the New York City skyline that caused my blood to pump. Something about the city elicited a raw sexuality, now ripened, my mind and body filling with lust and the quest for...power. New York City was the ideal playing field, a city filled with hot, successful men. Doctors, lawyers, bankers, ballers, players—the variety and possibilities were endless. But my career? The insecurities were creeping in.
I started shitting bricks at the challenge that lay before me: mastering the field of surgery. Who the fuck did I think I was, ready to cut a man open and cure him? Ready to fuck with the pancreas? The big cats in surgery would often say, “Show me a monkey and I will teach it how to operate.” This adage was not comforting, fearing that I might be dumber or less adept than a chimpanzee.
Some program directors loved me and some hated me. Planes, trains, automobiles...it seemed like every week that year I was hopping into a vehicle en route to another interview. One interview bled into the next, and there was no shortage of pricks in the field. The program director at the University of Good Ol’ Boys, Deep South Division, asked,
“So, are you prepared to check your ovaries at the door?”
ILLEGAL! Questioning a woman about her reproductive plans was politically incorrect, unethical, prohibited, and just plain tacky, but he had asked it nonetheless.
“Actually, I plan to undergo tubal ligation during orientation week,” my inside voice proclaimed.
“I am not currently married, and I have no short-term plans to become pregnant,” my outside voice rang as I tried to hide my contempt. One thing was for sure. There existed no alchemy to transform me into a six-foot-three white man.
I had prepared for my New York interviews in my usual way. I dusted off my old black Brooks Brothers suit and white French-cuffed blouse that I had worn for medical school interviews. Still so skinny from my sleepless nights and minimalist eating habits, I magically fit into the same suit I had donned four years prior. It was conservative, the hemline coming just below the knee and the jacket hiding my breasts to the best of its ability.
I applied minimal makeup, low heels that accentuated my calves, and my trusted pearls for this sort of occasion. I topped off my professional look with a pea coat. I got into my trusty Jeep, the shock absorbers by now completely worn down, for the two-hour drive, preparing to shelf my beloved vehicle if I actually ended up living in the city of my dreams.
Hillside Hospital in NYC was special. That was where I belonged, if not in Amir’s arms. “Good morning, ladies and gentlemen,” the chairman said in a deep baritone voice, his ever-so-slight accent belying his original Greek heritage prior to having immigrated to America more than five decades earlier. He commanded the crowd to absolute silence with just one piercing look. He was not only a world-renowned surgeon, having trained at the finest institutions in the US, but he was also a decorated war hero, having served during the Korean War. He was fierce yet gentle, a font of knowledge and a patient educator.
Hillside Hospital, or the Hill, as the doctors liked to call it, was located on upper Broadway where the West Side snobs and the gritty Harlemites all enjoyed the equal opportunity of sharing the same diseases. Despite being steeped in rich history, this place was so...real. There was an odd charm to the neighborhood that reminded me of a European city. The Hill was surrounded by flats and projects, tenants stringing their laundry from one unit to the next. The delicious scent of ethnic foods mixed together, rendering me nostalgic for all of the places in the world I had visited, from Central America to Southeast Asia.
The hospital itself was impressive but somehow blended into its environment seamlessly. On the outside, the yellowish bricks appeared stained from years of exposure to city pollution. I had learned this architectural trick while in Spain and Central America: the humble appearance of a building’s externals, all fortress-like, would often belie the ultimate treasure inside. The inside the Hill was a bustling city unto itself, its two old buildings connected by a stunning glass ceiling designed by a famous French architect. Men and women in white coats strode around with intent, clearly performing the most important work on earth. The doctors scurried up and down a massive stairwell that had been audaciously erected right in the middle of the lobby. It was everything I wanted, if only it came with Amir...
24. A Fiddler on the Roof
My phone rang ominously one morning. Somehow, I knew who would be calling.
“Mom. Not again.” I whined.
“We’ll see you around six.” Shortly came her signature hang-up, which made my blood boil, but my parents still held authority. As much as I hated my parents’ rules, without them, my life was anarchy. I got myself dressed and ready for dinner. Maybe she was back in her chicken phase—cooking every chicken dish possible, from chicken salad to chicken pot pies, for a month. As weird as that was, it certainly beat the potato run that had ushered in the millennium with torture.
I pressed the intercom at the base of the circular driveway, activating the wrought-iron gate to open. I entered the house through the basement, where my parents had installed a two-person elevator. I was tired. I rode the elevator up to the first level, slumping down against the marble wall.
I missed home. I had been spending so many hours in the hospital and with Amir, I rarely had the opportunity to see my parents. I sat down in the kitchen, once again smudging my fingerprints on the granite top.
“How many times do I have to tell you! Don’t touch the counter!” my mother hissed.
“Hey Mom.” I stood up and hugged her, ignoring her rant. Compared to the pit bulls at work, my mom had become a pussycat.
“Sit. Did you eat?”
