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On the morning of March 15, I beat my alarm by several hours. My conscious mind took a few moments to catch up with my body, which clearly knew that Match Day had arrived. This was it—the end of my Yellow Brick Road. I puttered around nervously in my apartment for hours, my nails bitten down to the cuticle, a nasty childhood habit that had resumed. All of my nerves began firing in anticipation of how my fate was to be determined.
The clock struck 11:30. It was time. I threw on jeans, surgical clogs, and a T-shirt; I hadn’t dressed like a kid in so long. I let my long wavy hair remain loose down my back. Match Day was not intended to be a formal event. In fact, it was fabled to be mainly a somber affair, with those thrilled at their results forced to dampen their enthusiasm out of respect for those of their peers who collapsed to the floor in crying fits.
I arrived at the grand lecture hall at 11:45, all of the students in my class buzzing. Laura, immediately excited to see me, bolted over, hugging me tightly.
“What up, girl? It’s been FOREVER! Oh my god, are you so excited?”
“Nervous. Nervous as shit.”
“Rory, you are sooo smart! You are going to kick the match’s ass! Me, on the other hand, ha! I was like in the Crimean Sea for half of school. Maybe I should have spent more time in class, but you only live once!”
I was jealous of Laura’s unassailable spirit and ability to laugh in the face of authority, living dangerously according to her own rules. For a brief instant, I felt like a coward. Following the rules was my comfort zone, but somewhere deep down inside, no small part of me wanted to flip the bird to the whole administration, the entire establishment, the Man.
A hush came over the crowd as the illustrious dean of the medical school took the podium.
“Settle down, folks,” Dean Vernon announced. “Welcome, Class of 2012, to Match Day. Today represents the culmination of four years of hard work and determination as you transition from student to doctor. We are honored to have played a role in launching you into your successful careers. As you move forward, please never forget your compassion and humanity, as our main purpose, as physicians, is to heal. Without further ado, when I call your name, please come up to collect your envelope.”
We all clapped and howled with fervor as we each prepared to follow our destinies. Dr. Vernon began calling the students’ names, one by one. My nerves began to calm as I recognized that I would be waiting for well over an hour until the dean would arrive at the W’s. I began to doze off, having awoken at the crack of dawn.
“Webber,” Dr. Vernon called out. “Ms. Webber? Are you present?”
Laura elbowed me squarely in the ribs. “Rory—wake up, chica! It’s your turn!”
I looked at my friend, tears in her eyes. Laura had matched, but not where she had wanted, I gleaned. Laura knew that she had chosen the school of life over the school of medicine, but she had hoped, with her happy-go-lucky attitude, that she would magically stumble into her dream residency.
“Oh my god, Laura?”
“Rory, go! You have to get your own envelope, you dope!” Laura prodded, laughing through grieving eyes.
“Okay, okay.” I stood up and made my way up to the podium, legs unsteady like a newborn foal’s. With my wobbly gait, I would have passed neither a sobriety test nor a neurologic exam.
The dean handed me my envelope. “Congratulations,” he whispered, smiling, with a wink. That could have meant anything, really.
I took my sealed envelope back to my seat. I was presyncopal—about to faint. Hyperventilating, I had to sit down. Once seated next to Laura, I felt the urge to stand up again. Lightheaded for a second time, I took my seat, took several deep breaths, and calmed my nerves. I stood up a final time and slashed open the envelope.Matchmaker, Matchmaker...I felt faint, but the words in the first paragraph were very clear: I had matched at Hillside, my dream come true. Then I blacked out.
The next thing I knew, I was lying in an emergency room and my parents were standing over my bed.
“Oh my god—the MATCH! What happened? I mean, did I dream it? Or did I...” My near-gibberish stream of consciousness was making everyone around me nervous.
“Yes, darling.” Mom beamed with pride. “Stop speaking in tongues. You matched at Hillside Hospital in surgery.”
I lunged out of bed and began screaming, jumping up and down, and hugging my mother, unaware that my ass was exposed to the world.
“Rory,” Milton said gruffly, “cover yourself up, young lady.”
“But Daddy!! I’m going tothe Hill!!”
“Yes, she can finally put this Amir nonsense behind her,” I heard my mom whisper.
“What, Mom?” She didn’t reply.
In my excitement, I had ripped the IV out of my wrist, venous blood now dribbling down my hand.
“Okay, young surgeon”—the ER doctor was now speaking—“ let’s calm down and get back into bed,” and he applied pressure to my wrist with gauze pads.
“Congratulations,” he whispered, a twinkle in his eye.
27. Flatlined
