That Good Night

by Sunita Puri

  As the audience clapped, I stole a glance at my mother, who met my eyes and raised her hands higher to show me how hard she was clapping. She stopped momentarily to give me two thumbs up, her smile wide and bright and proud.

  * * *

  My mother was waiting for me when I returned home from work that evening. The scent of onion and garlic welcomed me, as did the sizzle of cumin in coconut oil. My house smelled like home.

  “Why are you so late?” she asked me, annoyed. Bits of ginger and cauliflower stuck to the edges of her red spatula. “You said you would be here an hour and a half ago.” My recently adopted kittens, Comet and Chiclet, crowded my mother’s feet. She looked down and spoke to them in Punjabi. “Hey! You want Grandma to give you treats?” They looked up at her, wide eyes fixated on the spatula to see if a nibble would fall.

  “I know, I’m sorry,” I said, giving her a hug. “We got a lot of consults later in the day.” A yellow daal bubbled on the stove next to saag paneer that my mother made out of frozen spinach and fresh paneer that she and my father made themselves. She threw a crumble of the paneer on the ground, and Comet beat Chiclet to it.

  “Do you and your boyfriend ever cook?” she asked, smiling slightly. “There is nothing in your fridge.” I felt ashamed. In the three years since finishing my training, I still hadn’t abandoned certain habits of student life: getting cheap Thai takeout or tacos, cooking enough daal and rice for one week but tiring of it by day three.

  She’d recently started to wonder aloud whether she’d taught me any life skills. Why didn’t I cook as she always did? She worked full time and cooked fresh meals for her family even after a long day. I only had a job—what was my excuse for not having prepared a meal for her or organizing the papers that piled up on the dining room table? When was the last time I’d weeded my garden? Why was I not married and settled, with a family of my own? She wondered if I wasn’t married yet because she hadn’t taught me how to run a household. I knew she wasn’t trying to be hurtful, but her words stung.

  I knew I could never be like my mother, though I’d spent long stretches of my life trying to emulate her. I couldn’t fathom how she balanced everything she did. Unlike her, I’d never known poverty or the uncertainty of my next meal’s source. While I could imagine moving to a new country, I couldn’t fathom doing so with a new husband I barely knew, or raising children an ocean away from my parents. The concept of cooking for hungry children after work, of giving them the parts of myself that were left over from a job that took almost everything, exhausted me. But my mother had done these things without questioning them. I didn’t think so much about it. I just did it.

  “I wish I could be like you,” I told her. “But I can’t. I’ve tried.”

  The cauliflower she pushed around with the red spatula browned and softened as we spoke.

  I began to set the table and my mother scooped the daal and saag and gobi into serving bowls. “You know what would make me very happy?” she told me as she brought them to the table. “Maybe one day you can invite me here and just cook me a meal. That would make me very proud. I hope I’ve taught you something more than just how to work hard.”

  She asked of me what I had always craved from her: nourishment, though mostly emotional, and presence. I couldn’t have foreseen that one day we would switch roles, and my mother would be the one waiting for me to return from work, wishing for me to do the simplest things: cook some lentils, make her some chai, sit with her with no distractions as we ate, all thoughts of work far away. “I promise I will,” I told her as we began to eat.

  After dinner, I put away the dishes and gave my mother a clean towel and nightgown, telling her that she should sleep in my bedroom and I would take the guest bed. She lay down to read a book of prayer that she read every night. I lay down next to her to read before finding my way to the guest bedroom to sleep. I opened up Meatless Days, a memoir written by an English professor who co-taught one of the few literature classes I’d taken in college. Though I’d bought her memoir back in college, I hadn’t read it yet. Just a few weeks before, I’d found it on the bookshelves in my parents’ garage. I read and reread the opening chapter, but found myself restless and distracted, unable to concentrate.

  I rested the book on my chest, noticing a gray strand of a cobweb draped along its spine. I stared at the striking cover photograph, one I’d loved the minute I’d first seen it, nearly fifteen years ago. A young child clutches her beautiful mother’s hand, almost as though she is trying to pull her mother along with her though her mother appears to be trying to let go. The child’s back is turned toward the camera, and I can’t see the expression on her face. I wonder whether she pulls her mother insistently or playfully, with frustration or sweetness. I glanced over at my own mother, remembering the many times I’d felt like the child in the photograph, pulling my mother toward me until I figured out it would be easier for me to follow her instead.

  My mother had fallen asleep while reading, her glasses still perched on her nose. I watched the rise and fall of her chest and listened to her slight snoring. Her gray hairs, gathered mostly at her temples, glistened like tinsel in the light. New lines ran across her forehead and along the corners of her eyes.

  It had been many years since I last curled my small body against hers after school, studying her face and waiting for her to wake up, hungry for her full attention. As I watched my mother sleep now, I was nearly thirty-seven years old, but I still looked at her with the eyes of the same longing ten-year-old, the one who was acutely aware of how quickly the time she spent with her mother would pass, how she would never have as much time as she wanted with her mother.

  Time folded on itself.

  I reached over gently to remove her glasses, easing them upward to avoid brushing against her peaceful face, interrupting the sleep she hadn’t enjoyed during those endless nights of call when her patients needed her, and the following afternoons when my brother and I needed her.

  She didn’t rouse. Afraid that I might wake her if I tried to leave for the guest bedroom, I instead lay next to her, watching the rise and fall of her chest until I, too, fell asleep.

  Acknowledgments

  Though I have always believed in the power of language, I’m not sure that words can fully capture my deepest and most sincere thanks to the people in my life without whom I could not have written this book.

  Many thanks to my extraordinary literary agent, Amanda Urban, whose wisdom and expertise have been a blessing at every turn. The smart, insightful, and kind Melanie Tortoroli first saw the potential in this book, and championed it before I had even written it. Without Melanie, this book would not be in your hands, and my debt to her is indescribable. It’s been an honor to work with my editor, Laura Tisdel, and I cannot thank her enough for her brilliance, deep understanding of what I was trying to convey, and her good humor and patience with me throughout this process. I am grateful to the entire staff at Viking and ICM—especially Amy Sun, Andrea Schulz, and Maris Dyer—for shepherding this book from an idea in my head to something tangible and real.

  I couldn’t have written this book without time away from the hospital. I am grateful for the writing residencies I was given at the MacDowell Colony, the Ucross Foundation, and the Mesa Refuge. Without the spiritual and material support those gorgeous places provided, I would have written a lesser book.

  The exceptionally gifted Katy Butler is not only my mentor, but also a dear and cherished friend. Katy took me under her wing, gave me invaluable advice and guidance, and emboldened me to say clearly what I have to say. Her generosity is a huge part of this book’s journey, and it is my luck that our paths crossed in this life. I am grateful beyond words to the inspiring Meghan Daum. Her belief in me helped me through the moments when I thought I could never finish this project. Thank you, Meghan, for the incredible standard you set for all writers, your wicked sense of humor, and your wisdom in all areas of writing and l
ife. My deepest thanks to Samantha Dunn and Bernard Cooper, both inspiring teachers, who provided much-needed encouragement and thoughtful comments on the early drafts of this book.

  Thank you, Rod Flagler, for being a demanding and kind English teacher during my sophomore year of high school. I wish you were here to read this; your influence is on every page. Felice Hunter has read everything I’ve written (including my horrendous teenage poetry) since I was a freshman in high school. Thank you, Mrs. Hunter, for being a trusted reader, one of my dearest friends, and my adopted Jewish mother.

  My deepest thanks to the physician-educators who made me a doctor. Dr. Robert Nachtigall is one of the best people I know. Thank you, Bob, for your mentorship, guidance, and support. I couldn’t have made it without you. Dr. Gurpreet Dhaliwal’s steadfast belief in me for the last decade buoyed me through my training. He manages to combine brilliance with humility, and will always be a model physician to me. Thanks also to Dr. Thuy Pham, Dr. Gary Hsin, Dr. Gary Lee, Dr. BJ Miller, Dr. Eric Widera, Reverend Denah Joseph, Dr. VJ Periyakoil, Dr. Chris Barnett, and Dr. Rita Redberg, all of whom it was an honor to work with and learn from. Special thanks to Vivian Robinson and Amy Forsythe for their kindness and support. I am also very grateful for the support and the community of the Paul and Daisy Soros Fellowship during my medical training.

  I am deeply grateful to my friends, who have been with me on many, many journeys. Alex Fay, fellow lover of both books and medicine, has been my closest confidante since medical school. I treasure the many laughs we’ve shared, and your close reading of this book. My deepest thanks also to Patricio Riquelme (girlfriend!), Harsimran Sachdeva Singh, Marissa Mika, Aarti Rao, Sara Catania, Yashu Yeragunta, Byron Decuire, Ronald Kall, Anna Martinez, Kareem Sassi, Jill Piacente, Brian Kaufman, Elle Johnson, Sophia Bicos, Nicky Jatana, Amy Van Dyke, and Fred Macri. Your friendship is a gift, and I love you all very much.

  The community I grew up with is near and dear to my heart. Thank you to Manoj and Rajni Joshi; Rika and Shivani Jain; Pradeep, Neeta, Diviya, and Sonali Loomba; Niranjan and Hema Reddy; and Valerie and Jim Real for your kindness and support over many, many years.

  Thank you, Dr. Pamelyn Close, for the opportunity to work at USC and for your guidance in everything from palliative care to the tending of elephants. It is a gift and a privilege to work alongside Dr. Carin van Zyl, Dr. Aaron Storms, and Dr. Emily Beers, treasured colleagues whom I admire deeply and who provided so much support and friendship as I wrote. Many thanks to Dr. Michael Karp, chief of General Internal Medicine, who gave me the opportunity to build a palliative care program at Keck and Norris, and supported me throughout the writing of this book. John Pappas, LCSW, is the embodiment of compassion, integrity, and dedication to his patients and our team. His friendship means the world to me. Thank you to Char Elorta for her good humor, her reassurance that I don’t have that much gray hair, and our memorable trips to the Farmers Market.

  USC is a wonderful academic and clinical home, and I consider myself very lucky to work with colleagues who have made work a joy and a worthy challenge: Dr. Ronald Hall, Dr. Stephanie Hall, Dr. Sebina Bulic, Dr. Damon Clark, Dr. Yuri Genyk, Dr. Andreas Kaiser, Dr. Armin Kiankhooy, Dr. Joongho Shin, Dr. David Quinn, Professor Alex Capron, the late Dr. David A. Goldstein, Dr. Jennifer Marks, Dalia Copti, RN, and Jacob Spruill, RN.

  I have been fortunate to participate in the education of medical students, residents, and fellows, and I’d like to acknowledge the following trainees for having become the sorts of physicians that all patients deserve: Dr. Allison Kennedy, Dr. Derek Antoku, Dr. Daniel Klein, Dr. Brittany Abt, Dr. Matt Martinez, Dr. Kelly Fan, Dr. Lucas Cruz, Dr. Jennifer Loeb, Dr. James Shen, Dr. Ming Li, and Dr. Hillel Bocian. You’ve all helped me to grow as a teacher and as a doctor. Thank you.

  Thanks on behalf of my mother and me to the physicians who worked alongside her and inspired me first: the late Dr. Robert Nejdl, Dr. John Kondon, Dr. Gary Belzberg, Dr. Eric Robins, Dr. Brian Sturz, and Donna Konarski, RN.

  Without my naniji, my maternal grandmother, so much of my life wouldn’t have been possible. Thank you for believing in my mother’s wild dream of becoming a physician, and for believing—ahead of your time—in the importance of women’s education and independence. I wish you were alive to read this book, but I hope that you will live on through the stories in these pages. I am so grateful to my uncle, Raju mama, for sharing stories about my mother and grandparents, and for graciously hosting me whenever I visited Mumbai. Thank you for reading this book closely and pointing out factual errors or errors of my own memory. My mother’s cousin, Dr. Hans Raj Manchanda, guided my mother every step of the way when she was in medical school and has always been kind and generous to her and my family. I love you very much, papaji. I’ve spent many a fun time in San Francisco with my cousin Ashwin and am grateful for his friendship over the years.

  I am very grateful to dear Tony for his support, witty humor, and friendship throughout the writing of this book.

  My deep thanks to my brother, Siddarth, for his friendship, kindness, intelligence, and inspiring embrace of life. You are my best friend, and you make me a better person.

  My mother and father don’t understand why their lives have inspired me, or why I included their stories in this book. They are humble people, and I am immensely thankful that they gave me permission to write about experiences in their lives that they’d rather forget. I am so grateful to my father for being the source of endless wisdom, much of which he learned as he persevered through great hardship. Thank you for your example, for being tough on me when you needed to be, and for loving me no matter what.

  My mother is the person I’ve always strived to be, though I’ll always fall short. I am here because of her love and her encouragement for me to be exactly who I am. Thank you for the gift of your friendship and endless support. I can never repay you for mothering me as you have.

  And to my patients and their families, past and present: You remind me every day what a privilege it is to do this work. Thank you for allowing me into your lives, to be there with you in times of great pain and great joy. You shape my practice and my thinking, and challenge me to open my heart ever more widely to the beauty and fragility of this human life. It is an honor to be your doctor.

  About the Author

  Sunita Puri is an assistant professor of clinical medicine at the University of Southern California, and medical director of palliative medicine at the Keck Hospital and Norris Cancer Center. She has published essays in The New York Times, Slate, The Journal of the American Medical Association, and JAMA-Internal Medicine. She lives in Los Angeles.

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