“I’ll get a doctor,” I said. I found Dr. Rory Lee, the fourth-year resident on our team, by the nurses’ station. He followed me to the room where the Slavicks were waiting. “He’s complaining of lower back pain,” I said. Rory put his stethoscope on Mr. Slavick’s belly and felt his stomach with his free hand. Rory was pushing the gurney into the hallway and barking orders before I knew what was happening. I ran behind him.
“Call the OR. Tell them I have an abdominal aortic aneurysm about to rupture,” he yelled to a nurse.
“Where are you taking him?” Mrs. Slavick asked, following us to the elevator.
“Your husband needs surgery,” Rory said, pushing the gurney through the rush of people exiting the elevator.
“What’s happening?” she cried as the doors closed.
A nurse approached me and stuck another chart in my face; I ignored her. I walked outside, stumbling over the curb. I sat against a wall and ran my hands through my hair. What a horrible day. I knew that someone would start looking for me, wondering where I was, but my legs couldn’t lift me. Time passed slowly: twenty minutes, maybe forty. I’m not sure how long I had been crouched against the wall when Rory found me.
“Did he die?” I asked.
“No.”
“I didn’t hear blood rushing through the aorta.”
“Because you don’t have enough clinical experience,” Rory said. “You can’t read something in a textbook, then expect to pick up on it the very first time a patient walks through the door.”
“Mr. Slavick was in pain,” I said. “If I can’t figure out why a patient is in pain, then I’m not doing my job. He could have died. He would have died if you hadn’t saved him.”
“If someone’s in pain, and we can’t figure it out, or if a patient dies, it doesn’t mean we’re not doing our job, Nathan. During my ICU rotation in med school, I had four patients die in one night! I had two die last night in the ER. Sometimes bad things happen even when we do everything right. You have to let go of this idea that everyone is going to live because the fact is, people die. We apply everything we know to help our patients, but after that we have to let go.” He looked to the end of the drive and watched cars pull in and out of the hospital. After a long pause, he said, “Have you ever considered taking a break from your studies, Nathan? Perhaps finishing your rotations at another time?”
It was one thing for me to admit to Rory that I didn’t think I was measuring up. It was another for him to agree. “Maybe you should take a break and clear your head,” he said. I sat speechless, my shirt wet with perspiration. “You won’t be the first to do this. It happens more often than you know.” I didn’t know how to respond to him.
“What do you think, Rory?” I asked, but he just shook his head and looked down at the ground.
“I think you’d make an excellent physician, Nathan. You’re smart, but you worry too much about getting an answer wrong. You’re great with the patients, better than any of the students on this rotation, but you don’t trust yourself, and as a result you don’t handle the pressure very well, and there is a lot of pressure when a patient is dying. But they do die, Nathan, and there’s nothing even the world’s best doctor can do about that.”
I could hear myself breathing. “There’s nothing wrong with what you’re going through,” Rory continued. “It might just be an indication that you need to step back. If you chose to break away right now, you would still have plenty of time to decide if this is right for you—to decide if this is really what you want to be doing—but I hope you don’t do that.” He stood to his feet. “I hope you’re able to sort through whatever is clouding your thinking right now so you can move on to what I think you’re meant to do.”
He clapped my shoulder and walked back into the hospital, leaving me alone to wonder what I would do with my life.
That night, after flipping through seventy-plus channels on TV., I knocked on William’s door. I figured that even if he’d already eaten dinner, a man his size wouldn’t object to another meal. I was right. William was always up for food. We decided to walk to Macbeth’s Pizza up the street.
“How’d it go in the ER?” he asked, pulling a knit cap over his head.
“Don’t ask.”
“Somebody vomit?”
“I wish that had been it, but you left out the urine.” William pretended to stumble from laughing. Macbeth’s was packed with university students, but I saw Melanie, the new “gunner,” waving to me from across the room. Melanie was the classic type A personality, always dialed up to ten; everything was much bigger than it needed to be. She was ambitious, gregarious, and obnoxious all rolled into one, and there was no way I wanted to have dinner with her.
“Pretend you don’t see her,” I said, looking in the opposite direction. But it was too late. We ordered our pizza and had a few moments of small talk before Melanie brought up procedures, patients, exams, and Dr. Hazelman. I wasn’t in the mood to talk about the hospital and was hoping William wasn’t either.
“Can you believe everything we’re doing?” Melanie asked. “Some days it’s staggering, but always accompanied by this adrenaline rush. Do you find that to be true?”
“It’s an adrenaline rush times ten,” William said, throwing all ten fingers in the air for exaggeration. I shot him a glance, and he smiled.
“I’m just amazed at what we’re learning and how I’m processing all of it, aren’t you?” I nodded again.
“I’m amazed at how smart I really am,” William said. I shot him another look, hoping to shut him down, but there was no way; he was having too much fun.
“Can I ask you something, Nathan?” Melanie asked.
“Sure.”
“Do you think you’ll ever make it through a procedure without breaking down in some way?” She laughed so hard I could see a dull silver filling in the back of her mouth. I felt the hairs stand up on the back of my neck. Our pizzas arrived and to my relief, William jumped in and changed the subject. He led the rest of the dinner conversation with a story about his grandmother, who served as a nurse during World War II, and how she amputated a soldier’s leg when no doctors could be found. The amputation lasted till we got our check.
“Thanks for saving me back there with Melanie,” I said, on our walk home.
“She’s harmless. Bags of wind usually are.” I started laughing, recalling William’s story about his grandmother.
“I didn’t know your grandmother was a nurse during World War II,” I said.
“That’s because she was a laundry woman in Philadelphia.” I stopped and looked at him. “Melanie’s not the only bag of wind you know. You need a good lie . . . I’m your man.” I walked into my apartment and lay down on the sofa, replaying what Melanie had said in my mind.
When my father and I would fish together on Saturday mornings he would sometimes get aggravated with me. I’d lean over the boat and play in the water, slapping the surface till it made a cracking sound. Dad, still speaking in whispers, although I’d been noisy enough to scare any fish within a ten-mile radius, would say, “Nathan, you either need to fish or cut bait.” I knew I had to do that now. I either had to stay and finish what I’d started or get out of medical school and move on.
FOUR
No trumpets sound when the important decisions of our life are made. Destiny is made known silently.
—Agnes de Mille
I picked a cake up at the supermarket after work the next day. I’d ordered it that morning, a white cake with white frosting, yellow lilies, and Happy Birthday Gramma written across the top. Before my mother died, my grandmother had moved in to help with her care. She had been saving up for a cruise ever since my grandfather passed away and was planning to go with her sister when my mother became ill. She gave her ticket to another sister in Phoenix instead. “I don’t want strangers taking care of Maggie,” she told my father. “She’s my daughter. When you’re not home, I’ll take care of her.” She had taken care of my family ever since.
Lorraine, Gramma’s best friend who lived up the street, met me at the door. She was wearing a bright multicolored nylon sweat suit, sequined with toucans and other tropical birds, and pink sneakers. She had struck up a friendship with Gramma when she’d moved in with us. They had soon become the best of friends, although they had only one thing in common: baseball.
Lorraine’s team was the Atlanta Braves, although no one could understand why when there were teams that played much farther north and closer to home. Gramma’s favorite was always the underdog—that, or any team opposing the Braves. Being in a room with Gramma and Lorraine while baseball was on was like watching a sitcom. If Rachel or I was there, Gramma would warn Lorraine not to swear in front of us. Lorraine would oblige until one of her men was called out, then she couldn’t help herself. She’d start spewing words that would make Gramma explode.
“Don’t swear in front of my grandchildren, Lorraine!” But Lorraine would be oblivious, letting loose on the umpires.
“Lorraine! The kids are in the room!” Gramma would shout.
At that, Lorraine would snap to attention and look at us, giving a sheepish grin. “Sorry, dolls,” she’d say. We’d laugh and leave the room. And as soon as we did, we’d hear Lorraine screaming at the set again.
Lorraine kissed my cheek and eyed the big white box I was carrying in my arms.
“Why did you spend good money on a cake, Nathan?” Gramma asked, when I came into her kitchen. My sister Rachel was already home from college.
“Gramma, this is number seventy-seven. I think I can afford the fifteen dollars for a cake. It breaks down to just pennies per year.” A familiar smell wafted from the kitchen. “Is that lasagna?” My grandmother jumped to her feet, remembering something.
“Yes it is, and I better put a pan under it before the cheese melts over the side and sticks to the bottom of the oven.” She made her way to the kitchen, her hip still stiff from a recent replacement.
“But lasagna’s Nathan’s favorite,” Rachel said, “not yours. Shouldn’t we be having something you like for your birthday?”
“I’ve been eating all my life,” she said, sliding a flat pan beneath the heaping pan of lasagna. “I’ve had lots of opportunities to eat my favorites, but I doubt either of you have had a decent meal in weeks.” She was right about that. I’d usually just grab something on the run. I began to set the table for dinner.
“Don’t bother with that now. You two sit down,” Gramma said to Rachel and me. “I want to tell you something.” There was a glimmer in her eyes, a sparkle that told me she was up to something. She and Lorraine sat on the opposite side of the table, smiling.
“I’m setting your father up.” Gramma slapped the table and laughed. “But the best part is he doesn’t have any idea what I’m up to.” Grandma slapped the table again, proud of her covert operation.
“Who is she?” I asked, curious.
She leaned toward us, whispering, as if the room were bugged. “Her name is Lydia, and I met her at church. She has three grown children and a grandchild. Her husband died five years ago. Well, one Sunday Lydia came in and sat beside me and we started talking and she’s been sitting beside me every week. She’s on one side and your dad is on the other. The only thing separating them is me. But not for long!”
“What’s she like?” Rachel asked.
“She’s a gem. So nice.” Gramma faded for a moment, thinking. “Sometimes people aren’t so kind after they lose a spouse; it’s too easy to get bitter, but she’s a kind person, and so is your father. I don’t know, but it just seems to me that two people like that should at least know that someone else like them is out there somewhere.”
“Is she pretty?” I asked.
“She is, but not as pretty as your mother.” No one was ever as pretty as my mother. “So here’s my plan,” Gramma continued. “Lydia is in the habit of sitting in the same seat every week. Your father’s in the habit of sitting in the same seat every week. I’m always taking up that middle seat between them, so I’m not going to show up one week! Then Lydia will ask where I’m at, your father will say I’m under the weather, and before we know it, wedding bells will finally ring around here.” The timer on the oven buzzed, and she jumped to her feet.
“I’ll get it,” I said, opening the oven door.
“Don’t either of you dare tell your father what I’m up to,” she said, squawking like a nervous bird behind me. “For once I’d like to keep something to myself around here.”
I knew I should have told Gramma about the doubts I was having about med school, but I didn’t want to worry her. If I told her I was thinking of dropping out, she would have conjured up the worst-case scenarios. She’d seen one too many television news shows. “You know, Nathan,” I imagined her saying. “A young woman dropped out of med school and was gunned down in a strip mall parking lot. If she hadn’t dropped out of school, she wouldn’t have gotten shot,” or maybe, “A man was found living with the winos down on the docks. Turns out he dropped out of med school.” It was better to wait and tell my family when they were together.
When my father walked through the front door, I could smell the familiar scent of the garage; the scents of fuel and grease always clung to his hair and skin until he showered. He’d been working at the same garage, City Auto Service, and for the same men, the Shaver brothers, since before I was born. Carl, Mike, and Ted Shaver had been faithful to my father during my mother’s illness and death, even paying him for days he couldn’t work. Over the years he had been as loyal to them. Just as he never considered dating a woman, I don’t think he ever considered finding another place to work.
I did my best to keep the dinner conversation focused on Rachel and off my rotation. I teased her about not bringing home a boyfriend to meet the family.
“And where are all those women who aren’t standing in line to go out with you,” she asked. “That’s right. They’re out with other men.”
“It’d be nice if somebody around here dated,” Gramma said, eyeballing my father, who wasn’t paying attention to her.
After dinner, we sang “Happy Birthday” to my grandmother. It was a pitiful rendition, two baritones and an alto in desperate need of melody. Gramma blew out the candle, and I placed my present in front of her. “Nathan, you shouldn’t have spent your money on me.” I rolled my eyes and cut her a piece of cake. Truth was I didn’t buy it; I’d made it with my father’s tools. Gramma ripped the paper and removed a small wooden box with lilies painted on the side.
When Mom died, Gramma encouraged us to write letters to her on special occasions: her birthday, Christmas, Mother’s Day, but sometimes even the most insignificant details of our lives inspired them. Over the years, she used one shoe box after another to store them in, scribbling Letters to Maggie on the side of each new box.
When I was nine I wrote:
Dear Mom,
I’ve decided that my favorite snack is cheese. I loved E.T. and wish you could have seen it with me.
I love you
Nathan
One letter after another filled the shoe boxes. So often over the years, I’d observed the special care my grandmother took with the letters, even reading them in the quiet of her room. The wooden box brought tears to her eyes as she ran her fingers over the words on top, Letters to Maggie. She raised the cover and pulled a single letter from the bottom of the box.
I had written it earlier in the day:
Dear Mom,
Today is Gramma’s 77th birthday. She cried when I gave her the present I made for her and then she cried again when she read this letter.
She loves you very much and so do I,
Nathan
Gramma laughed, wiping her tears with a napkin, then swatted me for making her cry.
When Gramma started to clean up the table my father stopped her. “Nathan and I will get these,” he told her. “You and Rachel go in the living room.” Gramma picked up another plate.
“You always get them,” she said
. “I’ll get them tonight. Go visit with the kids.” But Dad took the plate from her hand and led her to the living room, sitting her down in a chair.
“You cook. I clean. That’s been the deal for years now,” he reminded her. I smiled, watching them. It was a scene that had played out hundreds of times in this house. I scraped the plates into the disposal and handed them to Dad to load in the dishwasher. “How’s everything at the hospital?” he asked.
“Everything’s great.” He rearranged the plates to make more room in the rack.
“Now that that’s out of the way,” he said, taking the glasses from me, “how are things really going at the hospital?” He leaned against the counter, looked me in the eyes, and waited for my answer, an honest one.
“Did you ever think you should have done something else besides being a mechanic?” I asked.
He laughed and closed the dishwasher. “Every man thinks he should have done something else. Some days I’d have my head under the hood of a car and think of a hundred other things.”
“Why didn’t you do anything else, then?” He shrugged and started filling the sink with water and dish detergent.
“I don’t know. There were times I wished I could have had enough business sense to own my own place, but I wouldn’t have been good at that.” He rinsed a pot and set it in the drainer before taking a scrubber to a pan burnt with sauce. “For whatever reason, I can take apart a car engine. I don’t know why, except it’s provided a way for me to take care of my family, it’s given me steady customers for the last hundred or so years, and I like to think that maybe the elderly folks or single mothers that come into the shop know I’m not going to take advantage of them. Maybe I was put there for no other reason than to watch out for people like that.”
As I was growing up, the phone rang often at our house for my father: an elderly woman’s car wouldn’t start or a single woman was broken down at the side of the road. Dad would load his tools in the back of his truck and let me ride alongside him as he went to fix the problem. Many times he bought parts out of his own pocket. He’d shut the hood, wipe his hands, and watch as the stranded motorist drove off before we headed back home. I’d climb in the truck and look at him, wondering what in the world those people would have done without him.
The Christmas Blessing Page 5
