Two years later I was admitted to medical school.
At twenty years of age, I was the youngest person in my class at medical school and desperate for a sense of identity and belonging. David Levy is a very Jewish name, and I rather looked forward to the distinction of being a “Jewish doctor.”
My father, Isaac Levy, was a Sephardic Jew by birth and was raised in an Orthodox Jewish family. Previously, the family had lost their home and business under Nazi persecution. My well-to-do grandparents left everything on the island of Rhodes to escape Hitler’s stranglehold on Europe and eventually made it to the United States. The more than 1,600 Jews who didn’t leave the island were taken to concentration camps. Many of them died.
As a young adult my father accepted Jesus as the Jewish Messiah and was promptly ostracized by his family and community. The experience was painful for him, but he found meaning and purpose in both the Hebrew Scriptures and the New Testament, which came alive to him. My dad had experienced two kinds of persecution. He had been persecuted for being a Jew; then persecuted by Jews for believing in Jesus. I think for that reason he almost never talked about his past. I knew very little about my Jewish heritage except for the yearly Passover our family celebrated. Perhaps wanting to protect us from the rejection he faced, he settled in a small town so we grew up with no Jewish friends and little exposure to our heritage. I had no idea what Jewish culture was.
From the time I was young, I regarded Jesus as special. Knowing that my father endured persecution because of his decision to follow Jesus, I respected his beliefs. I dutifully learned the stories from the Old and New Testaments. I wanted to believe the stories of Jesus walking on water, healing people, forgiving sins, and rising from the dead. With a heroic Savior like Jesus, who had sacrificed himself to pay for my sins so that I could have a relationship with a holy and benevolent God, the world seemed to make more sense. Then I went to medical school.
Suddenly I found that Jews made up a third of my classmates, which was something of a culture shock to me. Having had little exposure to Jewish people before, I was pleasantly surprised to find them truly engaging. They were wealthy and witty, they loved to laugh and seemed to really enjoy life, they drove nice cars—and the Jewish women were beautiful. What more could a twenty-year-old guy want? It felt wonderful to belong. Besides, I dreamed of discovering a cure for cancer or stroke—some significant accomplishment that would change the world and inspire love and admiration on top of it. It seemed that Jewish doctors had accomplished much in medicine, and I wanted to belong to this group.
I also appreciated the contrast with the Christian culture I had known in small-town America. The Christians there were often poor and struggling, and had irritating and legalistic personalities. They were always bringing long lists of problems to God, with mixed results. They seemed impoverished and powerless to help themselves. How refreshing it was to finally be with people who had the money, the power, and the energy to make life work.
I fully embraced a heritage I had never known. I went with friends to synagogue. I felt self-righteous when I would fast on Yom Kippur (the Day of Atonement) and eat matzo (unleavened bread) during the seven days of Passover. I sat through services in Hebrew, a language most of us didn’t understand. Only once, out of curiosity, did I attend a Christian function near campus, and then a Jewish classmate heard about it and questioned me. After that, I never went again for fear of what people in my new community would say.
The Jewish culture is something for which I gained the tremendous respect that I hold to this day. I liked this feeling of community as I sat in the synagogue on the Jewish High Holy Days, but by my fourth year in medical school, I began to feel conflicted. Deep within I couldn’t deny that Jesus was special, but I didn’t want him to be God or Messiah to me. I didn’t want to worship Jesus. In my view, he was too humble, too nice, and too easily walked on. That wasn’t who I wanted to be. Besides, in the halls of higher education, there didn’t seem to be much need for God or Jesus. I was learning that medicine and surgery had the power to save lives—and that power would soon be mine. Following Jesus seemed so dull and boring compared to the public acclaim, fun, and excitement available to me as a Jew—and as a doctor.
While I lacked social confidence among my classmates, who were two years older, I had virtually unlimited technical confidence. It was in the third year of medical school that I began to come into my element. Having focused mostly on book learning until that point, now our studies afforded us direct contact with patients in order to learn how to treat their ailments. I discovered how much I enjoyed the procedural side of medicine—and that I was good at it. Now I was determined to excel at it.
One of my first goals was to learn how to put in a central line, something typically learned during the first year of medical/surgical residency, two years in the future for me. Placing a central line, the first seriously risky procedure that a resident learns, is a big step up from starting a standard IV. It involves placing a three-inch-long needle under the clavicle into the large vein that resides there. Puncturing the top of the lung is the most feared risk, and it can be fatal if not recognized. Because human anatomy varies, finding this vein is a little like drilling for oil. As a third-year medical student, I had watched demonstrations, but it was unlikely that anyone would allow me to place a central line. Unless, of course, there was an emergency.
If someone in a hospital stops breathing or has some other life-threatening condition, a Code Blue is called, and doctors and residents appear from all corners of the hospital to resuscitate the patient, which involves placing a central line. Medical students are supposed to watch. On my second Code Blue, I arrived quickly and there was nobody present to place the central line. I asked the nurse to hand me the central line kit. Taking in my short white coat, the distinguishing mark of a med student, she shook her head with contempt. A minute later a medical resident appeared, and she gave the kit to him. I tried asking for the kit on several other Code Blue episodes, with similar results.
This was standard hospital protocol, of course. Impatient at the thought of waiting another two years, however, I had my mother sew an extra pocket inside my lab coat, allowing me to carry a central line kit with me. Now when I heard a Code Blue being called over the hospital intercom, I would run up seven flights of stairs, pull out my own kit, and begin the procedure. After a quick swipe with an antiseptic prep, I would insert the three-inch needle under the patient’s clavicle. I was a natural at procedures and relished the challenge. Confidence I had by the boatload. If a technique could be done, I knew I could master it. When I saw that dark blood flash into the syringe signaling that the needle was in the vein, I was elated—much to the consternation of the residents who arrived after I did. I would thread the line and flash an arrogant “Glad I was able to help” smile. I look back on this zeal for experience with some regret. By the grace of God, I was as able as I had thought—almost every attempt was successful, and no harm was done, except the alienation of my peers.
If there were other ways to get ahead, I seized them. I learned that writing scientific papers allowed me to go to meetings to present the papers, and that meant time off. It also meant the residency program would pay my way. Although writing papers during neurosurgical residency would be expected, doing so during my first-year, general-surgery internship was unusual—yet to the chagrin of my peers, I wrote several. The chief resident figured out that I had more time away at meetings than he had, which did not sit well. In my naiveté, I actually thought that everyone else would be happy for me, like prisoners cheering one who breaks out. But nobody likes a guy who doesn’t play by the unspoken rules. During the early years of the seven-year residency training, I used every opportunity to get ahead. If others didn’t want to do that, could they blame me? That was my attitude. They could, and they did.
The later years of residency taught me to be a neurosurgeon. I grew in my appreciation for the teaching staff, which included some of the most highly r
espected neurosurgeons in the world. I developed bonds of collegiality and friendship with my coresidents as we strove together to perform at a level worthy of the profession we had chosen. Ambition to succeed and ambition to serve began to come into balance.
I became a neurosurgeon and went to Pennsylvania to accept a job that would allow me to practice open neurosurgery (opening the skull) as well as endovascular neurosurgery (accessing the brain through the vessels only). Because it was a busy practice, I had plenty of opportunities to operate and hone my skills. I also became much more concerned about the welfare of the patient than I had been during my training. Due to the large number of complex vascular diseases I encountered, my career was moving fast. I continued writing papers and technical notes, began taking speaking engagements, and traveling widely. I increased ever more in confidence and skill, and I planned to spend my life as one of the leaders in the field of academic neurosurgery.
I should have been the happiest guy in the world. My life was fast and entertaining, heroic and challenging. I had accomplished my dream. Yet something was not right. Though I had no lack of interest from beautiful women, including a fashion model I dated around that time, I couldn’t keep a relationship alive. Everything seemed hollow. I noticed that I hated to be home and that I was traveling to avoid “normal” life. As time went on, I needed greater and more-complex cases to feel satisfied. At that time, I was at the forefront of the emerging, high-risk specialty that is endovascular neurosurgery. “Normal,” day-to-day, standard neurosurgery left me unfulfilled and dissatisfied with life. The truth is that I was addicted to doing what had never been done. At the time, though, I wanted someone to blame for my dissatisfaction, and I chose my father.
Dad was not an especially good communicator, and he rarely talked about his feelings. Like many other people I know, I never heard my father say he loved me or offer much positive feedback. Most of the input I remember was in the form of criticism. For example, he didn’t want me to have a steady girlfriend in high school or college because it could hinder my career. Now that I had a career, I didn’t know what a healthy relationship looked like. I zeroed in on this and wrote him angry letters for his supposed deficiencies. He never answered them. This only confirmed to me that I was right. Even though a terrible gulf grew between us, I felt justified in my position. I had found someone other than myself to take the blame for the restlessness and emptiness in my life.
Blaming Dad didn’t make my life any better. One night I was telling my mother by phone how angry I was that my father would not admit any wrongdoing or responsibility for the neglect I felt I had suffered. She was quiet for a moment, and then she said, “You need to forgive him. You have hurt people, too, and you need to be forgiven.”
This was the last thing I wanted to hear as a rising young neurosurgeon. Shouldn’t he be apologizing to me and asking for my forgiveness? If I forgave Dad, then I would have to take responsibility for my own life and failed relationships. After I hung up the phone, though, her words stuck with me. I realized that I had hurt a lot of people and needed to be forgiven. The proper thing to do was to let my father off the hook and move on. That night in my bedroom I said out loud, perhaps to God, “Okay, I forgive my dad. I am responsible for my life, and I will stop blaming him.” Nothing dramatic happened; I didn’t even feel better immediately. Looking back, though, I believe that was one of the most critical decisions of my life. My choice to forgive slowly changed my heart, laid the groundwork for much of my future work, and soon opened the door to a major change in my career.
A few weeks later I received a call about a job opening in California. It was a clinical hospital position—not a position in which I would be teaching at an academic hospital. In the past I would have scoffed at such an offer, but something in my heart had changed. After forgiving my father, I found that the drive to be famous had ebbed away. I no longer felt that I had to prove myself to him or to my colleagues. So instead of dismissing the job, I considered it.
For some time I had wanted a better balance of work and leisure in my life. I wanted to be less consumed by work and have more of a social life. I dreamed of working in a place with a more temperate climate. My ambition had always bound me to a busy hospital, where prestigious careers were made. Now that fame was not my overriding goal, benefits such as good weather seemed much more attractive.
I made up my mind, and at thirty-two years of age, I took the biggest risk of my career up to that point, leaving a busy academic position in Pennsylvania and going to San Diego to work in a community hospital. My lifestyle changed instantly. Instead of working constantly in a stressful, cold-weather environment, I was now getting out to play volleyball on the beach. The natural beauty there was almost overwhelming. It had been a long time since I’d had time on my hands—now I had time to jog, time to think, time to consider my life.
I thought well of myself in those days and believed I was getting what I deserved out of life. I had worked my way up from a gas station attendant and had proved that people could achieve what they wanted if they worked hard enough. People who did not rise above their circumstances were weak, in my opinion. Deep in the recesses of my mind, I probably even believed I was somehow superior to the sick people whom I treated—thinking that if they had been exercising and taking care of themselves as I did, surely they wouldn’t have such problems.
In my personal life, the material world remained powerfully alluring to me. I loved parties, concerts, and black-tie affairs. I dated often, and although I did not find love and contentment, I was doing my best to approximate them with adventure and escape. As for God, when I thought about him it was usually in a form such as this: I have dedicated my life to serving others; I am doing God’s work. Now, what should God be doing for me? Obviously my life wasn’t completely devoted to “others,” and as for doing God’s work, I hadn’t sought God’s opinion on how he might like the work to be done. But being in the business of saving lives, it was easy for me to assume I was doing God’s work by default.
I had not given up my faith altogether. Rather, I freelanced it, saying a prayer or reading the Bible when I felt like it in the privacy of my own home. I was careful not to let my faith affect my job or my social life.
Then one day I had a very strange conversation. Having just moved to San Diego, I was beginning to enjoy my new life there, which included jogging along the boardwalk on Saturday mornings. Somewhere deep inside, I knew that I was experiencing God’s kindness. I believed that I deserved the blessings in my life, that I had made my own breaks; but my heart was more open to hearing the voice of God than it had been in years.
While I was jogging along the boardwalk one day looking for female pro volleyball players out practicing, a nonaudible, but nonetheless real, voice spoke to me: “What are you doing?”
I did not know at first if the voice represented my own thoughts or if God was confronting me personally. Either way, it seemed perfectly natural. I responded with the truth:
“I’m looking for women to date, as usual.”
“How long have you been doing this?” the inner voice asked, with an emphasis on the word long.
I thought back to when I began to be interested in girls and did the math. “About eighteen years,” I replied.
“What usually happens?” came the next question.
“Well, for the last few years, I meet them and then we spend about three months together. Then I get restless or bored and look for another relationship,” I said inwardly.
“What do you have to show for all the time you have spent in pursuit of women?” the voice asked.
I had never considered this question. In all the thousands of hours I had given to my social life, I had never asked myself what was gained. I racked my memory for some redeeming result of all that time. I reached a dismal conclusion but delayed a little before answering.
“Nothing,” I finally said. “I have nothing to show for it.”
“Then how much time will you contin
ue to waste?” asked the voice.
I said nothing.
“Why don’t you stop looking?” the voice offered.
“But I’ll die!” I said. “This is my life. I can’t live without the hope of finding someone. It’s the reason I get up in the morning. The hope of finding true love is my only motivation, outside my career.”
The voice said nothing.
By this time I concluded that I must be having a conversation with God, since I would never come up with anything that sounded that crazy on my own. After some thought, I came to an inner resolution. “Okay, I will make you a deal,” I said. “I will not approach any woman. But if a woman speaks to me, then I can ask her out on a date.”
The inner voice did not object, seeming to concede this technical point to me. I jogged home feeling self-righteous and smart, knowing that I would still get plenty of dates. After all, I was a young neurosurgeon living on the beach in San Diego. Surely women would speak to me, or people would set me up on a date.
That’s when the drought began.
One month went by without anyone approaching me. Then another. And another. I would stand behind women in the grocery store and bump into them, or help them with their carts, and still they wouldn’t talk to me. I waited years, in the prime of my life, and not one woman I found attractive struck up a conversation with me; nobody set me up with anyone until several years later when I began dating again. It wasn’t easy to stop pursuing women after eighteen years, but instead of being lonely, I channeled my energy in a different direction: getting to know God.
Gray Matter Page 10
