by Harry Kraus
She greeted Bill, the sales rep, who immediately turned his attention away from the other interns to the only women in the group.
“I’m glad to see a few women in the ranks this year,” Bill began. “I was beginning to think I’d never see another in this program. The one they matched last year didn’t last six months.”
“They only take the best,” Bea snipped. “And not many females are cut out for this.”
Claire eyed her pensively. I’m surprised to hear that chauvinistic junk from you. She changed the subject. “Thanks for the knot board.”
“Where’d you go to med school?”
He was clearly focused on Claire, but Bea interjected. “Yale.”
Bill seemed to be appreciating Claire’s blouse. She cleared her throat, hoping to lift his eyes to her face. “I attended Brighton University.” Then she backed away and turned for the door.
Bill called out, “See you ladies tonight.”
Claire walked out with Bea, Howard, and Wayne. “He’s going to be at the Bay Club?”
Wayne chuckled. “Ethicon picks up the whole tab for the intern reception every year. I suppose they think it will make us buy their products.”
At the end of the hall, Bea made a right turn. “I think I’ll go to the SICU and review some patient charts.”
Wayne shook his head. “Not me. They don’t own me till tomorrow.”
Howard kept plugging toward the front entrance. He looked at his watch. “I’ve got sixteen hours of freedom left. Just sixteen hours.”
Claire waved weakly in Bea’s direction, who was either suddenly interested in getting to know her new patients, or competitive enough to want to shine on the first day. Claire thought momentarily of following her, then skipped to catch up with the others. She knew her life would change drastically soon enough. Why rush the torture?
For most of her life, others had told her it couldn’t be done. Little girls from Stoney Creek just don’t grow up to be surgeons. Little girls should grow up to be mothers, housewives, help out on the family farm. Maybe a few could be teachers at the elementary school. Or maybe become nurses to help make ends meet when income at the shoe factory proved inadequate. But little girls don’t become surgeons, especially not girls with a father like Claire McCall’s.
For most of her life, she had refused to listen. Now, as she mingled with the other new interns, residents, and surgery-attending physicians at the exclusive Bay Club, she imagined any number of circumstances that could again block her goal. She surveyed the scene, feeling suddenly misplaced, a country girl at a sophisticated city gala. Music from a live string quartet drifted around the tuxedoed men and their wives wearing sequined dresses. A Volkswagen-sized glass chandelier hung in a massive foyer over a fountain containing enough coins to keep Claire in groceries for a month.
She analyzed each of the other eleven interns with a critical eye, imagining their strengths and weaknesses and wondering which eight would make it to the next year. Six were married; two had children. Two were already MD, PhDs, with multiple publications in the surgical literature. Three were Harvard grads. One was from Southern California, two were from University of Michigan, one from Yale, one from Duke, two from Johns Hopkins, one from Georgetown, and one from Brighton University: Claire.
Each intern seemed so much more capable than she. Everyone was so articulate and proper. How had she traveled so far out of her league? Maybe it was all some huge computer mistake. Claire politely declined a third offer of punch, held up by a young man with a white shirt accentuated by a black bow tie, and mulled over the possibility that the computer matching program had gone awry, placing her in this elite program by mistake.
This is ridiculous, Claire mused. I ranked this program number one, and they obviously ranked me high on their list, too. There’s no mistake here. I’m just as capable as these Harvard grads. She sighed, listening to a fellow intern make a reference to an article he’d read in The New England Journal of Medicine. She drifted away from the small crowd to sample the hors d’oeuvres. Didn’t that guy know we were supposed to be on vacation since med school graduation? It sounds like he spent the last two months in the library. She smiled at the thought of the long hours she’d spent studying in the two months since her stormy graduation. The others are just like me.
“You must be Elizabeth.” A tall man with gray hair and a relaxed smile held out his hand. Claire knew who he was immediately: the general surgery residency director, Dr. Tom Rogers.
She shook his hand firmly. “Yes, but I prefer to be called Claire. It’s what I’ve been called all my life.”
“E. Claire.” His grin widened.
“Yes, sir.” She shrugged, reading his thoughts. “I’ve lived with a name that sounds more like a French pastry than a surgeon. And I grew up in a town so backwards that you couldn’t even buy French pastry there.”
“Yes. Oh,” he chortled. “Eclair.” He took a sip from a tall glass and dropped his smile. “You’ll be starting on one of the busiest rotations, our trauma service.”
“So I hear. But at least I get to work with Dr. Overby.”
“Dan-the-man,” Dr. Rogers responded reflectively, a hint of a smile returning to his face. “You’ll be glad for your sense of humor, E. Claire. Bring it with you tomorrow. You’re going to need it.”
Claire parked her aging Toyota in the driveway and fumbled with the keys to her rented brownstone house. She’d left the party early, but not until the program director preceded her, just in case he was watching.
She opened the door, adjusted the thermostat up, and opened a window in her second-floor bedroom for ventilation. She’d chosen the house after a marathon weekend search. The apartments close to the university were less expensive, but run-down, and appeared unsafe, a haven for drug pushers or worse. The houses further out were expensive, and the commute would be too long. Here, three miles from the hospital, seemed just about right. The rent was more than Claire wanted to pay, absorbing half her intern salary, but safety and peace of mind were worth the extra cost. She didn’t have anything else to spend money on anyway. She was single, at least for now, and had no children, and her surgical residency would put a damper on any expensive social activity. Being too busy to spend money did have its advantages.
She looked at the answering machine. No messages. At least he could call me for once. She chewed her lower lip. He’s still sore about how I left him after grad.
She changed into a cotton football jersey, her normal sleeping attire. It was John’s, of course, and the comfort she received from it had little to do with its warmth. It was nine o’clock, too early for bed, but getting too dark for a jog.
Claire adjusted a small picture on her desk, one of her and John at U-Hall at a basketball game a few years earlier. John’s dark skin tone contrasted with hers, and her long blond hair cascaded onto his shoulders as the couple put their heads together for the snapshot. I miss my hair. I miss John. I miss his arms around me, the way he smells, the way he makes me feel.
She sighed and picked up Sabiston’s Textbook of Surgery. It was a massive book, almost eight pounds. She had wanted the more manageable two-volume set, but couldn’t afford it. So she settled for the single volume and the added benefit of a biceps workout. She turned to a chapter entitled “Trauma: Management of the Acutely Injured Patient” and quickly lost herself in a discussion of airways, fluid resuscitation, and shock, paying close attention to the yellow highlighted areas from her previous reading.
At ten, the phone jarred her eyes from a gruesome photograph of a man with a crossbow injury to the neck. She welcomed the diversion. “Be John. Be John,” she whispered. “Hello.”
“I was hoping you’d still be up.” The voice was John Cerelli’s, deep, calm, and confident. As usual, Claire smiled.
“I’m up. Doubt I’ll get to sleep very early. I’m too keyed up.”
“I wish I was there.” He paused. “As long as you’re not sleeping.”
“John.” Insti
nctively, she looked at herself in the full-length mirror next to her bed. She pressed her hand against the front of the jersey, bringing it against her stomach. She was pleased with what she saw. She hoped her long hours as a surgical intern wouldn’t be too detrimental to her figure.
“What are you wearing?”
“John! Why do you want to know?” She giggled.
“I’m just trying to imagine … the football jersey, right?”
“Let’s talk about something else. How’d your sales presentation go?”
“You’re wearing my jersey again. Admit it.”
“So what?”
“I knew it.”
“It’s comfortable. That’s all.”
“Right.” His voice was laced with playful sarcasm.
After a moment’s silence, Claire’s voice thickened. “There was a reception tonight for all the new interns.”
“Great. Was it fun?”
“Not exactly fun. It was typical superficial cocktail communication. I just went to scope out the attendings.” She cleared her throat. “I, uh, didn’t wear the wedding band …”
“Claire, I thought we’d agreed.”
“It—it just didn’t seem right. I know what we—”
“Claire, do what you want,” he interrupted. “I just thought it would make your life easier if you didn’t have to fend off hordes of men. We’re almost married anyway. A ring, or a piece of paper, won’t make us any more married, you know.” She had heard this tone of voice from John before. The hurt, the sarcasm, rolled too easily off his tongue.
“I know, John. And I am committed, you know that. And I’m not fending off hordes of men.”
“You should be,” he sulked. “Fending them off, I mean.”
“I don’t know anyone up here to fend off. Even if I did, I’d be too busy. Why don’t you just move up here now? Then we wouldn’t be having this conversation.”
“You’re asking me to move up? Now?” He paused. “I seem to remember that you’re the one who insisted on this separation, time for you to get your head together after graduation.”
“The separation was my idea. But it was a head decision, not a heart one.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It means I think we need to be apart, at least for a while. But it doesn’t mean that I thought I’d enjoy it. With my head, I think it’s right. With my heart, well, I get mixed up.”
She heard him sigh into the phone. “I wish you’d get your organs together up there. Your heart and your head, I mean.”
She looked in the mirror again and edged the hem of John’s jersey higher on her thigh. “I just need to know that you’re as interested in our relationship as you are in how I look in this jersey.”
“And how can I prove that if you won’t let me visit?”
I shouldn’t have to spell it out. “Call me. Write to me. Pray for me. Be there when I cry. This is going to be the toughest year of my life, John. I need to know you’re supporting me.”
He sighed again. “Okay, baby. I’m going to try.”
“I know.” She softened and changed the subject. “Everyone keeps asking about my father. It’s like the second or third question in every conversation. ‘So, what does your father do?’ It’s like they think a woman couldn’t make it in surgery without her father’s coattails.”
“They’re just making conversation. Probably don’t know what else to ask. What do you tell them?”
“Uh. Well. I ignore the question half the time. Sometimes I make a joke about him being the dean of some medical school.” She yawned. “I told a few that he’s retired military.”
John laughed. “Oh, that’s rich.”
“It’s not exactly lying. He was in the military once.”
“Whatever.”
“It’s really none of their business,” she huffed. “And it certainly wouldn’t help me through this pyramid if they knew the truth.”
Ugh. The pyramid again. She didn’t know why she’d brought it up. She didn’t want to think about it.
“I miss you.”
“Ditto, girl. I’m going nuts here alone.”
“John, I’m scared. You should see the rest of the new interns. They act like walking textbooks.”
“You’re not intimidated by that stuff. You’re better than most of them. I can tell you that without even meeting ‘em. You know why you’re there. And you wouldn’t be there if it wasn’t right.” He paused. “This is your calling, remember?”
“I don’t know. Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea. I’m not sure I can do this. I could come back to Virginia … take that family medicine spot they offered….”
“You wouldn’t be happy. You were born to do this. You can’t tell me you don’t believe that. I must have heard you say it a thousand times.”
Claire sighed. She knew it was true. But hearing him repeat it back sure sounded nice. “You really believe it?”
“Every word.”
“I love you, John.”
“You too,” he said. “Tomorrow’s your big day. Get some sleep.”
“I’ll try.” “Night.”
“Good night.”
Click.
Claire ran her finger over the small picture frame on the desk, staring for a moment at the image. She dabbed her eyes with the sleeve of the jersey and plodded to the bathroom to brush her teeth.
She set the alarm for five and collapsed into the comfort of her double bed. She lay still for a moment, thinking of John, lonely for his touch. I shouldn’t be missing him this much. Not yet. It’s gonna be a long internship without him.
She closed her eyes in a forced attempt to silence her longing and to quiet her anxieties about the start of her surgical training. Tomorrow would come too soon.
Tomorrow, for the first time, she would put her medical degree to the test.
Chapter Four
July 1, 2000
The next morning, Claire’s eyes were open at four-thirty. So much for needing her alarm. She showered, applied her makeup, and put on a pair of scrubs she’d obtained during her orientation. As she passed the mirror, she smiled. I’ll probably not have this much time to get ready in the future. The boys on the trauma service better not expect me to look this good every day.
After a breakfast of generic bran flakes, she readied her on-call supplies and began a systematic nurturing of her houseplants, all twenty-three of them. She had scaled back her obsession with plants since her college days, having given most of them away before she moved. But in the last two months, she’d started over a dozen African violets, most of which she kept under a special UV light in her small apartment kitchen. She meticulously watered each one, proud of the care she’d been able to provide. The last one, a thirty-inch-high jade plant, was her favorite, the only one she’d kept since high school.
She made it to the university hospital before dawn but still arrived after Beatrice Hayes and Howard Button, who were chatting nervously outside the double automatic doors to the SICU. A few minutes later, they were joined by Wayne Neal. It was obvious to Claire that Wayne and Howard were as nervous as she felt. Beatrice, however, was the picture of calm. Her hair and makeup were perfect. With an air of confidence, she displayed her patient data cards.
“I have a card for every patient on the service.” She held up the three-by-five cards for everyone to see. “I have a problem list, the record numbers, and their current meds.”
Claire looked at the small, immaculate printing on the cards and resisted the urge to roll her eyes.
Wayne feigned disinterest, but Howard stumbled forward for a closer look. “Wow.” He patted his empty lab coat pocket. “Do you have any extra cards?”
Beatrice apparently didn’t feel his question worthy of a response, and quickly turned her attention to another group of four who had gathered a few feet away in the hall: medical students. In contrast to the new interns, the students appeared battle-weary, with stained scrubs, wrinkled lab coats, and unwashed hair.
There were three males and one female, and all were holding steaming cups of coffee. The tallest of the four held two cups. In a moment, Claire understood why.
Silence fell over the group when they saw Dr. Dan and his entourage approach. He seemed like a proud mother mallard, with his ducklings following obediently behind. In order, Claire recognized the house staff from her orientation: Jeff Parrish, fourth-year resident, Elaine Kirklin, third-year resident, and Basil Roberts, second-year resident.
The tall medical student held up the coffee to Dr. Overby. “Dan-the-man! I survived the night.”
The chief resident beamed. “I knew you would, Rick. Did you remember to eat?”
“Eat when you can,” the student responded, quoting Dan’s first rule of survival.
The female medical student coughed. “If you consider crackers and coffee in the CT scanner a meal, we ate.”
“Crackers are good,” Basil responded. “But”—he raised his index finger as if making a serious point—“never use the vending machine in the basement of the nursing dorm.” He shook his head in apparent disgust. “I lost seventy-five cents there last week.”
Elaine scoffed. “In your dreams, pal. You’ve never been to the nursing dorm.”
Dan held up his hand. “Enough. We’ve got a lot of ground to cover this morning. It’s July first, which means new terns.”
The other surgical residents made groaning noises until Dan silenced them with a single glance. He paused for a moment and looked at the interns who remained in a clump near the SICU doors. “And none of them went to school here, so you guys need to show ‘em the ropes,” he said, addressing the medical students. “Rick, Sally, Josef, and Glen, meet Howard, Wayne, Beatrice, and Claire.”
The two groups eyed each other pensively.
“Terns, these are the best medical students you’ll see for a while. They are at the end of their third year, and they know the ropes. Don’t underestimate the value of an initiated student. They know where everything is, and they know how to get things done.” He nodded with appreciation at the ragged group who threw their shoulders back in mock appreciation to their chief. “It won’t be like this next month, when we get a green group of third-year students without an ounce of practical experience.
