Joan Is Okay(17)

Medicine was a calling, he’d say, and sometimes you had to wait for this call while pursuing something else. Don’t rush into medicine, else you’ll be miserable; find new interests, challenge yourself with the unknown, etc.

Impressed by his journey, his degrees, I’d once asked the director how many languages he could speak, and he said that’s not what linguistics was about. The field was about the study of languages, not any in particular. Discovering that he knew no other language, I was both disappointed and confused. Even someone like me, along with most people in the world, knew English and a second.

I worried that I was being summoned for having worked four continuous weeks. While the director cared about productivity, the hospital’s HR department set limits and exceeding them was heavily discouraged. But my insane November schedule wasn’t mentioned and he jumped right into praising how unflappable I’d been these last three years and essential to their program in intensive care.

He asked about my Thanksgiving plans and I said I wasn’t going anywhere, since I was on service.

Good to hear, he said, and wished he could say the same. He was heading up to Westchester to see his in-laws. The wife is big on tradition, he explained. The kids like getting out of the city. That he had a wife (and kids) surprised me, and since imitation is the sincerest form of flattery, I used the same Etch A Sketch motion he used before on me when he asked if I had a father.

You have a wife? I said, swiping back and forth across my face. I didn’t know about her, but it made perfect biological sense. And with her help, you became a dad. That’s wonderful news.

The kids were mostly grown, in college or about to be. He listed for me their ages and I could imagine mini versions of him lining up behind him in a row. Now that it was established that we both had relatives, he asked if I wanted coffee from his Nespresso.

I said I only drank coffee from the atrium.

They do have good coffee there.

The best. It’s where my father and I last spoke.

He was here?

Yes, but just to the atrium.

The director apologized again: to not have had a proper goodbye with my father, that must have been hard. I said it was to be expected. Even with the speed of international travel, sometimes you just can’t get there fast enough.

Well, here’s me with some good news, he announced, and started twirling a pen between his index finger and thumb like a small cheerleading baton.

For a split second, I thought he was going to say that my father was still alive, that he was downstairs waiting for me in the atrium after having spent $17.99 to park.

Can you see yourself staying at this hospital long term? he asked. And what more can I do to facilitate that?

I said I could but that my brother thinks that I am wasting my life. He’s been suggesting for years that I move up to Greenwich and run a hospital there.

You certainly could, the director said slowly, but now the pen-baton was twirling faster. Any place would be fortunate to have you, but do you want to run your own hospital? To lead something like that, you would need an MBA. Meetings and politics would take over your life, mingling with hospital leadership. I suspect none of that interests you.

The director’s small mouth was moving, but I was also watching the view behind him, which was layered and hypnotic. Gray light, wintery light, but even through the fog, I could see the distant George Washington Bridge lined with cars and trucks, boats going under, a plane flying overhead.

Greenwich is too homogenous, he added. A doctor is only as good as her experience.

I agreed.

So, do you want your private office back? he asked.

I said I didn’t think so.

He wiped his entire forehead thoroughly as if it were covered in sweat except it was not. He then brought up a raise and gave me an estimate of what the hospital would be willing to invest in my future.

I had him repeat the sum since it was very large. Then I asked if he really meant to give me this much and was it something like a bait and switch. Even if the raise had been a dollar, I wouldn’t have been offended.

Then you are offended? he asked, clicking the pen-baton’s head repeatedly.

Did you mean to offend me? I asked.

He held his right hand up in a surrender or like he was about to make a pledge. I mirrored his hand and held mine up as well.

He asked if I had a question.

I said no, not immediately.

Then why was my hand up?

Why was his?

Look, he said, putting his hand down. I don’t want you to think that this only has to do with your father.

The praise resumed and I tried to keep my eyes open but it felt like being placed in the path of an oncoming train. That I was able to work through a parent’s death so quickly and nondisruptively showed a great deal of character. Plain and simple, he would like to see my efforts rewarded and he personally believed that doctors like myself were the future. If he even had two more of me, he would be able to significantly reduce on other staff and improve our ranking.

Ever heard of cassette tapes? he asked.

I said I had, but his question turned out to be rhetorical and he carried on like I hadn’t.

You might be too young, but cassette tapes, or tape cassettes or audio cassettes or simply cassettes, had two sides, an A and a B. They had an analog magnetic strip that you could wind and unwind, by putting your fingertip into one of the reel holes that had these tiny plastic teeth.