On Rotation(38)

“I saw that you honored* peds. Congratulations,” she said. “Peppermint?” she offered, waving toward the latest addition to the disaster of her desk: a clear glass jar of mints.

Remembering Ricky’s declaration that I was a Peppermint Patty, I shook my head.

“Thank you,” I said. Dr. Berber, of all people, had given me a glowing evaluation. Angela is always upbeat and ready to learn, it said. Her fund of knowledge is impressive for a fresh third-year.

“Ob-gyn might be harder,” she said. “But you’ll do fine. Keep this up, and I think we’ll be in the clear for your residency apps. Now. About your project.”

I’d finished the first draft of my DVT prophylaxis literature review weeks ago, and it had been sitting, unaddressed, in my PI’s, Dr. Donoghue’s, email inbox ever since. I told Dr. Wallace as much, and she scowled, crossing her arms.

“That’s not good,” she said. “There are some big conference deadlines coming up. Email him again to check in.” She tapped her chin. “What about another project? Just in case this one falls through. There were a few others on that list that I thought looked promising.”

My hands curled on my knees, and I sat up as straight as possible, meeting Dr. Wallace’s eyes directly. That was the best way to get her attention, I’d learned; be commanding, don’t slouch, avoid self-deprecation. Come prepared with hard data.

“Actually,” I said. “I want to do something else. An . . . original project.”

I told her, then, about the boy in the trauma bay. About his mother, and the assumption of his guilt. About the man from years ago in the Emergency Department (“I wrote about him in my personal statement, actually”). And then, about my idea.

“I want to look into specifically Black patient perspectives on physician-patient communication,” I said. I pulled out a folder from my backpack, removing printed copies of the relevant studies I had found thus far. “There’s a lot of data out there already about how physicians are more likely to undertreat pain in Black patients, and how we’re more likely to miss serious diagnoses. There’s also a lot of data about what factors contribute to patient satisfaction, and what patients think physicians could do better. Some people have looked into medical mistrust in the context of medicine’s role in maintaining racial hierarchies. But . . . there’s this intersection that’s just . . . missing.” I met Dr. Wallace’s stony expression with my own. “I want to address that.”

Dr. Wallace took my papers from me, riffling through them one by one. Then she lowered them onto the desk in front of her.

“You’re very passionate,” she said after a long time. “And driven.”

“But . . .” I filled in for her, quirking an eyebrow.

“But,” she said, “a project like this is risky. For one, you will need IRB* approval, which will slow you down. You might need to find funding for transcription services. You’ll have to collect the data yourself, and code it yourself.” She rubbed her temples. “This isn’t something you can finish in one year, Angela.”

“I know,” I said. “But I think I can make some serious headway—”

“And,” Dr. Wallace added, “it’s a ‘Black’ project.”

Oh. I sat back in my chair, trying to process what I’d just heard. Dr. Wallace leaned back with me, folding her hands on her desk.

“What,” I said finally, trying to hold back the disgust from my voice, “is that supposed to mean?”

“Why are you in my office, instead of, say, Dr. Bauer’s?” Dr. Wallace asked. Her glasses glowed with the reflection from her desktop monitor. “Because we share an experience, right? Because I am able to peek beyond the frosted glass and tell you honestly about the bullshit that is going down on the other side.” She picked up my papers again, and with a firm thud, lined up the sheets before stuffing them back into my folder. “And what I’m saying is that, at this stage in your career, you are better off marketing yourself as a clinical researcher than another Black health disparities one.”

Before, I had been just one of many Black kids with a bad Step score, and now, my attempt at creating original research was just another Black kid looking at health disparities. Even though I knew she was just trying to help me, I felt betrayed. Dr. Wallace had always seemed like a source of unending wisdom, but now I felt like we were out of sync. Like she looked at me and saw only a liability. She reminded me of my parents, summarily destroying my enjoyment of anything that wasn’t directly aligned with her specific vision of my future in medicine.

“I didn’t come to medical school to become a clinical researcher,” I said slowly. “I came to be a doctor.” I stood up, grabbing my folder from her desk. “I’ll email Dr. Donoghue about my DVT prophylaxis review.”

Someone else may have asked me to stop, or even apologized. But not Dr. Wallace. It wasn’t her style to do or say things she thought she could regret. When I walked out of her office, she told me to have a good day, and asked me to please close the door gently behind me.

Whatever. I was tired of being told what I could or couldn’t do. I was Angie fucking Appiah, and no matter what a stupid, outdated test said, I had brains for days. I was going to do whatever I wanted, and I was going to do it well, and when my work was finally done, everyone who tried to hold me back would look upon the spoils of my labor and know that they’d screwed up.