"You're in," Dr. Strong says, a big smile spreading across his face.
"I'm in," I say, repeating his words in case there was a mistake and he wanted to take it back.
"Dr. Matthews, once again you have shown yourself to be one of this country's leading neuroscience surgeons. Yesterday's surgery was no small feat, and so the board and I have decided, you're in."
Dr. Harold Strong, Chief of Surgery, has been my mentor and my friend since medical school. When I became a surgeon, I knew that everyone doubted me because of my age and lack of life experience, but not Dr. Strong. He actually pushed to have me work for him, and he promoted my age and inexperience as something patients could benefit from. I wasn't looking to be on the golf course or run off on vacation with my three kids and husband. I was here, working, with the energy of a twenty-year-old and the focus of a person who had been on a mission to change medicine since fifth grade. I think that all of his speeches to the board got to me after a while, because not being all those things to him would crush me. I feel a responsibility to live up to the person he has made me out to be. Some days I feel like it's all too much, but today I feel like I could fly to the moon.
"I'm so proud of you, Kate," he says, quickly looking down at his notes so I don't see the tears in his eyes.
"But I thought the board wanted Dr. Bodhi Wells," I say, fishing to see if Wells had turned the surgery down and I was second choice.
"Yes," he answers me with a little too much pep for my taste. "He's in too. You'll be working tandem." Dr. Strong is now up on his feet, walking the length of the conference room table to sit next to me with a laptop.
"Your reputation precedes you. Dr. Wells specifically requested that you and he head the team. You are the surgeon most familiar with the new technology, and he wants success. This isn't about his ego. This is about making sure the patient gets the best care possible. You both want that, don't you?"
"Yes! Of course I do," I say with a little too much enthusiasm. "So, he and I will be working together, side by side? Or will one of us be leading? Just so I'm clear."
"I will leave that up to the two of you to decide," he says, handing me a laptop. "Study up. The team is strong. The case is complicated. The task is monumental. I have faith that your years of sacrifice, focus, and dedication will change the way we heal. Go get 'em!"
Dr. Strong slaps me on the back as I get up from the table, hugging the laptop like it's my pillow at home. As I head toward the door, I suddenly realize that I did it. I did what I said I would do. I am on the team. I am going to be published and looked to for guidance after this surgery. I will be working alongside or near Dr. Bodhi Wells! I feel the joy spreading through my body, as I move through the halls toward my office. The smile on my face must be telling, because everyone I pass congratulates me. They are all happy for me. They know I deserve this too. And as quickly as the joy came, it goes and is replaced with doubt. What if I'm not ready?
You know those moments in life when you suddenly get what you wanted? I know, they are rare for some of us, but when they come they are sometimes joy accompanied with a shot of, "Oh, shit! Now I have to do this!" I always feel badly when I watch people come to that moment in their lives and they fail, like watching the Olympics or the World Cup. Everyone is ready. This is the moment you have dreamed about, prepared for, sacrificing everything normal people take for granted on a daily basis, like a gymnast never getting to eat bread. I'm pretty sure they don't get to eat bread. Point is, they fall and land on their head during the one pass that was going to get them to the medal round. Or they miss the ball and the other team makes one lousy goal and wins the entire game. All those goals you blocked and all those flips you did before that moment are erased from everyone's brains in an instant. Suddenly, you are that girl that fell. You're the goalie that ruined the country's hopes of winning the cup. I don't want to be the surgeon that was supposed to be the future of neuroscience, but failed horribly and is now a thirty-year-old woman surgeon who Dr. Grace Meadows cackles at every time they pass in the hall, "Poor thing, she tried."
I rush into my office and sit behind my desk. Breathe, Kate. You can't think about that. You have to work. If you do your work, you will not fail. Work has always been my saving grace when insecurity raises her ugly head. So, I hole up behind my desk, drink coffee, and get to work. First things first, I have to learn everything about the team.
As I click on the video play option, the laptop lights up, revealing a beautiful blue sky. Music resembling the opening score to Star Wars accompanies a picture and resume of the first team member, flying out of the sky at me on my monitor. Dr. Strong really went all out. Then, from beneath the music, Dr. Strong's booming voice begins to narrate the name and accomplishments of each team member.
"Amir Shah is India's premiere fiber-optic technician," he says. Amir's photo fills the screen. What a kind face, I think to myself. His dark hair and skin blend together with eyes so big and bright I feel comfortable with him already.
"He, in partnership with Peter Logan out of Dublin, has created the latest high-tech cable that they based off of the cable you have been using; you will use this new cable to thread into our patient's lesion to burn out the unwanted tissue and repair the outlying area of the brain."
Peter Logan's picture moves into the screen frame next to Amir's. He is so Irish. He is the perfect combination of dark and light: dark hair, light skin, green eyes. I can hear him cracking jokes in his sing-songy dialect already. Surgery can get pretty tense, so having an Irishman around telling dirty jokes and singing drinking songs never hurts. At least that's what I'm saying from now on when someone asks.
"Javier Mendes, out of Puerto Rico, is our patient's physician and specializes in brain seizure research," Dr. Strong continues, really putting his best Spanish accent on while saying Javier and Puerto Rico. "He will be introducing us to the patient next week and catching us all up to speed."
Javier Mendes is Ricky Martin. I swear he is. Or he's at least his twin brother. He has the same elfish grin, sparkly eyes, and bleached blonde ends on his wavy hair. He even has a dimple smack dab in the center of his chin. This has to be, by far, the most attractive surgical team I've ever had the pleasure of being on.
"Last but not least, Dr. Bodhi Wells will be your wing man. You two are the world leaders in successful laser neurosurgery. You will be assisted by Surgical Nurse Mark Friendly. And Surgical Nurse Sandy Bonnet, out of Utah, has been chosen to assist Dr. Wells."
Blah, blah, blah is what I hear after Bodhi Wells' picture fills my computer screen. My stomach leaps into my throat, does a somersault, then spins like a whirling dervish all the way back down to my gut. Dear Lord, how and when did you think it was fair to make only one of him and why did you have to put him within proximity to me? Dr. Strong's voice is still talking about his credentials, but for the first time in my career I don't care, because right now I'm looking into the dreamiest eyes I've ever seen on planet earth. I'm imagining what it's like to go surfing with him in Australia, or share a nice bottle of Pinot Noir with him on the California coast, or suck his face off with my now salivating mouth. Oh no, this is bad, very bad.
"What are you doing?" Mark asks, knocking me out of my daydream. He taps the mouse and enlarges Bodhi's picture.
"How did you . . . ? What do you want? I'm working," I say defensively, as I wipe my lips to make sure there is no actual drool dripping from them.
"I'd do him," Mark says.
"Mark, that's Dr. Bodhi Wells," I tell him with as much matter-of-factness in my voice as I can muster.
"Yes, and?"
"We'll be working together. I'm hoping he'll mentor me, not do me," I shake my head in disappointment for good measure.
"You wouldn't be the first to bang a co-worker," he says, too quickly for my comfort.
OK, I need to get rid of him. The longer we talk about this, the more I'm going to think about it actually happening. Not an option, ever. I smack him on the arm and nod to the door, "I don't have a lot of time to study up on this. Could you . . ."
He gets up and walks toward the door. "Tick, tock, tick, tockâand I'm not talking about your career. I'm talking about your life."
"My career is my life. Dating, relationships, sexâthat's all a distraction. We've been over this."
He stops at the door and falls onto my couch. He's not leaving.
"What happened to you? Was it the whole no childhood thing? Wah-wah! Time to let that go."
How dare he even go there? He doesn't know what it was like to be fifteen and in braces in college. My social life is and was awkward. It was designed to be that way so I could focus on medicine. So that's what I do. I'm tired of defending it to my friend; my only friend, damn it.
"I have to remain focused and so should you," I say, redirecting his line of questioning.
"I don't know, Kate. I've never seen that look in your eye before."
"What look?"
"The one you had firmly planted in your pretty eyes while you stared at Dr. Well's picture."
"No look here, just focused."
"Focused, yes, I'll give you that. But I'm willing to place a wager on that dreamy focused look."
I can't keep up. What is he talking about now?
"I mean it. I'll put a hundred bucks down on you slappin' the uglies with Dr. Wells before you two finish this surgery."
I love that he has no idea what he is getting into here.
"Make it two hundred," I say, sitting back with confidence. That would be so far out of my character I should put down two thousand dollars and buy myself a new couch instead of getting it cleaned.
"Easy money," he says, extending his hand to me.
We shake and it is done. Sucker, I think to myself. If only he knew I was still a virgin. That's right, I'm still a "V". I'm sure you're wondering how I held out all these years. Well, here is the long and short of it.
When I was in fifth grade, my homeroom teacher informed my parents that I was a child prodigy destined to do something great in the world. With that announcement, any normal pre-teen thoughts and yearnings I had been experiencing were forced to the wayside, and trigonometry and biology replaced them. When I was in fifth-period advanced trigonometry my senior year in high school, I hadn't even had my first period. I graduated from Harvard by fifteen and was interning in medical school by the time I was sixteen. My life has been all work and no play, but not because opportunities to party or have sex haven't presented themselves. They have. But I was on a mission and I chose to put aside my social lifeâand any thoughts of a sex lifeâafter having witnessed countless other women, including many of my peers in medical school, lose their drive after experiencing heartbreak, contracting chlamydia, and making babies. Rather than experience the ecstasy that comes with intercourse, I choose to experience the ecstasy that comes along with saving a human life from almost certain death. That is what I call orgasmic, at least from what I've studied of it.
And let me just say for the record, if I wasn't so confident in my keeping my virginity, I would be offended by Mark's vulgar wager.
Mark struts out of my office like he just won the lottery, and I make sure he is gone before I pull up Bodhi's picture again. I look into his eyes. That somersault feeling goes up and down my body again. I shut the laptop. He's probably a class-one jerk and the moment he opens his mouth all these butterflies will die a quick death and we will be back on equal footing. I get up from my desk and fight the urge to take one last look at his picture again. It doesn't work. I take one last peek and quickly slam it shut again. Damn him. Maybe he was photoshopped? Everyone does it these days. His eyes can't be that green. And how do one's abdominals and pectorals stay visible through a button up shirt? Does he buy a size too small? Is he that guy? Because if he is that guy, a complete douche bag, that will definitely help subdue my unbearable attraction to him.
I look at the clock. Damn it, I'm late. I hate being late. Early surgeries sometimes mean an entire day to myself. I can go to a museum or grab a book and read at a coffee house. Today, I get to meet my sister for a latte.
My favorite coffee shop is also a bookstore. Used books mostly, but it is the one place in Manhattan where quiet is the name of the game. Even the milk frother is quiet. It's like a faint shhhh. When I get there the line is long made up of young professionals staring at their smart phones. Quiet.
I search the tables and find Lacy engrossed in a book. She must be studying. I love it!
"What's that?" I ask her, as she looks up startled and quickly sits on a book she clearly is embarrassed to be reading.
"What?" she answers back.
I point to her butt.
"This? Found it on the table. Total crap. Wasn't reading it," she says, tossing it onto a nearby shelf.
How to Find Your True Self was the book she wasn't reading. Not loving that. Now,I'm concerned.
"Are you alright?" I ask her, trying not to sound too serious.
"I'm great! What? Just taking a study break," she tells me, as she pats her messenger bag to indicate she's been working hard. "You look amazingâhappy even. What's going on with you? Wait," she sees a handsome man walk into the shop. "Did you meet someone? Oh my god, are you two engaged?"
"No," I blurt out. I look over my shoulder and notice the handsome man sit down with his attractive girlfriend. "Oh my god, no! I'm not even dating anyone." I look back at Lacy whose face is filled with disappointment that the handsome man isn't about to become her brother-in-law. "I am happy, because I landed the biggest surgery for the hospital in twenty years!"
Lacy jumps up and hugs me, "That's amazing! Congratulations!"
"And now I'm freaking out, because I have so much work to do in so little time."
"OK," she says, pulling my butt down into the chair next to hers, "first things first. What are we going to do to celebrate?"
"Nothing, didn't you hear me? I have to study."
That's all she needs to stick out her bottom lip and go full pout boogie.
"Booooo!"
I love my sister, but there comes a point when a person hits twenty years of age and things that might once have been cute quickly become plain old obnoxious.
"This is important to me, so don't pull that," I say, giving her a stern look.
"OK, fine, but your birthday is in two weeks, so I'm assuming the surgery will be done by then and we can celebrate two things at once."
Right, that. I was trying to forget about that. I'm turning thirty years old in two weeks.
"Two weeks, really?" I ask, as if the day I was born slipped my memory.
Lacy opens her phone and looks at her calendar, "Yep, two weeks. I'm so excited I get to be here for your big three-oh!"
"I hate to disappoint, but I'm not celebrating my birthday. And how long is your mid-term break exactly?" Changing the subject. This has always been my friend when I don't want to deal.
"Kate, don't redirect me. I'm not a four-year-old. We have to do something. Thirty is huge. It's a new beginning. The possibilities for change are endless."
"Really? Because it feels just like ten and eighteen and all the other birthdays when all that really happened is I aged."
"That's because you've been working your whole life. It's made you uptight."
"Thanks. It's always great to see you. I'm going to order a latte."
I'm about to get up from the table when I see the handsome man hand his beautiful date a latte where they are settled in two tables away. I don't know why, but in that moment, I have a flash of Bodhi Wells handing me my latte, rather than me having to get up, stand in line, buy my own overpriced caffeinated beverage, and return to the table he and I choose because we always come here after a tough surgery to wind down and discuss the outcome of our work. But instead I'm standing up gawking at two strangers canoodling, while my sister stares up at me with a knowing look that has never been in my favor.
"When's the last time you went on a date or just got laid?" she blurts out to me.
Why? Why me? Why do I have the sister who gives a shit about my perceived happiness?
"That long?" she asks, in a tone more indicative of an accusation than a question.
I feign trying to remember the last time, "Yeah, you know this line of questioning doesn't interest me."
My phone vibrates the table. I'm being paged. Yes, saved by work! I reach for it, but Lacy is on it.
She lifts the phone and shakes it at me, "See, this is your problem. You need to ignore work once in awhile."
"I can't ignore work. Give me that."
I reach my hand out, expecting her to behave like an adult and give it back. No such luck. She shoves it down her shirt instead and folds her arms.
"First tell me, when was the last time you got laid, and I mean laid out moaning with your legs up in the air, disco lights spinning in your brain laid."
She is serious. We are in a coffee house slash bookstore that is eerily quiet now, and she has just asked me to describe my non-existent sex life. This has got to stop.
I lean down to her and lower my voice, "If you don't mind, my brain is busy most of the time saving lives, so the disco lights not so much! I'll see you later."
And with that, I reach down my sister's shirt, dig for my phone, and discover that she is wearing no bra whatsoever, thus forcing me to reach further down and pull it all the way up from her navel. She's giggling. She thinks this is funny.
"This is not a game," I bark at her and wipe off my phone with a napkin. "This is life and death. Don't forget that."
"The disco lights were a metaphor," she laughs. Then she looks at an old woman sitting at the table next to us and says, "Although I did know a guy once."
That's when my anger began to reveal itself as shame. My younger sister and a very, very old lady gave each other a knowing look followed by the very, very old lady saying, "Yeah, you and me both, sister; you and me both."
I am suddenly ashamed to be the one who doesn't know what they are talking about.
"I'll see you later," she says, as if what just happened was no big deal. Then she turns her chair toward the very, very old lady and begins exchanging sex tips with the horny senior citizen. That conversation was no big deal to either her or the old lady, because they lost their virginity eons ago. I'm the only oneâprobably in this entire shopâwho is offended because I'm embarrassed that I don't know what the hell they are talking about. Disco lights? What does that even mean? Does it feel like spinning or do you see flashes of light? Is there music? And does it have to be disco?
I step out onto the sidewalk and hail a cab. As it pulls over, I take in the thousands of people surrounding me and wonder if they too have shared in the sensation of disco lights spinning in their brains. Has Bodhi Wells felt the disco light spinning? I try to visualize this thought, but the full image is interrupted by a very angry cab driver.
"You coming or what?" I hear him yell at me.
"Or what," I bark at him. Or what.
I sit on the torn vinyl seat, slam the door shut, and lay my head back watching the city skyline fly by as we make our way back to the hospital. What is happening to me? I'm about to embark on the surgery of my career and yet all I've been thinking about since this morning is having sex with my soon-to-be co-worker. I feel like an out of control train that is headed into a very dark tunnel with no way to turn around. I've got to get control of myself and figure out how to put on the brakes. If I don't, I could be on the verge of sabotaging an opportunity that to me is the equivalent of scoring the winning goal. I've got to get my head back into the game.