Nandini
“You’re the doctor?” Sarah, a twenty-year-old new patient who came in for her annual physical, squints her eyes at Nandini.
“I am.” Nandini extends her hand. “Dr. Mehta.”
Sarah offers a weak laugh, as if to give away her own embarrassment. “Oh. Nice to meet you, too. I thought you were just the nurse.”
“No, you were with our nurse five minutes ago. Our very hardworking, smart nurse,” Nandini says to make sure Sarah knows “just the nurse” is an unacceptable phrase. “And I’m the doctor. Your doctor. Nice to meet you.”
Though her words are poised and polite, there’s a palpable firmness underneath them.
“I see.” Sarah shakes her head. “I’m sorry about my, er, confusion.”
Nandini nods. After all the years Nandini’s spent studying, all the patients she’s tested and embraced and saved, she is still questioned about being a doctor on a daily basis. Never mind that medical school classes now have more women than men. Never mind that she got the highest board scores in her class.
She’ll never forget the words from her first attending in residency, a chubby Russian man whose thin strip of hair provided a feeble attempt to cover his bald spot: “You have a lot going against you. First, you’re short. Second, you’re Indian. Third, you’re an immigrant. And last, you’re a woman.” He held up four sausage-like fingers to indicate how many traits she had to work against. Four, as if he was simply making a grocery list and not breaking down her identity.
Her phone rings as she listens to Sarah’s heart and lungs. It rings again as she tests her knee jerk reflex with the smooth, silver hammer. When she reaches into the bottom right pocket of her white coat to silence it, she sees five missed calls.
Meghna Ben has called her five times.
What could be so urgent? She almost apologizes to Sarah but notices that Sarah’s too absorbed in her own iPhone to even notice Nandini’s distraction.
Nandini steps into the cramped hallway that always smells like a mixture of antiseptic, pus, and the metallic tang of medical instruments. Her next patient, Melissa, is already checked in. She’s in her standard outfit of a short skirt and crop top. She’s also over three hundred pounds. Professionally, Nandini knows she’s supposed to counsel Melissa on the importance of routine exercise and a healthy diet. Personally, Nandini is in awe of Melissa’s self-confidence in the midst of a world that promotes women hating their bodies.
She waves to Melissa. “I’ll be with you in a couple of minutes.”
Melissa waves back and displays a fresh acrylic manicure. Nandini steps into the storage room that’s filled with forever-needing-to-be-shredded patient files and broken office chairs.
If she doesn’t finish Sarah’s appointment soon, she’ll be behind for the rest of her day. Her clinic books the doctors in fifteen-minute appointment slots. Nandini’s supposed to make every patient feel comfortable, cared for, and examined without even having time to review their medical records, let alone ask them about their lives. She never has time to eat breakfast or lunch. Often, when she’s struggling to write notes at the end of the day, she remembers labs she forgot to order, doctors she didn’t have the chance to consult with.
Nandini still doesn’t know how the other four family medicine doctors do it. Their boss, the medical director of the clinic, meets with them monthly and pushes them to be “more efficient” and “a better team player,” all phrases that are code for “make the clinic more money.” When Nandini was hired, she asked why the female doctors made less than the male ones. He responded by asking her if she was going to go part time “the way all the female doctors do.”
Nandini clutches her stomach. She always has a pit of dread when her alarm goes off and she pictures the exhausting day unraveling in front of her. Every morning, she tells herself to stop feeling sorry for herself and start accepting reality. This is what her days look like. This is her life. There is no use dwelling on its difficulties.
It’s just that . . . she didn’t see her career turning out this way. In residency, she enjoyed making study guides for her co-residents and explaining complicated protocols to the interns. People told her she had a talent for teaching. She always saw herself as her own boss, splitting time between guiding residents and managing a private practice where she could spend quality time with each patient.
But after Ranjit set up his own private practice to see his surgery patients, there was no way for Nandini to establish a space of her own. Every day, a family member or friend needed her to look at their sprained ankle or recommend cholesterol medications or ask her what to take for a sore throat. She tried to discuss the situation with her husband, but his silence was enough. It was expected for her to take care of other people before cultivating her own ambition. Working for a larger clinic close to their house ensured she would have stable, predictable hours and be available whenever anyone needed her.
Over time, Nandini understood the difference between how people saw her husband’s career and how they saw her own. He was allowed to be consumed by his job. If he made it to Ronak’s baseball game, people lauded his devotion to his children. If she did the same, they accused her of not being focused enough on her career.
She stares at her phone again. What could this possibly be about? Did something happen to Meghna? To Kunal? Are they upset about the venue that was picked? Do they hate the photographers?
Nandini ignores the twisting in her stomach. Stop catastrophizing. While she was being treated for the postpartum depression only Mami knew about, Nandini started having panic attacks. First, they happened only in the hospital, but after a few months, they would catch her off guard throughout the day. She felt herself falling into an abyss, losing touch with her surroundings as her breathing shortened, her legs gave out, and she was convinced she’d die.
Her therapist taught her about how to control her thoughts when they spiraled out of control. Look at rational evidence. Focus on her breathing. Try to stay in the present.
Since then, a dormant panic continued to linger inside of her, intertwined with her spine or hooked below her sternum. She pictures it now, a collection of energy anchoring and growing roots. A threat.
She finishes seeing her last patients of the day and walks to the front desk to fill out billing forms.
One of the clinic nurses, Lila, stops her in the hallway. “I’m sorry, Dr. Mehta, but two people showed up, and they said they have to see you.”
“Me?” Nandini asks. “Are you sure?”
“I am. They’re asking to see you as soon as possible.” Lila gives her an apologetic smile. “Hopefully it won’t take too long.”
Nandini always appreciated the way Lila gave difficult news. She wasn’t sure if it was her purple-and-pink-flowered scrubs or big, Julia Roberts–style smile, but Lila could always say things in a way that made people feel comforted.