Chapter One
Some things that I found fascinating: the geometric designs of flowers, the way rectal polyps reminded me of raspberries, the number of penises I saw in a day, and lacerating this infected lesion so that the swollen cocoon of skin around it deflated like a saggy balloon. Oddly mesmerizing.
As I finished the debridement and meticulously applied a padded wound VAC and sterile dressing around it, I nodded proudly at my work, as if saying: Fine job. Another beautiful fix, and another infection case to add to my research project.
As a fourth-year medical resident, I saw patients on my own and treated them, with a physician’s sign-off. As chief resident, I’d just gotten off night call but had to cover for a sick colleague, since no one else could; I still had the holiday schedule to work out for fellow residents, plus their final assignments; and I was a million days behind in my work presentation on infectious diseases. But thanks to this new patient, I met the minimum requirements for case studies. This presentation queen was on her way, giddy with the thought of color-coordinated cards. First came prep, then wowing my boss enough to land the one coveted open position at this practice.
I’d interviewed two weeks ago and was slowly crumpling from the suspense. However! Every day that passed without a decision meant I was still in the running, and every day that I was in the running was another chance to show my worth.
I went over care instructions with the patient and called in the receptionist to set him up with a visit to the wound care clinic for further treatment.
“Thank you. Thank you so much, Doctor,” he said effusively, offering his hand for a shake after I removed my gown and gloves.
I glanced at his outstretched palm, a request for something so common, for reasons beyond me. Not wanting him to feel that my response to reject his handshake had anything to do with him, but rather everything to do with my touch aversion, I smiled. “So glad to help. It’s what we’re here for,” I said as I went to the sink to wash my hands.
Family practice wasn’t always a walk in the park, but the rewards were immense. Helping people, breaking symptoms down to find diagnoses, prognosis, and treatment, was the most fulfilling job in existence. Developing lifelong relationships with patients was a major bonus. I couldn’t imagine doing anything else with the rest of my life.
I scrubbed my hands to death in the patient’s room before leaving. Then again in the locker room for good measure before changing into my dress pants. Life hack: pull-on pants are as comfortable as scrubs, which are in fact as comfy as pajamas. I declined an invitation to go out for drinks with the other residents and hurried out the door, checking my watch, on the way to my tenth interview in the past three months.
Traffic had nefarious plans to thwart my punctuality, causing me to be fifteen minutes late. Which, in turn, diverted my focus. I stuttered, shook, and tripped over answers…no wonder the interviewing doctors seemed eager to get me out of their space.
Every day had its ups and downs, but this down felt deeper than it had been in weeks. My residency was up in two months, and not having a permanent job yet had my stress skyrocketing.
My chest ached. There was no worse feeling than the anxiety that came from not acing something so important. My headache started before I reached my car and then worsened into a stabbing pain.
“Crap,” I muttered. I turned on my calming app to help alleviate some stress before heading to the apartment.
My roommate, Reema, was due to return this weekend from her honeymoon, with a new husband attached, and three made for an awkward crowd.
Rohan had given up his place to move in with Reema, seeing that our apartment was bigger and conveniently located for both of their jobs. That left me in search of a new place. Something I should’ve found by now, but as it turned out, there was such a thing as losing an apartment if you didn’t sign the lease in time.
By the time I parked and pried my fists off the steering wheel, they were aching from the death grip. My heart pounded and a dizzy spell bore down on my thoughts, my head crowded with haunting missteps from interviews past and trying to figure out where to live. The hospital might not approve of me utilizing the on-call room as a permanent residence.
I could move back home with my parents, since they kept offering, but the drive from their place to the hospital and clinic was too far.
Reema and Rohan weren’t heartless, though. They would let me stay a bit longer. Things were okay. No need to panic. Calm down. Reema was like the mom in our tight circle of friends. She kept us all in line and brought profound wisdom. And a mom wouldn’t just kick a roomie out if they didn’t have a place to stay.
I walked up the open staircase to the third floor, my backpack full of textbooks and a laptop, while responding to texts and managing to trip only twice.
Reema: Hi! Sorry to bother you, hon, but do you mind bringing in the delivery Rohan received, if you’re going to be there? We got a notification it arrived earlier today. It’s his new desk!
Me: OfC! Hope you’re having a fantastic time!
Reema: It’s perfect! We’re so ready to jumpstart all of our plans when we get home. But first honeymoon calls. ;)
They had lots of plans, all right. Rohan worked from home twice a week and his first goal was to have an office ready to go. AKA my room.
I felt like a college kid who realized their parents had turned their bedroom into the hobby room they’d always wanted. There was no moving back home after that. There was no staying for me.
Time to woman up and live on my own. Just until my own wedding, which seemed to be nipping at my heels. My body wanted to shut down at the thought. Marriage wasn’t always about love and connection. Sometimes it was about fulfilling happiness in other ways: duty and honor and moving forward with life. But in my case, moving forward meant having to scale a massive wall studded with the jagged edges of my emotions.
A giant box at the door glared at me as if it had won a battle. It had. It was taking my room from me.
After unlocking the front door and depositing my backpack on the couch, I lugged in the box. It was so wide I could barely get my scrawny arms around it. I channeled all of my effort into my legs, grunting the whole time. Ugh. I should’ve done more weight training and less cardio.
With a final pant, I pushed the box into the center of the living room, between the back of the couch and the hallway. It wasn’t the best place, but neither was my still-intact bedroom.
Exhausted, I showered, slipped into my favorite pair of pink sweatpants and a T-shirt, and heated up dinner. There was just enough space beside the box to ease onto a barstool.
I called Liya as I ate generous wedding-food leftovers. Couldn’t let it go to waste! And not just reception dishes, but snacks from the actual wedding and food from the events leading up to it. Cake was next. There was this thing, apparently, where couples froze the top tier of their wedding cake to eat on their first anniversary, but Reema and Rohan wouldn’t have any left at this rate.
“Hello, love!” Liya said in an unexpectedly affectionate and energetic voice. She was the wild, fearless one in our group of four, and hearing this unusual sweetness from her had me wondering what she was up to.
“Um. Hello. Love?”
“I’m trying it out. What are you doing?”
“Eating wedding food.”