After tossing my bag into a large suitcase, I zip it up and roll it toward the front door. This way, after supper with my family, I can have the car swing by my place and, within minutes, be back on the road on my way to Laguardia and my new life.
My last day at work flies by with record speed. Two heart attacks, one second-degree burn, one injured biker who played chicken with a taxicab and lost, two cases of pneumonia, two stab wounds, and a burst appendix. Being an emergency room doctor in the Big Apple is nothing if not exciting. Which is exactly why I’m leaving.
Three months ago, there was a subway accident that brought thirty-seven wounded into our ER. Thirty-seven men, woman, and, yes, children. It was my day off, but I was called in. My co-workers and I worked for ten long hours, treating lesser injuries and prepping the more extensive cases for surgery. It was grueling and awful, and honestly, more than I could process.
We get a lot of gory wounds in the city, but they usually come in one at a time. Thirty-seven at once was a life-changing event, especially as we lost a record twenty. After a week of getting practically no sleep, I started to see a therapist. Two sessions in, she asked if I’d ever thought about working in a less stressful environment.
“I’m an emergency room doctor,” I told her. “ERs are traumatic by nature.”
“True,” she agreed. “But they’re not all as intense as the ones in New York City.”
While that might seem like an obvious statement, her words hit me like a football to the side of the head. I didn’t have to work in the city. I could easily take a job upstate, or in Connecticut. There were plenty of smaller towns within commuting distance if I decided I wanted to keep living in New York. That same week, I contacted a headhunting firm and told them I was considering relocating. My criteria included a smaller hospital, a town with a lower crime rate, and somewhere along the Eastern seaboard. I got everything except for the location part.
One month later, I received an offer from a hospital in Wisconsin. Elk Lake is a smallish vacation community in the southern part of the state. While not in my preferred area, I was immediately enchanted when I saw the pictures on the internet. Each image looked like an old-timey postcard.
The lake itself was full of small boats surrounded by sandy beaches hosting joyful families and assorted sun worshippers. Main Street was straight out of one of those old Judy Garland movies my grandmother used to love. The hospital looked like a doll house version of New York Presbyterian.
I told myself there was no way I could live in such a small town, yet I couldn’t seem to get Elk Lake out of my mind. So much so, I agreed to take a meeting with the hospital board. I figured seeing it with my own eyes would either make it obvious I was crazy to consider such a move, or it would seal my fate. It did the latter.
After meeting with Constance Brucker, the hospital administrator, I signed a one-year contract. She wanted a three-year commitment, but I talked her down. While my heart wastelling me this move was the right thing, my head still wasn’t sure.
The hostess at Croquette greets me flirtatiously. “Dr. Culpepper, how nice to see you again.” Her eyes make the slow peruse from the top of my head to my work loafers. “Your parents and sister are waiting for you.” She purrs like a spoiled Siamese offering to share her bowl of cream.
Avoiding extended eye contact, I follow her toward my parents’ favorite table situated under an impressive chandelier. My dad looks tired but even so, his crow’s feet are pointed upward in joy at being back at my mother’s side.
My mom is wearing a classic black St. John pantsuit that makes her look formidable. She calls her wardrobe her armor, and it’s a fitting description. My sister, Vivienne, is the only one not dressed for an upscale Manhattan eatery. She’s wearing overalls that are covered in paint, and her auburn hair is pulled back in a messy ponytail. She’s an artist who specializes in giant canvases, ensuring she’s often covered from head to toe in her medium.
My family greets me like they haven’t seen me in a year. Dad stands up and gives me a hug. “Son, how have you been?”
My sister throws her napkin at me and laments, “I can’t believe you’re leaving us!”
My mother merely turns her head to the side for a kiss on the cheek. Once I’ve performed my duty, she tells my sister, “He’ll be back.”
Sitting down in the empty chair across from my family matriarch, I tell her, “In a year, maybe. But then again, maybe not.”
“I don’t believe that for a minute.” She focuses on her menu before deciding, “I’m getting the roasted chicken.”
My dad smiles at her. “You know you want the Bolognese.”
“I already had pasta once this week,” she declares. “Too many carbs will make me look like a manicotti.”
“What ifIget the Bolognese?” he asks her. “Will you share it with me?”
“Do what you want, Jason.” The small upturn at the corners of her mouth says it all. As long as she orders something healthy, she can eat as much of his food as she wants without feeling any guilt about it.
My parents have a love story for the ages. I dream of having the same kind of relationship someday, but thus far that hasn’t been in the stars for me. While I’ve dated quite a bit, the life of an ER doctor isn’t always conducive to a fulfilling social life.
Meeting women can also be a challenge. Dating within the medical field might sound ideal, but if you don’t work the same shifts, you never see each other. And if you do have the same schedule, you wind up talking about work so much it feels like you never get away from it.
My sister announces, “I’m going to have the roasted vegetable and couscous salad. Then I’m getting the crème brûlée for dessert.” Vivienne never likes to start a meal without knowing how it’s going to end.
“We can getonefor the table,” my mom tells her pointedly while shifting her gaze to my sister’s attire. Even though she’s stopped complaining about Vivie’s clothing, she still likes to make it known she doesn’t support her bohemian ways.
“Youget one for the table,” Vivienne hisses. “I’m not sharing.” My sister doesn’t enjoy our mother’s favorite pastime of counting calories like the success of our species depends upon it.
After telling the waiter what we want, I announce, “My realtor found a nice house for me to rent near the hospital. It has three bedrooms and two baths so there’s plenty of room for all of you to come visit me.”
“You can walk to work then.” Vivie sounds relieved on my behalf.
