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Authors: Harry Kraus
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of following her, then skipped to catch up with the others. She knew her life would change drastically soon enough. Why rush the torture?
For most of her life, others had told her it couldn’t be done. Little girls from Stoney Creek just don’t grow up to be surgeons. Little girls should grow up to be mothers, housewives, help out on the family farm. Maybe a few could be teachers at the elementary school. Or maybe become nurses to help make ends meet when income at the shoe factory proved inadequate. But little girls don’t become surgeons, especially not girls with a father like Claire McCall’s.
For most of her life, she had refused to listen. Now, as she mingled with the other new interns, residents, and surgery-attending physicians at the exclusive Bay Club, she imagined any number of circumstances that could again block her goal. She surveyed the scene, feeling suddenly misplaced, acountry girl at a sophisticated city gala. Music from a live string quartet drifted around the tuxedoed men and their wives wearing sequined dresses. A Volkswagen-sized glass chandelier hung in a massive foyer over a fountain containing enough coins to keep Claire in groceries for a month.
She analyzed each of the other eleven interns with a critical eye, imagining their strengths and weaknesses and wondering which eight would make it to the next year. Six were married; two had children. Two were already MD, PhDs, with multiple publications in the surgical literature. Three were Harvard grads. One was from Southern California, two were from University of Michigan, one from Yale, one from Duke, two from Johns Hopkins, one from Georgetown, and one from Brighton University: Claire.
Each intern seemed so much more capable than she. Everyone was so articulate and proper. How had she traveled so far out of her league? Maybe it was all some huge computer mistake. Claire politely declined a third offer of punch, held up by a young man with a white shirt accentuated by a black bow tie, and mulled over the possibility that the computer matching program had gone awry, placing her in this elite program by mistake.
This is ridiculous, Claire mused. I ranked this program number one, and they obviously ranked me high on their list, too. There’s no mistake here. I’m just as capable as these Harvard grads. She sighed, listening to a fellow intern make a reference to an article he’d read in The New England Journal of Medicine. She drifted away from the small crowd to sample the hors d’oeuvres. Didn’t that guy know we were supposed to be on vacation since med school graduation? It sounds like he spent the last two months in the library. She smiled at the thought of the long hours she’d spent studying in the two months since her stormy graduation. The others are just like me.
“You must be Elizabeth.” A tall man with gray hair and a relaxed smile held out his hand. Claire knew who he was immediately: the general surgery residency director, Dr. Tom Rogers.
She shook his hand firmly. “Yes, but I prefer to be called Claire. It’s what I’ve been called all my life.”
“E. Claire.” His grin widened.
“Yes, sir.” She shrugged, reading his thoughts. “I’ve lived with a name that sounds more like a French pastry than a surgeon. And I grew up in a town so backwards that you couldn’t even buy French pastry there.”
“Yes. Oh,” he chortled. “Eclair.” He took a sip from a tall glass and dropped his smile. “You’ll be starting on one of the busiest rotations, our trauma service.”
“So I hear. But at least I get to work with Dr. Overby.”
“Dan-the-man,” Dr. Rogers responded reflectively, a hint of a smile returning to his face. “You’ll be glad for your sense of humor, E. Claire. Bring it with you tomorrow. You’re going to need it.”
Claire parked her aging Toyota in the driveway and fumbled with the keys to her rented brownstone house. She’d left the party early, but not until the program director
For most of her life, others had told her it couldn’t be done. Little girls from Stoney Creek just don’t grow up to be surgeons. Little girls should grow up to be mothers, housewives, help out on the family farm. Maybe a few could be teachers at the elementary school. Or maybe become nurses to help make ends meet when income at the shoe factory proved inadequate. But little girls don’t become surgeons, especially not girls with a father like Claire McCall’s.
For most of her life, she had refused to listen. Now, as she mingled with the other new interns, residents, and surgery-attending physicians at the exclusive Bay Club, she imagined any number of circumstances that could again block her goal. She surveyed the scene, feeling suddenly misplaced, acountry girl at a sophisticated city gala. Music from a live string quartet drifted around the tuxedoed men and their wives wearing sequined dresses. A Volkswagen-sized glass chandelier hung in a massive foyer over a fountain containing enough coins to keep Claire in groceries for a month.
She analyzed each of the other eleven interns with a critical eye, imagining their strengths and weaknesses and wondering which eight would make it to the next year. Six were married; two had children. Two were already MD, PhDs, with multiple publications in the surgical literature. Three were Harvard grads. One was from Southern California, two were from University of Michigan, one from Yale, one from Duke, two from Johns Hopkins, one from Georgetown, and one from Brighton University: Claire.
Each intern seemed so much more capable than she. Everyone was so articulate and proper. How had she traveled so far out of her league? Maybe it was all some huge computer mistake. Claire politely declined a third offer of punch, held up by a young man with a white shirt accentuated by a black bow tie, and mulled over the possibility that the computer matching program had gone awry, placing her in this elite program by mistake.
This is ridiculous, Claire mused. I ranked this program number one, and they obviously ranked me high on their list, too. There’s no mistake here. I’m just as capable as these Harvard grads. She sighed, listening to a fellow intern make a reference to an article he’d read in The New England Journal of Medicine. She drifted away from the small crowd to sample the hors d’oeuvres. Didn’t that guy know we were supposed to be on vacation since med school graduation? It sounds like he spent the last two months in the library. She smiled at the thought of the long hours she’d spent studying in the two months since her stormy graduation. The others are just like me.
“You must be Elizabeth.” A tall man with gray hair and a relaxed smile held out his hand. Claire knew who he was immediately: the general surgery residency director, Dr. Tom Rogers.
She shook his hand firmly. “Yes, but I prefer to be called Claire. It’s what I’ve been called all my life.”
“E. Claire.” His grin widened.
“Yes, sir.” She shrugged, reading his thoughts. “I’ve lived with a name that sounds more like a French pastry than a surgeon. And I grew up in a town so backwards that you couldn’t even buy French pastry there.”
“Yes. Oh,” he chortled. “Eclair.” He took a sip from a tall glass and dropped his smile. “You’ll be starting on one of the busiest rotations, our trauma service.”
“So I hear. But at least I get to work with Dr. Overby.”
“Dan-the-man,” Dr. Rogers responded reflectively, a hint of a smile returning to his face. “You’ll be glad for your sense of humor, E. Claire. Bring it with you tomorrow. You’re going to need it.”
Claire parked her aging Toyota in the driveway and fumbled with the keys to her rented brownstone house. She’d left the party early, but not until the program director
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