A White Coat Is My Closet (14 page)

Slowly, I began to regain my composure and my brain began to form a more coherent stream of thought. As the element of surprise started to dissipate, it was replaced by an undercurrent of anger.

When I did answer, my words were carefully chosen and my voice carried an imposed measure of calm. “I assure you, I wasn’t looking at anything. Initially, I thought you looked familiar, but I haven’t been able to remember from where I might know you. Really, I’m just trying to enjoy a quiet dinner with my friend.”

Interpreting my response as being dismissive, he became even angrier. “Quiet dinner? Right! I don’t know where you faggots get off thinking you have the right to flaunt your perverted life style in public, but it gives me a pain in the ass. And I resent the fact that you’ve spent your whole night looking at me. Keep your goddamn eyes in your own fucking head.”

The situation was really heating up. “Perverted life style?” Declan echoed, and I had to insist he sit back down. Despite the fact that he was a pretty easygoing guy, when he was provoked, he wouldn’t hesitate to come out swinging. Also, Declan could bench press 245 without breaking a sweat and, having been raised in the Midwest, he was well accustomed to using his fists when homophobes decided to entertain themselves by tormenting him.

By this time, his wife’s pleas had also reached the volume of normal conversation. She was visibly trying to restrain her husband. But he wasn’t to be dissuaded, and his hateful rhetoric continued. Directed at her for the time being, but intended for our provocation.

“I think that they have the right idea in Uganda. Fags should just be put to death. No questions asked. Not only is that a surefire way to cleanse the gene pool, but it brings the world back to the natural order God intended.”

Declan had yet to enter into the fray, but I was sure that the guy’s last comment would send him into a ballistic tirade for retribution. Though I put my hand across the table to prevent Declan from getting up, I was simultaneously struck by my subconscious ambivalence about stopping him. Part of me was enthused about the prospect of both of us beating the shit out of the guy. Fortunately, however, the higher functioning parts of my brain realized that a public brawl could put my medical license in jeopardy.

In that exact moment, the adrenaline surge pounding through my brain produced a miracle of clear thinking. From out of the blue, I remembered where I recognized the guy from. I was suddenly overcome with a renewed sense of calm. The effect must have been impressive, because Declan, whose face was contorted with anger, also seemed to relax when he saw my expression. Almost telepathically, he picked up on the understanding that this conflict was going be resolved and it would be resolved in our favor. Without prompting, he sat back down and let the tension flow out of his taut muscles.

I took a few moments to compose myself, then turned to face the guy. He must have interpreted my calm demeanor as a concession of defeat, because his expression resonated smug satisfaction. He probably felt he had succeeded in putting us in our place.

When I did speak, my voice was clear and authoritative. I ignored the guy and instead addressed my comments to his wife. “I apologize if you were made to feel uncomfortable this evening. It took me a while to remember why your husband looked familiar to me. I believe that your daughter, Sophie Carson, was born at Mount Zion Hospital five or six months ago. You had an emergency cesarean, and Sophie was admitted to the neonatal intensive care unit. I’m Dr. Sheldon. I’m the pediatrician who was in the delivery room. I saved her life.”

In that instant, you could have heard a pin drop. I stared at Mr. Carson. Whereas seconds before his face had been flushed with anger, it now went completely pale. The blood ran out of it like air escaping a balloon. He slumped in his chair and his lips started opening and closing without emitting any sound. His wife looked horrified. She glanced disappointedly at her husband then looked at me. I stood, pulled my jacket off the back of the chair, and reached for my car keys. I noticed that the couple behind us was now silent. I knew they had overheard the entire exchange, and though they were holding their utensils over their plates, neither of them was eating. They were just looking at me. They seemed to be embarrassed but also somehow emboldened. I think, even as spectators, they were feeling my vindication.

I understood why Becky Carson would not have recognized me. My interaction with her and been brief. I had only spoken to her when we were in the delivery room, and at the time, she had been completely consumed with worry about Sophie. In addition, our entire conversation occurred while she was on the operating-room table. Not an optimal scenario to make a lasting impression. Not only had she been held down by monitors and IV tubing, but she was completely stressed and disoriented.

But I had spent more time with Greg Carson. He had accompanied me when Sophie was transported up to the NICU. Not only had we spoken at length, but at the time, his gratitude toward me had been overwhelming. He had all but wept in my arms. Looking back on it, though, I understood why he might not have immediately recognized me sitting across from him in the restaurant. During our encounter at the hospital, I’d never removed my scrub cap. Dressed in standard-issue scrubs, with my hair covered by the cap, I was anonymous. Now dressed like a civilian and out of the context of the hospital, it was no wonder he hadn’t recognized me.

I remembered him, though. His eyes were the giveaway. I remembered them. I remembered how his sorrowful, pain-stricken eyes had become jubilant when I’d declared with great confidence that his daughter was going to live. I now remembered the intensity of the situation like it was yesterday: pulling Sophie narrowly from the jaws of death—the tears, the heartfelt appreciation, and the declaration that he’d be forever indebted to me.

I looked at Declan, who himself was kind of reeling in amazement. “You ready to get out of here?” I asked, “It’s a little stuffy in here.”

“Yeah,” he replied, a smile spreading across his face. “Way stuffy!” Then, not being able to resist he said, “Ignorance can be really stifling.”

As we headed for the door, Mrs. Carson stood up and grabbed my arm. She was tearful. “Dr. Sheldon, I would like to apologize for my husband’s behavior.”

I looked at her and then glanced at her husband. He was just staring blindly into his plate. His arms were resting limply on the table, supporting him just enough to prevent him from falling into his green tea ice cream. The blood still hadn’t returned to his cheeks, and he had the expression of a man who had just witnessed a fatal car accident.

“You don’t need to apologize for him,” I said, trying to force a little warmth into my tone. I turned and had begun to follow Declan to the exit when I had an afterthought. I reversed my direction and faced her again.

“I just hope you teach that precious little daughter of yours better. She’s a miracle and shouldn’t have to grow up in a world made ugly by bigots.”

I left without even hazarding a parting glance at Mr. Carson. I figured he had enough problems. Not only was I sure he was going to have to endure his wife’s profound embarrassment and disappointment, but I suspected he had some more deeply seated issues that, in the future, might become more difficult to fully conceal.

T
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next four days couldn’t have dragged by any more slowly if you had captured time in a bottle and encased it in lead. While I was working, if I was specifically involved in caring for patients, I was able to remain focused, but otherwise I was completely distracted. I found myself glancing at my watch every fifteen minutes, willing the day to be over. I had been on call that Wednesday night, and though it hadn’t been particularly busy, I still hadn’t been able to take advantage of any opportunities to sleep. Usually, if there was a lull between admissions, I would return to the call room and fall asleep within seconds. I would savor those little interludes to try to partially recuperate from an otherwise grueling shift. That night, however, it was useless. The minute my head hit the pillow I would begin thinking about the upcoming weekend, and my mind would race with anticipation. The prospect of spending the day with Sergio affected my body more than a triple shot of espresso.

No matter how you sliced it, though, I had to get through one more day of work, so as best I could, I tried to push thoughts of Sergio out of my mind. I looked at my watch. This would probably be as good a time as any to grab a bite to eat. I shook my head to focus and headed toward the cafeteria, where I knew a number of the other residents would already be congregated.

As was usually the case, I had just sat down at a table on the outdoor patio to join some of my colleagues for lunch when my beeper vibrated. “Shit,” I whispered under my breath as I peeled the despicable little black mechanism off my belt to read the number. It was as if it was programmed to go off the minute my ass hit the seat of a chair to relax for a few seconds. If I recognized the number, I would sometimes opt to put off calling back for five or ten minutes so I could consume half my meal before responding to the pending crisis. One time, I returned a page only to discover that the call had originated from medical records department and it was some secretary insisting a bunch of charts required my immediate signature. Hell with them; I wasn’t going to provoke indigestion for the sake of completely bullshit paperwork. This time, however, I was directed to call the hospital page operator and the numbers on the readout were followed by 911, indicating that it was an emergency.

“Damn, guys,” I said apologetically, though everyone picked up on the irritation in my voice. “It’s a STAT page. I gotta go answer this. Don’t let anyone steal my plate. I’m gonna try to be right back.”

My friends teased me but were sympathetic. “Better you than me,” Beth said. “I’m eating for two and can’t afford to miss a meal.” She smiled warmly while pulling her plate closer to the edge of the table. Because she was in her third trimester of pregnancy, her ample stomach still put her a foot away from the breast of chicken she was trying unsuccessfully to cut. “Though, by the looks of things”—she paused a second to grit her teeth—“you’re not missing anything. This crap is made of rubber.”

I couldn’t help but find her endearing. She was wicked smart, a good team player, and a hard worker. I loved being on the same service as her. I was not, of course, going to give her the satisfaction of knowing how much I admired her. “At least I didn’t get myself knocked up to get out of doing any of the tough rotations.”

She grinned at my dig only because she knew I was kidding—the respect we had for one another was mutual. “Child, if you could have been knocked up, you would have beaten me to the punch a long time ago. It’s just that your ass is too damn ugly to get any attention from anyone.” She stopped cutting long enough to flick her knife in my direction. “Now, speaking of ugly asses, you’d better get yours moving, answer that page, and let the rest of us eat in peace.”

The fact that her flippant remark caused a chorus of laughter from the rest of the table brought her overwhelming satisfaction. She really was a hoot, and I laughed too. Had she known that I was gay, she might have thought twice about broadcasting the action status of my ass, but at least with regard to my sexuality, she couldn’t have been more clueless. As a matter of fact, on a few occasions she had intimated that were she not already married, she would have wanted to cozy up to me on a cold night on call. When the innocent flirtation had occurred between us, I tried my best to look appropriately disappointed and had even tried to throw out the subtle inference that I, too, had spent time imagining the possibilities. I pasted on my patented sad-puppy-dog eyes and telepathically conveyed to her that I understood the injustice of it all. “To have the delicate petals of an exotic flower just within my grasp but, alas, still out of reach.” Thank God I had an excuse. Those petals… not my cup of tea.

She put her fork down and pushed her hair out of her eyes. The grin she threw my way was triumphant, but her expression radiated real warmth. “Don’t worry, if you don’t get back before we finish, I’ll wrap something up and save it for you. I have to keep you healthy so when I do finally have this baby, you’ll be able to pick up all of my shifts while I’m on maternity leave.”

“Yeah,” I teased in retaliation, “and I hope that when have your baby you’ll end up needing a huge episiotomy!”

“Ouch,” she said with a grimace, “now you’re fighting dirty.” She waved her knife more menacingly. “If I do end up with an episiotomy, it will be because you willed it to happen, and I’ll have no choice but to hunt you down and perform a similar procedure on you. Hope it’s been your life’s dream to sing soprano.”

“Okay, you win.” I walked away from the table with my hands protectively shielding my groin. “My wish for you is that you pass that baby like a bar of soap. Now, protect my plate.”

I went into the corridor just off the main entrance of the cafeteria and picked up the in-house phone. “This is Dr. Sheldon. I was paged.”