Chapter 27
“So, Jules, what draws you to medicine?” The head of immunology research stares at me from behind a pair of thick black glasses. The two other doctors beside him form a formidable wall of navy-blue blazers and intellect.
I clench my hands into fists to keep from wiping them on my skirt and remind myself that there is a reason I am here—or, if I’m being exact, twenty-three of them.
I think of Mr. Minard spending nights away from his own bed because he can’t get the care he needs in West Lake for a simple case of pneumonia, or of Mr. McNaught and his morning trips to Lou’s and how for him, coffee and hash browns are the best forms of medicine.
I even think of Mrs. Hail and her cigarettes.
“I have worked in a retirement home for the last two years.” My voice cracks, and I catch the immunologist wincing, but I pause, take a deep breath, and clear my throat.
“I have seen the difference access to good quality healthcare can make in a community, not only in diagnosing illness quickly but also in building trusting relationships with patients so that they are not afraid to seek out treatment because of long wait times or being transferred out of town for overnight stays.”
I think about Sunnyvale and how, even though there are big holes in the healthcare system, our residents are mostly thriving.
“I read a brilliant paper once that said loneliness is as harmful to our health and longevity as smoking fifteen cigarettes a day. And the population that is at most risk is older adults. But I have also seen what happens when seniors feel like they have a special place within their community and people of varying ages they can talk to—it can make such a tremendous difference when it comes to quality of life. My hope is to advance my education in medicine so that I can work hand in hand with those in geriatric care positions to further these types of programs with the idea that the best type of medicine is often preventative care.”
I finally look at the panel. I see the head of immunology exchange glances with a leading neurologist at one of Toronto’s most prestigious hospitals. If I were to describe their expressions, I’d say they look surprised. Dare I say it—even a little impressed.
“So, is that where you envision using your medical education?” The head of immunology checks her papers. “In West Lake?”
“Yes.” I have zero doubts as the answer leaves my mouth.
“We need more qualified doctors in Bruce County, although we are in a better position than some remote communities farther north, where there are still thirty thousand people without a family doctor. My ideal scenario would be to work hard, become the best doctor I can be, and then return home—hopefully, to put a dent in that statistic, or at least the urgent care wait times.”
This answer earns me a laugh. The tension breaks enough that I unclench my hands and draw my first full, deep breath of the day.
My interview continues for the better part of an hour. I’m asked about what I think are the best qualities in a physician, my experiences working with sick people, and my own qualities that would enable me to succeed in the field.
I talk about compassion and communication and recognizing that especially when it comes to planning for end-of-life, “a doctor needs to clearly lay out the risks and outcomes but also respect that quality of life plays into a patient’s decision.”
I even manage to turn my glass-not-always-full realism into a strength. “I am not an optimist. But I am straightforward and able to clearly outline the most likely outcomes and their probabilities, which often helps families create a realistic plan when faced with a serious medical concern.”
My answers draw more impressed eyebrows and encouraging nods, almost as if they can tell that I’m not spouting the bullshit they want to hear—as if they can sense it comes straight from my heart.
When I finally shake their hands and leave, I’m feeling like all the best parts of me showed up—if U of T rejects me, that’s on them, but if I lose out, it isn’t because I held back.
I make my way through the winding paths of the downtown campus in a sort of residual euphoric fog, imagining myself grabbing a coffee as I take a break from an all-day study session or zipping from building to building because I’ve scheduled myself in back-to-back classes.
I somehow make it to the coffee shop, my cheeks stretched so wide that they ache as I push open the door.
Reeve stands when the bell above the door dings, as if he has been watching and waiting. When our eyes meet, he raises his hands in a victorious V, whooping so loud half the coffee shop turns their heads as he opens his arms, waiting for me to crash into them.
And I do. Oh, how I do—my body trembling with all of the adrenaline it’s been holding all morning.
“So it was good?” he breathes into my hair, still holding me tight.
“So good.”
“Everything you hoped for then?” He pulls away, his palm gently tracing the length of my jaw before he presses a kiss to my forehead.
And I feel it—that little flicker of hope igniting.
Normally I’d expel it. Extinguish it. Banish it to some dark corner where it could never burn me.
But today, I hold on to it and bask in its glow.