Chapter Four
Once I entered the OR I no longer thought about Joel or Dr. Sloan—other things occupied me. The OR had its own life as if it was a separate unit from the entire hospital. The intensity of the place made it powerful. The surgical team’s high level of adrenaline let them do and say things that would not be heard or seen outside of those oversized, heavy double doors. Not everybody loved it, but I did. Again and again I was fascinated by the blade, the incision, the blood, the drama, the stress, the unknown, the crisis, the solution, the resolution, and the correction—the saving and loss of life, the success and the failure. It was a place like no other.
As soon as I was done in the OR, I left and started my rounds. I dealt mostly with the routine. Everything went along as usual until I heard the overhead pager announcement. “Code 99—fifth floor—bay 6—code 99—fifth floor—bay 6.”
“Shit,” I said and rushed to the fifth floor—the neonatal department. By the time I entered the place the entire team was working, the pediatrician and the anesthesiologist along with two nurses. It was so hectic that I could not see the victim. The four adults and their four pairs of hands hid the tiny little newborn. I looked at the monitor, listened to their talk, and determined that I was not needed. Still, I did not leave but made myself available in the event that they would need help. It was my job to attend and stay for any emergency until resolved. Not to mention the amount of paperwork that I was required to complete after the fact.
“Come on, little man. Don’t die on me now.” I talked to myself when I saw the monitor displaying a long straight line. And I prayed, and I hoped, but it didn’t seem to help.
“Call it,” the anesthesiologist said to the pediatrician and everybody lifted their eyes from the preemie and looked at the monitor. It took a few long seconds before the verdict was heard.
“Time of death, twelve-twenty three,” the pediatrician said and the team of four stepped back.
“Damn it,” the pediatrician said in a frustrated voice while he ungloved himself. He grabbed the chart and sat in the chair at the nurses’ station, holding his head in his hands.
“Let’s see,” he said as he opened the chart. “Is Sloan here today?” he asked.
“Yes, he is,” I answered.
“Can you page him for me? He delivered this baby.”
“Sure,” I said as I picked up the phone.
Losing a patient was never an easy thing. You always questioned yourself—did you really do it all, did you do something wrong? It is this kind of thing that you cannot get immune to. No matter how many patients you lose or how long you have been in practice. It is one of those things that will bother you for a long time, maybe forever—an incident that will continue to come back and haunt you, almost as if it is your shadow.
“So what happened?” I asked the pediatrician.
“I have no clue. I guess we’ll have to wait for the autopsy.”
“Are you kidding me? Did you forget where we are? There’s no way you will get consent for an autopsy. Not in this place.”
“You’re right. How could I forget? Sometimes I wonder if I’m a real Jew. There are so many things I don’t agree with. Are you sure these people don’t make up all these rules?” he said with a chuckle and went back to his charting. “And by the way,” he continued as I was on my way out, “next time, don’t ask me the cause of death—I’m not God—how would I know?”
The rest of my night was consumed by that incident. There was a lot to deal with—a family that, until two hours earlier, had no reason to worry about their newborn baby, but now had to deal with his death, a mother to be transferred from the L&D floor to the Gynecology floor, and endless paperwork to complete. And the worst part was dealing with the body.
Since Sloan was the one who had delivered this baby, we had a lot in common that night. But it remained professional, no tricky answers and no double messages.
He stopped by my office a few minutes before seven, on his way out. “Are you okay?”
“I’m fine. Thank you for asking.”
“Hang in there. I’ll see you soon.” He gave me that penetrating look and left.
From that morning on, not one day went by that I didn’t think about Dr. Sloan. His name didn’t cross my lips, though it did glide through my thoughts all too often.
A few days later, on a Friday night, Joel and I were playing out our boring routine—a movie and dinner. I was determined that this would be the night. I was tired of his games and could not take any more of the sexual frustration.
Joel was quick to set the ambiance—a select bottle of wine and classical music, more in particular, opera—Luciano Pavarotti. Not that I didn’t appreciate Pavarotti, but I would have preferred something lighter—a different ambiance, a sensual one. I had no interest in clever conversation, listening to opera, or being mentally observed by Joel. I wanted to take his clothes off and smell his body. I was starving to explore his body and to discover his sexual skills and abilities.
But Joel, as always, was calm and in control. He sat on the couch in my living room and I found a spot on the love seat. He stood up to pour more wine and joined me on the love seat. That was unexpected—maybe he wasn’t as oblivious as he seemed. He leaned back, pulled me closer to him and stretched his legs. Was he reading my mind? I became paralyzed as my heart raced, thinking what to expect next. Perhaps I should let him make the next move, I thought, or maybe now it was my turn? I let my hand travel to his thigh and stopped right there. I tried to manipulate the situation. But even then, when he was turned on and hard, I could not trap him—he was smart, careful and vigilant. My efforts were in vain—it seemed as if he wouldn’t give in, while I was desperate and close to giving up. Clearly he was not sexless. Is he gay? I became terrified. The room was saturated with tension. I felt like I was competing with Luciano Pavarotti and couldn’t win.
After a while, I realized that this was all there would be. But then, when I’d finally given up, Joel grabbed my hand and led me to bed. His touch and look didn’t turn me on—he was so technical. My dreams were dashed to pieces. I prayed that our bodies would merge by their needs and not in conjunction with Joel’s sophistication and restraint. Only God knew how much I was waiting for this moment. I felt as if I was about to give away my virginity.
Joel delayed it all—he left to get another bottle of wine, insisting we leave his classical music on. I could not envision making love to the sound of Pavarotti. But by that point, I didn’t care—I just wanted it to happen. I wanted to feel the passion. I wanted my relationship to be real. I lay in my bed, waiting on Joel to come back and make love to me.
Perhaps the wine took over my dreams. I woke up the next day in the early morning hours. The bright light came in through the window and filled the entire room with the energy of a new day. I was spinning from the night’s memories. I worried that I might be hallucinating and looked around. Once I saw that the linens were all straight and in place, I assumed that nothing had happened. We were both dressed as if we’d just gotten into the bed a minute ago. I felt like I was trapped in a revolving door with no opening. The spinning feeling was evidently not from riding a carousel in the park, and not from the climax that I hadn’t reached.
I carried myself out of my bed and headed toward the bathroom. I turned back to look at what was lying in my bed, snuggling with my linen. I wanted to be mad—to hate him—to ask him what the problem was, but I didn’t have the courage.
It took me a few minutes to recoup before I stepped into the shower.
My shower took forever but didn’t last nearly long enough. The stream of the water washed away the sleepiness, though it couldn’t wash away the nightmare that I was living. I was comfortable as the water trickled down my body. The touch of the water soothed and secured me, like I was back in my mother’s womb. I wondered if I still wanted Joel to be there by the time I finished my shower. Part of me wished that he would just disappear—maybe indefinitely.
While I continued to survive my daily mental battle, preserving my relationship with Joel, destiny created interesting interactions for me with Dr. Sloan. Whether God intended it or not, most of our schedules overlapped and circumstances allowed us many hours together, especially during the night shifts—we became each other’s shadow. We kept our relationship work related, away from personal channels. Sloan played by my rules, avoiding opportunities that might invite us to make mistakes. It would be a lie to say that I didn’t sense the hidden intensity between us—we stimulated each other physically and mentally. How funny was it to think that the Jewish law, which had so often been a source of humor, actually turned out to be the truth as it saved us from committing a sin. Evidently, there was something brilliant about the Jewish law.
As time passed, Joel introduced me to more of his friends, most of whom were involved in some organization called “Quintessence.” Soon I learned how deeply engrossed he was with this mysterious society. I was left out, but not passive. I investigated and learned that this institute offered intensive workshops, helping people to find themselves or their integrity—targeting individuals who could not accept their imperfections, training people to keep their power without being takers. They convinced people that they were what they were and that it was okay—as though there was no such thing as free will, to change and grow. I felt sorry for him and his friends. They struck me as spineless—I wanted to vomit. I couldn’t believe someone actually believed that there is no room for improvement.
Over time, Joel frequently mentioned “Quintessence” and said that attending this workshop would improve our communication. He believed that the problems we were having would vanish. He sounded as if this could bring sex closer to our bed. I took this as an ultimatum and hoped for the best. I put some serious thought into giving in and registering for the workshop.
Then came the day when I felt relieved to see Sloan at the hospital. I suspected that my workplace was no longer just a source of income but rather something that I looked forward to. It was that day when I realized that Dr. Sloan brought joy and excitement into my life. I had second thoughts about registering for the workshop.
“Hey, how are you?” I said once I saw Sloan stretched out on the sofa in the lounge.
“Hey, kiddo, glad you’re here,” he said.
“Coffee?”
“No, I just had some.”
“Do you know anything about ‘Quintessence’?” I asked and walked to the beverage counter.
“I’m not into this nonsense—why are you asking? Are you planning on going?”
“I’m not sure.”
“Come on, are you kidding me? Why would you put yourself through that bullshit? There is nothing but bad reviews about it. What’s wrong with you? Haven’t you read how many couples are getting divorced after participating in this?”
“I didn’t say I’m going to attend this crap…”
“But you didn’t say that you were not going to—and you better not. Anyway, how is your boyfriend doing?” he said with a teasing voice.
“He’s doing fine—and how is your wife doing?” I teased him back.
“I guess she’s still there.”
Obviously, she is, I thought.
“Hey, I’m scheduled to do a C-section. I’ll catch up with you later,” he said as he left the lounge.
An hour later my pager went off and displayed the OR extension number. I picked up the phone and dialed.
“OR,” a strange voice answered.
“This is the house supervisor. Did someone page me?”
“Let me check,” the stranger said and right after asked in a loud voice, “Did anyone page the house supervisor?” After a brief moment he continued, “Yes, Dr. Sloan is looking for you. Hold on.”
“Hey, it’s me. I’m done. I’m going to order something to eat, are you in?” I heard Sloan’s voice.
“No, I’ll pass. But thank you for asking.”
“Aren’t you hungry?”
“Not really,” I lied but didn’t feel the need to explain that I was watching every single calorie that went into my mouth and how hard I was working to burn it off.
“Are you busy?” he continued.
“Not really. I’m in my office.”
“I’ll see you in a few.”
Once I entered the OR I no longer thought about Joel or Dr. Sloan—other things occupied me. The OR had its own life as if it was a separate unit from the entire hospital. The intensity of the place made it powerful. The surgical team’s high level of adrenaline let them do and say things that would not be heard or seen outside of those oversized, heavy double doors. Not everybody loved it, but I did. Again and again I was fascinated by the blade, the incision, the blood, the drama, the stress, the unknown, the crisis, the solution, the resolution, and the correction—the saving and loss of life, the success and the failure. It was a place like no other.
As soon as I was done in the OR, I left and started my rounds. I dealt mostly with the routine. Everything went along as usual until I heard the overhead pager announcement. “Code 99—fifth floor—bay 6—code 99—fifth floor—bay 6.”
“Shit,” I said and rushed to the fifth floor—the neonatal department. By the time I entered the place the entire team was working, the pediatrician and the anesthesiologist along with two nurses. It was so hectic that I could not see the victim. The four adults and their four pairs of hands hid the tiny little newborn. I looked at the monitor, listened to their talk, and determined that I was not needed. Still, I did not leave but made myself available in the event that they would need help. It was my job to attend and stay for any emergency until resolved. Not to mention the amount of paperwork that I was required to complete after the fact.
“Come on, little man. Don’t die on me now.” I talked to myself when I saw the monitor displaying a long straight line. And I prayed, and I hoped, but it didn’t seem to help.
“Call it,” the anesthesiologist said to the pediatrician and everybody lifted their eyes from the preemie and looked at the monitor. It took a few long seconds before the verdict was heard.
“Time of death, twelve-twenty three,” the pediatrician said and the team of four stepped back.
“Damn it,” the pediatrician said in a frustrated voice while he ungloved himself. He grabbed the chart and sat in the chair at the nurses’ station, holding his head in his hands.
“Let’s see,” he said as he opened the chart. “Is Sloan here today?” he asked.
“Yes, he is,” I answered.
“Can you page him for me? He delivered this baby.”
“Sure,” I said as I picked up the phone.
Losing a patient was never an easy thing. You always questioned yourself—did you really do it all, did you do something wrong? It is this kind of thing that you cannot get immune to. No matter how many patients you lose or how long you have been in practice. It is one of those things that will bother you for a long time, maybe forever—an incident that will continue to come back and haunt you, almost as if it is your shadow.
“So what happened?” I asked the pediatrician.
“I have no clue. I guess we’ll have to wait for the autopsy.”
“Are you kidding me? Did you forget where we are? There’s no way you will get consent for an autopsy. Not in this place.”
“You’re right. How could I forget? Sometimes I wonder if I’m a real Jew. There are so many things I don’t agree with. Are you sure these people don’t make up all these rules?” he said with a chuckle and went back to his charting. “And by the way,” he continued as I was on my way out, “next time, don’t ask me the cause of death—I’m not God—how would I know?”
The rest of my night was consumed by that incident. There was a lot to deal with—a family that, until two hours earlier, had no reason to worry about their newborn baby, but now had to deal with his death, a mother to be transferred from the L&D floor to the Gynecology floor, and endless paperwork to complete. And the worst part was dealing with the body.
Since Sloan was the one who had delivered this baby, we had a lot in common that night. But it remained professional, no tricky answers and no double messages.
He stopped by my office a few minutes before seven, on his way out. “Are you okay?”
“I’m fine. Thank you for asking.”
“Hang in there. I’ll see you soon.” He gave me that penetrating look and left.
From that morning on, not one day went by that I didn’t think about Dr. Sloan. His name didn’t cross my lips, though it did glide through my thoughts all too often.
A few days later, on a Friday night, Joel and I were playing out our boring routine—a movie and dinner. I was determined that this would be the night. I was tired of his games and could not take any more of the sexual frustration.
Joel was quick to set the ambiance—a select bottle of wine and classical music, more in particular, opera—Luciano Pavarotti. Not that I didn’t appreciate Pavarotti, but I would have preferred something lighter—a different ambiance, a sensual one. I had no interest in clever conversation, listening to opera, or being mentally observed by Joel. I wanted to take his clothes off and smell his body. I was starving to explore his body and to discover his sexual skills and abilities.
But Joel, as always, was calm and in control. He sat on the couch in my living room and I found a spot on the love seat. He stood up to pour more wine and joined me on the love seat. That was unexpected—maybe he wasn’t as oblivious as he seemed. He leaned back, pulled me closer to him and stretched his legs. Was he reading my mind? I became paralyzed as my heart raced, thinking what to expect next. Perhaps I should let him make the next move, I thought, or maybe now it was my turn? I let my hand travel to his thigh and stopped right there. I tried to manipulate the situation. But even then, when he was turned on and hard, I could not trap him—he was smart, careful and vigilant. My efforts were in vain—it seemed as if he wouldn’t give in, while I was desperate and close to giving up. Clearly he was not sexless. Is he gay? I became terrified. The room was saturated with tension. I felt like I was competing with Luciano Pavarotti and couldn’t win.
After a while, I realized that this was all there would be. But then, when I’d finally given up, Joel grabbed my hand and led me to bed. His touch and look didn’t turn me on—he was so technical. My dreams were dashed to pieces. I prayed that our bodies would merge by their needs and not in conjunction with Joel’s sophistication and restraint. Only God knew how much I was waiting for this moment. I felt as if I was about to give away my virginity.
Joel delayed it all—he left to get another bottle of wine, insisting we leave his classical music on. I could not envision making love to the sound of Pavarotti. But by that point, I didn’t care—I just wanted it to happen. I wanted to feel the passion. I wanted my relationship to be real. I lay in my bed, waiting on Joel to come back and make love to me.
Perhaps the wine took over my dreams. I woke up the next day in the early morning hours. The bright light came in through the window and filled the entire room with the energy of a new day. I was spinning from the night’s memories. I worried that I might be hallucinating and looked around. Once I saw that the linens were all straight and in place, I assumed that nothing had happened. We were both dressed as if we’d just gotten into the bed a minute ago. I felt like I was trapped in a revolving door with no opening. The spinning feeling was evidently not from riding a carousel in the park, and not from the climax that I hadn’t reached.
I carried myself out of my bed and headed toward the bathroom. I turned back to look at what was lying in my bed, snuggling with my linen. I wanted to be mad—to hate him—to ask him what the problem was, but I didn’t have the courage.
It took me a few minutes to recoup before I stepped into the shower.
My shower took forever but didn’t last nearly long enough. The stream of the water washed away the sleepiness, though it couldn’t wash away the nightmare that I was living. I was comfortable as the water trickled down my body. The touch of the water soothed and secured me, like I was back in my mother’s womb. I wondered if I still wanted Joel to be there by the time I finished my shower. Part of me wished that he would just disappear—maybe indefinitely.
While I continued to survive my daily mental battle, preserving my relationship with Joel, destiny created interesting interactions for me with Dr. Sloan. Whether God intended it or not, most of our schedules overlapped and circumstances allowed us many hours together, especially during the night shifts—we became each other’s shadow. We kept our relationship work related, away from personal channels. Sloan played by my rules, avoiding opportunities that might invite us to make mistakes. It would be a lie to say that I didn’t sense the hidden intensity between us—we stimulated each other physically and mentally. How funny was it to think that the Jewish law, which had so often been a source of humor, actually turned out to be the truth as it saved us from committing a sin. Evidently, there was something brilliant about the Jewish law.
As time passed, Joel introduced me to more of his friends, most of whom were involved in some organization called “Quintessence.” Soon I learned how deeply engrossed he was with this mysterious society. I was left out, but not passive. I investigated and learned that this institute offered intensive workshops, helping people to find themselves or their integrity—targeting individuals who could not accept their imperfections, training people to keep their power without being takers. They convinced people that they were what they were and that it was okay—as though there was no such thing as free will, to change and grow. I felt sorry for him and his friends. They struck me as spineless—I wanted to vomit. I couldn’t believe someone actually believed that there is no room for improvement.
Over time, Joel frequently mentioned “Quintessence” and said that attending this workshop would improve our communication. He believed that the problems we were having would vanish. He sounded as if this could bring sex closer to our bed. I took this as an ultimatum and hoped for the best. I put some serious thought into giving in and registering for the workshop.
Then came the day when I felt relieved to see Sloan at the hospital. I suspected that my workplace was no longer just a source of income but rather something that I looked forward to. It was that day when I realized that Dr. Sloan brought joy and excitement into my life. I had second thoughts about registering for the workshop.
“Hey, how are you?” I said once I saw Sloan stretched out on the sofa in the lounge.
“Hey, kiddo, glad you’re here,” he said.
“Coffee?”
“No, I just had some.”
“Do you know anything about ‘Quintessence’?” I asked and walked to the beverage counter.
“I’m not into this nonsense—why are you asking? Are you planning on going?”
“I’m not sure.”
“Come on, are you kidding me? Why would you put yourself through that bullshit? There is nothing but bad reviews about it. What’s wrong with you? Haven’t you read how many couples are getting divorced after participating in this?”
“I didn’t say I’m going to attend this crap…”
“But you didn’t say that you were not going to—and you better not. Anyway, how is your boyfriend doing?” he said with a teasing voice.
“He’s doing fine—and how is your wife doing?” I teased him back.
“I guess she’s still there.”
Obviously, she is, I thought.
“Hey, I’m scheduled to do a C-section. I’ll catch up with you later,” he said as he left the lounge.
An hour later my pager went off and displayed the OR extension number. I picked up the phone and dialed.
“OR,” a strange voice answered.
“This is the house supervisor. Did someone page me?”
“Let me check,” the stranger said and right after asked in a loud voice, “Did anyone page the house supervisor?” After a brief moment he continued, “Yes, Dr. Sloan is looking for you. Hold on.”
“Hey, it’s me. I’m done. I’m going to order something to eat, are you in?” I heard Sloan’s voice.
“No, I’ll pass. But thank you for asking.”
“Aren’t you hungry?”
“Not really,” I lied but didn’t feel the need to explain that I was watching every single calorie that went into my mouth and how hard I was working to burn it off.
“Are you busy?” he continued.
“Not really. I’m in my office.”
“I’ll see you in a few.”