Gifted Hands: The Ben Carson Story (14 page)

By then I found myself in my fourth year of medical school, ready for my one year of internship and then my residency.

Professionally, I was heading in the right direction, without any question. As a kid, I had wanted to be a missionary doctor and then got caught up in psychiatry. Now and then, as part of our training, the medical students watched presentations in clinical medicine made by various specialists who talked about their particular field. The neurosurgeons impressed me the most. When they talked and showed us before-and-after pictures, they held my attention like none of the others. “They're amazing,” I'd say to myself. “Those guys can do anything.”

But the first few times I looked down upon a human brain, or saw human hands working upon that center of intelligence and emotion and motion, working to help heal, I was hooked. Then realizing that my hands were steady and that I could intuitively see the effect
my
hands had on the brain, I knew I had found my calling. And so I made the choice that would become my career and my life.

All the facets of my career came together then. First, my interest in neurosurgery; second, my growing interest in the study of the brain; and third, acceptance of my God-given talent of eye-and-hand coordination—my gifted hands—that fitted me for this field. When I made my choice for neurosurgery, it seemed the most natural thing in the world.

In medical school during our clinical (or third) year we did rotation work for a month at a time, giving us an opportunity to experience each of the fields. I signed up for and received permission to do two neurosurgery rotations. Both times I received honors in my work.

Michigan had an outstanding neurosurgery program and except for a casual incident, I would have stayed at Michigan for my internship and residency. I believe residency works much better if you're in the same place you took your previous work.

One day I overheard a conversation that changed the shape of my plans. An instructor, unaware that I was nearby, commented to another about the chairman of our neurosurgery department. “He's on his way out,” he said.

“You think it's that serious?” the other man asked.

“Without question. He told me so himself. Too much political strife.”

That chance conversation forced me to rethink my future at the U of M. The change of personnel would severely damage the residency program. When an interim chairman comes on the scene, he's new, uncertain, and has no idea how long he'll stay. Along with that, chaos and uncertainty reign among the residents, loyalties often divide, and personnel changes occur. I didn't want to get caught up in that because I believed it could adversely affect my work and my future.

The combination of that piece of information and the fact that I'd long admired the Johns Hopkins complex made me decide to apply at Hopkins.

I had no trepidation at sending in my application for internship at Hopkins the fall of 1976 because I felt that I was as good as anybody else at that point in my training. I had made excellent grades and achieved high scores on the national board examinations. Only one problem faced me: Johns Hopkins accepted only two students a year for neurosurgery residency although they averaged 125 applications.

I sent in my application and within weeks received the marvelous news that I would be interviewed at Johns Hopkins. That didn't put me in the program, but it got me inside the door. I knew that with the competition as stiff as it was, they interviewed but few of the applicants.

T
he manner of Dr. George Udvarhelyi, head of the neurosurgery training program, put me at ease immediately. His office was large, tastefully decorated with antiques. He spoke with a soft Hungarian accent. The smoke from his pipe lent a sweet fragrance to the room. He began by asking questions, and I felt he honestly wanted to know my answers. I also sensed that he would be fair in his evaluation and recommendation.

“Tell me a little about yourself,” Dr. Udvarhelyi began, looking across his desk at me.

His manner was straightforward, interested, and I relaxed. I took a deep breath and looked him in the eyes. Did I dare to be myself?
Help me, Lord, I prayed. If this is Your will for me, if this is the place You know I should be, help me to give the answers that will open the doors to this school
.

“Johns Hopkins is certainly my first choice,” I began. “It's also my only choice. This is the place where I want to be this fall.”

Had I said that too strongly
? I wondered.
Had I been too open about that I wanted?
I didn't know, but I had decided before going to Baltimore for the interview that, above all, I wanted to be myself and to be accepted or rejected by who I was and not because I successfully projected some kind of image through a super-sales job.

After he gained a few bits of information about me, Dr. Udvarhelyi's questions revolved around medicine. “Why did you choose to become a doctor?” he asked. His hands rested on his large desk.

“What aspirations do you have? What are your primary fields of interest?”

I tried to answer clearly and concisely each time. However, at some point in the conversation, Dr. Udvarhelyi made an oblique reference to a concert he had attended the night before.

“Yes, sir,” I said. “I was there.”

“You were?” he asked, and I saw the startled expression on his face. “Did you enjoy it?”

“Very much,” I said, adding that the violin soloist had not been quite as good as I had expected.

He leaned forward, his face animated. “I thought the same thing. He was fine, technically fine, but—”

I don't remember the rest of the interview except that Dr. Udvarhelyi honed in on classical music and we talked for a long time, maybe an hour, about various composers and their different styles of music. I think he was taken aback by the fact that this Black kid from Detroit knew so much about classical music.

When the interview concluded and I left his office, I wondered if I had gotten Dr. Udvarhelyi off track and the digression would count against me. I consoled myself with the thought that he had brought up the topic and he had kept the subject foremost in our conversation.

Years later Dr. Udvarhelyi told me that he had made a strong case for my being accepted to Dr. Long, the chairman. “Ben,” he said to me, “I was impressed with your grades, your honors and recommendations, and the splendid way you handled yourself in the interview.” Although he didn't say it, I'm convinced that my interest in classical music was a decisive factor.

And I pleasantly remembered the hours of study during high school I had put into being able to compete on
College Bowl
. Ironically, the year I entered college,
College Bowl
went off the air. More than once I had scolded myself for wasting a lot of time learning about the arts when it would never be used or needed.

I learned something from that experience. No knowledge is ever wasted. To quote the apostle Paul: “And we know that all things work together for good to them that love God” (Romans 8:28). The love I learned for classical music helped draw Candy and me together and also helped me get into one of the best neurosurgery programs in the United States. When we work hard to acquire expertise or understanding in any field, it pays off. In this case, at least, I saw how it certainly had yielded results. I also believe that God has an overall plan for people's lives and the details get worked out along the way, even though we usually have no idea what's going on.

I was elated when I received word that I'd been accepted into the neurosurgery program at Johns Hopkins. Now I was going to get the chance for training at what I considered the greatest training hospital in the world.

Doubts concerning the field of medicine I should specialize in vanished. With confidence born of a good mother, hard work, and trust in God, I knew I was a good doctor. What I didn't know, I could learn. “I can learn to do anything that anybody else can do,” I said to Candy several times.

Maybe I was a little overconfident. But I don't think I felt cocky, and certainly never superior. I recognized others' abilities as well. But in any career, whether it's that of a TV repairman, a musician, a secretary—or a surgeon—an individual must believe in himself and in his abilities. To do his best, one needs a confidence that says, “I can do anything, and if I can't do it, I know how to get help.”

L
ife was moving beautifully for me during this time. I'd been awarded a variety of honors for my clinical work at the University of Michigan, and now I was entering the last, and perhaps most important, phase of my training.

My private life was even better. Candy graduated from Yale in the spring of 1975, and we married July 6, between my second and third years of med school. Until our marriage, I lived with Curtis. Still unmarried at that time, he had received his discharge after four years of Naval service and then enrolled at the U of M to finish college.

Candy and I rented our own apartment in Ann Arbor, and she easily found a job with the state unemployment office. For the next two years she processed unemployment claims and kept our home while I finished med school.

It was exciting to move to Baltimore from the relatively small town of Ann Arbor. During our time there, Candy worked for Connecticut General Insurance Company. Because of her temporary status she found a job doing standard clerical-type work. She also briefly had a job selling vacuum cleaners, and then she got a job at Johns Hopkins as an editorial assistant for one of the chemistry professors.

For two years Candy typed for several different Johns Hopkins publications and did some editing. During that two-year period, she also took advantage of the opportunity of our being at Johns Hopkins and went back to school.

Since she was an employee of the university and married to a resident, Candy could go to school free. She continued with her course work and earned her master's degree in business. Then she went over to Mercantile Bank and Trust and started working in trust administration.

I worked hard as a resident at Johns Hopkins. One of my goals was to maintain a good rapport with everyone because I don't believe in one-person productions. Everyone on the team is important and needs to know that he or she is vital. However, a few of the doctors tended to be snobbish, and that bothered me.

They wouldn't bother to talk with the “common people” like ward clerks or aides. That attitude troubled me, and I hurt for those dedicated employees when I saw it happening. We doctors couldn't be effective without the support of the clerks and aides. From the start I made a point to talk to the so-called lowly people and to get to know them. After all, where had I come from? I had a good teacher, my mother, who had taught me that people are just people. Their income or position in life doesn't make them better or worse than anyone else.

When I had free minutes I'd chew the fat on the wards and get to know the names of the people who worked with us. Actually this turned out to be an advantage, although I didn't plan it that way. During my residency I realized that some of the nurses and clerks had been on their jobs for 25 or 30 years. Because of their practical experience in observing and working with patients, they could teach me things. And they did.

I also realized that they recognized things that were going on with patients that I had no way of knowing. By working closely with specific patients, they sensed changes and needs before they became obvious. Once they accepted me, these often-unpraised workers quietly let me know, for instance, those I could trust or those I couldn't. They'd inform me when things were going wrong on the ward. More than once a ward clerk, on her way out the door after her shift, would pause and say, “Oh, by the way …” and let me know of a problem with a patient. The staff had no obligation to tell anyone, but many of them had developed an uncanny ability to sense problems, especially relapses and complications. They trusted me to listen and to act on their perceptions.

Maybe I began developing a relationship with the staff because I wanted to compensate for the way some of the other doctors treated them. I'm not sure. I know I hated it when a resident disregarded a suggestion from a nurse. When one of them tongue-lashed a ward clerk for a simple mistake, I felt bad and a little protective toward the victim. At any rate, because of the help from the lower echelons, I was able to make an excellent showing and to do a good job.