The Rearranged Life (23 page)

“My birthday is next month, come down for a sleepover!” Indrani suggests, and they launch into plans.

“Be careful driving. The ice is difficult,” my dad warns Aditya Uncle.

“We aren’t in California anymore, Toto,” Aditya Uncle replies, deadpan.

Nishanth stands next to me, and I feel a small stab of sadness that he may leave in the same awkward way he arrived, where our chilliness was surrounded by everyone else’s warmth. I break the silence before we let the traces of our friendship fade.

“No hard feelings?” I ask. It sounds like a request.

“No,” he tells me after a second. “Sometimes it takes a while for things to work out. Other times, they don’t work out at all. We’ll stay friends.”

It’s a heavyhearted goodbye, but I don’t have time to mope. I have interviews in the next few days. Then, I have something important to tell James.

edical school interviews can often feel like an interrogation. During the three I attend, all scheduled within two weeks of one another, there are moments of high hopes and moments of attempted intimidation by the stricter members of the interview teams. The power suit I wear along with the three-inch black heels make me feel like I’m a CEO. I’m confident when I go in even though the interviews are designed to make people squirm, to face up to the pressure, and show that in a millisecond where a surgeon nicks an artery or a patient suddenly begins to seize, you won’t freeze. I had written down my answers to prepare and rehearsed in airport terminals to within an inch of my life. Sometimes I wish my real answers were written next to the ‘rehearsed-until-they-sound-natural’ ones, at least for comic relief… Which I need, considering the nights after the first two interviews where I lay in hotel room beds, staring at the ceiling and rehashing every question and how I would have handled them differently had I had a chance to tackle them again.

“Why Baylor?”

“Why Emory?”

“Why are you different?”

“How are you similar to everyone else?”

Columbia is next. Though I should sleep, I sit, wide awake in front of my laptop and Google every medical school interview question I can find to prep for my trial by fire. This is the one I want. The last one in this interview onslaught is the one I’ve been hoping for since I was a little girl.

We have a meeting the next morning. Each interview candidate sizes up the others as we listen to the heads of the school speak to us about what to expect. I arrive at the morning interviews the recommended ten minutes early, give a firm handshake that isn’t too gentle or domineering, and turn my chin up like an old pro as the interviewers stare at me from across the table.

“Why Columbia?” Predictable.

“I’ve had a dream since I was young of being a doctor with a moral compass. Jean Baker Miller was a role model.” The notable Columbia alumni and all she did for social change through medicine always stood out to me. “I want to do the same. I hope to create a social change in how patients are viewed. Their health is important. Their money, the profit, none of that matters. Columbia’s mission states that it wants to create leaders and visionaries in all areas of health care. That’s what I aspire to be. It’s why I’m here. I want to create social changes in how women’s health is viewed and treated, and make it less taboo to talk about. The global health programs interest me, too. I would like to take the medical expertise that I could gain here and create a movement in India to support women.” This last part comes unexpectedly. It’s a dream I never realized I had.

The interviewers
mmm
and nod, writing down on their papers. I wish I could take a peek at their thoughts.

“What makes you want to be a doctor?” The lady in a blue suit asks. Also predictable.

“I love to learn,” I say. Simple is better. “Medicine is constantly evolving. There’s an inherent need to consistently stay up to date. I’m fascinated by everything the body can do, from typical physiology to rare cases. I’ve learned a lot in college, but I want to continue to do so, for the rest of my life, while offering people some peace about their health. After all, someone else’s health concerns may not be our primary one, but it’s theirs and that needs to be validated by someone who has knowledge and keeps gaining it.”

They nod again, wearing impenetrable expressions.
Tough crowd
, I think, picturing the committee from Baylor who jovially spoke in their southern accents about patient care and how I saw myself fitting in. My palms sweat with the short responses, which continue through the questions about what activities I’ve participated in, what has shaped me, what makes me different, and what I bring to the table. All of the questions are ones I’ve prepared for–James’ voice plays in my mind coaching me through the answers I’d written down while we practiced.

“What interests you outside of medicine and getting into medical school?”

My preparedness goes to hell.

“I love to read,” I say, quickly. Too quickly. “I used to dance, as well–but it ended up taking a backseat.”
To what?
I can hear them ask in their minds. “Well, not a backseat. I guess I lost interest.” Now it’s a lie.
Slow down and think.
“I spend a lot of time with friends, reading, watching movies. I do what I can to stay busy outside of academics,” I give them a gracious smile, but it’s more like a grimace.

Then, the interview is over. They give me polite goodbyes and handshakes. The girl going in after me looks hopeful as she greets me, and I acknowledge her, but her face quickly falls at the expression on my face.

Overall, it wasn’t so bad
. That last question, though… Why couldn’t I answer? It’s unsettling that every one of my pastimes has been related to medicine. I’ve always thought I engaged in them because they were my interests, too, but suddenly, I have the crazy thought that I should have joined an art club or something.
It’s okay, when you get some acceptances, it’ll all pay off.
Yet my fumbled answer sticks in my mind.

y suitcase is haphazardly thrown in the corner of the living room, unpacked, as Sophia and I sip hot chocolate on the couch. My leggings, scarf, and oversized sweatshirt feel so comfortable compared to the pantsuits I’ve donned as a uniform over the last week.

“It’s over! This entire process. Now you just hear back. You made it!”

“We’ll see what happens!” I shrug, but it’s somewhat disingenuous. A weight has certainly been lifted from my shoulders. Though waiting is horrible and something I’m not particularly good at, this situation with James has changed my perspective. I have faith now in how things will turn out.

One thing, however, is clear. I do have to make my own decision.

The first week of the spring semester ticks by, but my unresolved problem hangs over the novelty of returning to school. My parents and Anisha, who I spent the rest of break enjoying and reminiscing with, my heart bursting with love, are now one hundred-fifty miles away, and the distance puts perspective on this entire affair with James. I haven’t seen him either. The space between all the associated parties doesn’t isolate me. I haven’t had the opportunity to think without my emotions in the way, and that is key when coming to this sort of fork in the road.

I have the power to call the shots.
But I haven’t.
I sit back against my swivel chair, huffing.
My parents have influenced most of the decisions in my life. When is it my turn?

The Columbia interview forces me to think over and over again that I may not be as independent as I thought. I followed a traditional, safe path by settling on medical school. I did the leadership activities because they would look good on my resume. I loved the Red Cross, but if I had been more open minded, would I have participated in something more creative? Suddenly, my entire life seems formulaic, like I have boxed myself in. James is on the outside, waiting for me to break out.

From the moment he saved me from the guy who drugged me, to the conversations we’ve had in class, to the study dates, to the confident way he asked me out, to the way he grabbed my hand on that first date was all James, and he was the one who moved in to kiss me. Whereas I… I have allowed myself to be a victim of circumstance for too long. For the first time, I have an open road in front of me, one to pave, set in stone, wear out in the dirt, drive on, or trample all over.