The stairs of the Medical College seemed at once insignificant and insurmountable. We walked together, both full of insincere confidence. “We can do this,” I said, more to myself than to him. “And I will be happy. But whatever happens, we’d better not end up living in Borough Park, Brooklyn.” I smiled at the sheer absurdity of the thought -- being not only in New York, but in a neighborhood where Yiddish was the lingua franca, where I would be an outcast. He squeezed my hand and I knew he hoped his parents and classmates wouldn’t see even that tiny indication of the trepidation we both felt. We sat in the ballroom, all the nearly-graduated medical students with their boyfriends, girlfriends, spouses, parents, and even a few children around banquet tables laden with tension. We all waited impatiently, laughing nervously at jokes we couldn’t even hear over the sounds of our own anxiety, talking absentmindedly to bide the time. When the MC started calling names, when medical students started returning to their seats with envelopes, we got quiet and waited for our turn, nursing our cocktails of apprehension, excitement, and fear.
Match Day is among the more diabolical processes in pursuit of becoming a doctor. Every graduating medical student in every medical school in the country finds out in the same hour on the same day in March where they will spend the next three to six years. Though the possible outcomes are limited by the ranked list of residency programs each applicant submits, it is still an uncomfortable lottery with the possibility to completely disrupt and uproot individuals and entire families alike. So on Match Day, each name is called, each aspiring surgeon and cardiologist and pediatrician is handed an envelope, and each life is altered. The Match, even for those who get their first choice, leaves none untouched. I sat there with my fiance as I unconsciously played with the diamond ring adorning my left hand, twirling the stone around and around my finger with my thumb. I was still getting used to it - it had only been five days since I’d said "yes," after all - and for as happy as I was to be wearing it its weight didn’t yet feel natural. I would look at it and surprise myself, continually caught off-guard by the bright diamond my fiance picked out just for me, set in the band we’d chosen together. But that morning I avoided its sparkle, reminding myself instead by touch alone that I was getting married to the young medical student sitting next to me, his parents across the table as proud as could be, all of us waiting with bated breath for his name to be called. We heard his name over the speakers. He stood up and retrieved his envelope with a confidence none of us truly felt, then came back to the table to open it. “Brooklyn, New York” I knew I should be happy, but I didn’t know how. Brooklyn. New York. And not just Brooklyn, but Borough Park, one of the largest neighborhoods in Brooklyn and the home of an ultra-orthodox enclave that would never recognize me as one of them. It was about as far removed from an ideal place to live as I could imagine for myself. All those people, I thought. So far away from home. And my fiance wasn’t particularly pleased either. After all, this had been toward the middle of his rank list - our rank list - far enough below the Top 4 we’d agonized over that we never really considered the possibility we’d end up anywhere else. I managed all of five more minutes at that table before I excused myself to the lobby. I found a pillar to support me as I cried, suddenly overwhelmed. This wasn’t what I’d bargained for. I texted a couple of my best friends, then my parents. “Going to Brooklyn” may have been all it said, although I don’t quite remember. I do remember J’s mom coming to find me, talking with me for a bit just to make sure I was okay. I remember eventually drying my tears and going back inside. And I remember thinking about the Biblical story of Ruth, when she chooses to stay with her mother-in-law following the death of her husband. Ruth told her “Wherever you go, I will go,” and I made it my mantra. “Ba’asher telech elech,” I said under my breath in Hebrew, then repeated it until I believed it. J and I were engaged. He had no choice but to go to Brooklyn. I, knowing that being at his side was the only thing that really mattered to me, had no choice but to go with him. Borough Park it was.
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AuthorNashira is a music teacher and proud Small-Town Jew who, after surthriving six years in Brooklyn for her husband's surgical residency, is finally back in Wisconsin where she belongs! At least until the end of the two-year surgical fellowship, that is. It's a wild ride, and she's ready to tell you all about it! Archives
September 2019
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