Wicked Restless

I’ve never been nervous about the idea of cutting into someone. I’m not worried about the MCAT, and I’m actually looking forward to my first rotation through trauma. The idea of working in the moment—to save someone’s life—it’s the entire reason I made this my dream. But speaking to this room full of people?

I’m terrified.

“You look a little pale there, Emma. You feeling okay?” Miranda Wheaton’s voice is somewhere between an angel and a sergeant in the military. Her tone is friendly and non-threatening, but there’s a confidence underneath that is intimidating as hell. I wish more than anything I could mimic it. I’d like that ability in about six minutes when I step up to the mike.

“A lot of people here, huh?” I admit with a swallow as I look up at her and flip through the cards anxiously in my lap. She smiles and sits in the seat next to me, pulling her small pocketbook into her lap and flipping it open to check her lipstick in the mirror on the underside.

“They’re all afraid they’ll need me someday, so they figured they better show up,” she jokes. I laugh lightly, mostly because she’s probably right.

“I practiced a few times at home, and it’s under a minute,” I say, holding the cards up, hoping she doesn’t want to see them. Christ, what would I do if she started editing them now?

She leans into me, her shoulder draped in a silk blouse, pressing against mine wrapped in polyester.

“You are going to do just fine. Honestly, you can get up there and tell four knock-knock jokes for all I care,” she says. I smirk, but look back down at my cards, knowing the story on them is important to her, despite what she says. She claims she doesn’t want the attention, but her office is immaculate, and the entire back wall is covered in awards, framed letters, and tokens from important people recognizing everything she gives.

Miranda does amazing things for people, and I was just one of them. But I’m the one…the one who has the story, and I’ve been urged by her, gently, enough times to share the story on her behalf to know she likes the credit that goes along with it. It’s fine—she deserves it. I’m here because of her, and if it costs me a few uncomfortable minutes on a stage in front of Chicago’s best doctors, then I can handle that.

As prepared as I am, I suddenly feel taken off guard when the dean of Tech’s medical school begins to speak at the microphone. He doesn’t share many details about me, just a teaser that I have a compelling story to tell—the whoosh of my pulse through my head drowning out the rest of what he says. I know it’s my turn when he turns to face me, clapping, and I notice the rest of the crowd clapping as well.

I suddenly wish I had worn something prettier—something that would at least give them something to look at rather than the black pants and navy blue blouse with the thin gold necklace dangling between the pockets. I’m with it enough to remember the pencil in my hair, and I pull it out quickly, tucking my twist of hair to one side over my shoulder. I didn’t even wear tall shoes. I’m in flats, because I was afraid I would have to walk up steps to the stage. Seems my youth and upbringing has worn off on me—always minimizing hazards.

I don’t know why, but when I step to the podium, that thought rushes through me. That word—hazards. And then all I can think of is that day with Andrew, of skating, and the time I let go of his hand and stood on my own. The day I laughed at hazards, and begged my parents to let me just have this one thing—a day to be young on the ice with him. When I look back out over the crowd, my nerves feel in check. I place the cards flat in front of me, no longer feeling the urge to have to look at them. I know my story. I know it well.

“My name is Emma Burke, and I was born with a congenital heart defect. Usually,” I pause, smiling at the thought I just had, “I have to really dumb it down for people when I explain it to them. But this isn’t that kind of room, is it?”

I wait for a few seconds as the crowd gives in and laughs, a sense of comfort settling into my chest. I glance back at Miranda, who smiles in support, nodding—acknowledging all she and I have been through together.

“I was diagnosed with hypoplastic left heart syndrome. For those of you who are here with your medical-jargon-loving dates and aren’t quite sure what that means—basically, I was born with half a heart. One side worked…and the other was more than just lazy.”

I get a few more chuckles from making fun of my stupid infant diagnosis. It owes me a few laughs—it’s stolen enough over the years.

“By the time I was eight, I had three surgeries. Yep…” I say, pausing, lips pulled together in an accepting smile. “All the big ones. You know…Norwood, Glenn, Fontan…Larry, Moe, Curley…”