“Hi, Dad,” I said over the phone. “I need your advice.” It had been a while since we had spoken. He only wanted to hear news that pleased him, so our conversations usually lasted about five minutes. Real questions and soul searching gave him agita but, desperate for help, I called him anyway.
I could almost see him on the other end of the line, leaning forward on his elbows at his kitchen counter, thumb on chin, sucking on a Virginia Slim. He only smoked those cigarettes because, as he explained, they were skinnier and therefore “healthy.” They also had a mail-away program. He could use the points he collected from his cigarette purchases to order gifts from their catalog. So far, he had earned a jeweled lamp, metal picture frame and duffel bag. One year, he splurged, spending all of his remaining points on a fringed mint-green suede jacket. It was the nicest gift he had ever given me.
“Why don’t you just move here to Florida? You can live with me until you find a place and get a job at one of the hospitals,” he said, which was his answer every time I wanted to step outside of my comfort zone. It was also never an option. After my parents had gotten divorced, I could barely even visit him. Something about his plastic-covered furniture and empty walls induced within me an unbearable emptiness. So afraid of settling in, he was always three suitcases away from picking up and leaving.
“I was thinking about starting my own practice. I know it sounds crazy, but I’ve seen other doctors do it. It can be scary at first, but eventually they seem to do okay,” I said, hoping he got my hint. Those doctors also had parents or spouses who helped them out. My father had plenty of money socked away for his retirement, which he never planned to use because he was never going to retire. “It is there for you,” he would say. “For your future.” Well, the future was now, and I needed all the help I could get.
“Linda, you are always acting on your emotions. I know you get mad when I say it because you don’t like to hear the truth. You are so sensitive; I have to be careful what I say to you. But I have to be honest. There is so much competition in New York, you will never make it. You should go where they need you, so your success is guaranteed. That’s what I teach my students.” He had a point. My zip code was so competitive, I had no idea how many of my patients would keep seeing me if I wasn’t part of this practice. They would probably just go with someone in the hospital system, like Dr. Patel. Even someone as well respected as Dr. Marsh couldn’t make it in private practice. Why did I think I could?
“I get your point, Dad. It’s competitive to say the least. But what if I do make it? Could you imagine? You’ve always said being your own boss is the best, right?” I needed some kind of hope.
“Linda, sweetie, you’re just not good at that. I have multimillionaires begging for my advice, and my own children won’t even listen. You know nothing about running a business. You need start-up money, probably a couple hundred thousand dollars. Where will you get that?” Not from him apparently. “There are a lot of different types of insurances to protect yourself, like liability and workers’ comp. You need a tax ID. You have to hire staff...” He droned on, like he always did when it came to anything business-related. It took all I had to follow the conversation. But I had to admit he was right. I knew how to do a lot of things, but running my own business was not one of them.
“You need to know your limits, sweetheart,” he cooed. “You will never make your own practice work in New York. You shouldn’t even try.”
15
The next month was a blur. Just when I felt like I finally had a home, the floor had fallen out from underneath me. And finding a job as a doctor was no small feat. Negotiation alone could take months, and then there was credentialing at new hospitals and enrolling in insurance plans. Realistically, the whole process would take at least six months. I only had weeks.
I thought about taking a break to give myself time to consider my options. But even at the risk of jumping into another bad situation, I couldn’t afford the luxury of no income. With the exorbitant cost of living in New York, I had very little in savings. And it wasn’t like I had anywhere else to go. The only family left in Minnesota belonged to my ex-husband, and my mother’s one-bedroom apartment in Fargo was not a realistic option.
After rationalizing Dr. Marsh’s abandonment, I agreed to an interview at the hospital. I spent the day meeting with the chairman of the department and faculty members. Dr. Patel, the pretentious physician from that long-ago holiday party was there, too, gloating over yet another private practice biting the dust. After four hours of conversations, tours and discussions, I had to confront the last hurdle before a formal offer. I had to meet with Dr. Sackler.
“So, you are looking for a position here?” he asked, before I had even taken my seat. He was a tall man in his midsixties, with a salt-and-pepper beard.
“I am exploring my options. This is one of them,” I lied. I had no other game.
“Well, what do you do, general ENT? I guess we could find something for you. Maybe you could teach the residents. Most of our faculty are fellowship-trained, so you wouldn’t really have a place,” he said, pulling back his glasses and looking down at my résumé—literally and figuratively.
His condescension reminded me of the time I had interviewed for a job during college in Minneapolis. Sick of working pre-med lab jobs, I wanted to try my hand at something cooler—above my social station. I had applied for a job in a coffee shop with hipsters. The nose-ringed, tattooed interviewer, clad in an edgy thrift-shop ensemble, had taken one look at my waist-high fitted shorts and non-Birkenstock sandals and told me the job was taken. I was not the flavor they were looking for. Which was exactly the message this doctor was relaying to me now.
“Yes, I do general ENT. I see kids and adults. I do a wide range of things,” I said. Trying to impress him would have given him more fodder for the attack, so I limited my answers.
“As you know, I am a specialist. I have been part of this practice since I completed my fellowship almost fourteen years ago. And since I also trained at this institution, I am well connected with the administration and the board. You trained in the Bronx, correct? We don’t take new hires lightly.” He sat back in his chair, elbows resting on the armrests.
“I guess one good thing is that you are a woman,” he continued. “We don’t have any women in the department, so you could be our first.” It sounded more like a threat than a blessing.
He spent the next twenty minutes talking about himself. He had published at least twenty papers, written a couple of books and presented his work internationally, usually at the request of some wealthy entrepreneur. He was so fabulous the president of the hospital himself asked him to perform surgery on his ailing mother. I was surprised that, with all of his accolades, he wasn’t able to procure an office larger than his current shoebox. Or that he didn’t have a title commensurate with his self-proclaimed success. He seemed like the kind of guy who spent his life staring at himself in the mirror. I couldn’t stand one more minute of him. I had endured enough ravings of egomaniacal doctors for a hundred lifetimes. I didn’t have the stomach for even one more.
In the end I was offered a salary much lower than the one I had. When I left, I wasn’t any closer to knowing where I would end up. But one thing I knew for certain was that it would not be at this hospital.
Searching for other options, I met with a solo practitioner who had built a huge office and operating room suite downtown. He was kind, but his excessive banter would be too much to tolerate on a regular basis. I visited a few smaller practices that wanted to add another partner, but their proposed buy-ins were too high because they wanted more than zero dollars. There was a large consortium of doctors with individual practices and shared overhead, who charged by the hour to use their space. I was used to working nine-hour days, but I didn’t have my own patient flow, so the math was just too complicated. One doctor invited me to share his office, but only for a few days a week. Even if I were able to gen
erate enough patients, I wouldn’t make enough to support myself without an additional job. A part-time gig picking ear wax out of nursing home patients was not an option. It was an impossible situation no matter how I looked at it.
* * *
“I have another fight assignment, Linda,” the Chairman said over the phone. It was a Tuesday night, and it had been a couple of weeks since we had last spoken. When he called, I was watching Grey’s Anatomy, tricked into feeling nostalgic for parts of my residency that had never happened. Unlike Dr. Grey, residents didn’t indulge in long conversations over intubated bodies. And no one I knew was having sex in our call rooms.
“I told you, I don’t have time for this now. I have more pressing things to deal with—like finding a job.” I couldn’t believe he had called. I thought I had made it clear that I needed space—from him and boxing.
“Trust me, you’ll want this one. Cotto is fighting Mosley.” He remained silent for a moment, letting it sink in. “You told me if Mosley or De La Hoya ever fought in New York, you’d want to be there.”
That was true. He knew how important that fight was to me, but it had happened nearly nine years before. In my current predicament, it didn’t seem to matter as much. “I don’t know. Maybe it’s best to just leave that part of my life where it is. I need to look forward.” There was so little of my past I wanted to remember, even the good parts felt painful in retrospect.
“Just think about it. And, uh, there’s something else I need to talk to you about,” he said anxiously.
“Oh God, this again? I told you to stop—”
He cut me off. “No, no, it’s not that. I got a phone call from someone at the governor’s office, and there’s a problem. My job’s a state appointment and, now that there’s a new governor, he has to decide whether or not he wants to keep me as chairman. But I think someone’s out to get me. They said they’re investigating a sexual harassment claim, and it came from someone in the commission. They said I was accused of harassing you.”
I was stunned. Involving state officials was not my style. But with all the rumors flying around about me, any number of people could have done it. Maybe someone had done it to protect me. Or one of the doctors wanted to get back at me for getting so many assignments. Someone from the state probably just wanted him out, and they were trying to use me as an excuse. No matter the reason, I was pleased to see karma exacting its revenge.
“I didn’t call it in, if that’s what you’re thinking. But you have to admit how lucky you are that I was never stupid enough to give in to your come-ons. In the end, I saved you from yourself.”
“But I have a good reputation, and I’ve done good work for the commission. I think they see that—”
“You think they care about that? If they want you out, they came up with an excellent excuse.”
“They’re going to call you.”
“I’m sure they will.”
“What will you say?” There was fear in his voice.
“I’m not sure,” I said. But it was a lie. Corroborating his behavior would do nothing to serve me. I had handled him, with the Dom’s help, and gotten what I wanted—more fights than almost any other doctor. Although for many women telling a state official their story would have a positive impact, it would have done the opposite for me—undermining everything I had earned on my own. The state couldn’t erase what I had gone through. If they wanted to get rid of the Chairman, they could come up with any reason. I explained all this to the Chairman over the phone.
There was silence on the other end of the line.
“You’re welcome,” I said.
“Thank you,” he answered, his voice barely above a whisper.
“And, on second thought, I will do the fight,” I said, which surprised even me. Boxing was the passionate boyfriend that kept coming back, no matter how many times we tried to break up. Just when I thought it was over, it returned for one more fling.
* * *
I walked through the doors of Madison Square Garden, more melancholy than excited. I was still distracted by the dissolution of the practice. Without the push and pull of my Upper East Side–job, the fights felt less pressing. What use was an escape when the very thing I was trying to escape was coming to an end?
“You don’t seem yourself tonight. What’s going on?” Frank asked. I was surprised he’d noticed. I thought I had successfully camouflaged my inner turmoil behind a new shade of lipstick.
“My job’s ending, my bosses are closing the practice and I will have nowhere to work in a couple of months,” I confessed. Saying it out loud to him made it even more surreal. It was easier to talk about ring girls than real life.
“Wow, Dr. D, that sucks.” He rested his fingers against his temples. “Don’t worry. You’ll figure it out. You’re the kind of person who’ll bounce back no matter what. That’s why you’re here. You’re tough,” he said, delivering a compliment I didn’t feel I deserved. “Well, you better get backstage. Your ‘friend’ is waiting for you,” he continued, smiling like a proud father.
“My friend?” I asked, lost in the moment.
“Sugar Shane Mosley. You need to check him in. He’s waiting for you backstage.”
* * *
My knock on the door was met by a quiet, middle-aged man. He wore a black crew-neck sweater and nodded his freshly shaven head when he saw me, allowing me to pass without asking questions. Inside, the dressing room was quiet, like a monk’s chambers. It smelled fresh, with hints of citrus and bleach. The only other person in the room was Shane.
He looked up but stayed seated in his armchair, waiting for me to come to him.
“Hi, I’m Dr. Dahl,” I said, outstretching my hand.
In person, he was much smaller than I had imagined, barely taller than me in my boots. His eyes were more blue than gray, with tiny specks of brown near the bottom edges. Round pads of fat and muscle lifted his cheeks to meet his nostrils, which allowed an easy flow of air.
“I need to check your blood pressure and pulse, then I’ll be out of here,” I said.
“Okay,” he said, unzipping his hoodie and extending his arm. In surprising modesty, he covered his bare chest with the free edge of the sweatshirt.
In the silence, with only the hum of ambiguous electrical wiring in the background, I counted out his pulse, slow and steady. Then I inflated the cuff to check his pressure. Listening for the diastolic thump, I was overcome with a sudden yearning. There was so much I wanted to say, but I didn’t know where to start or if it would even matter. Of course, it wouldn’t matter to him, but I had to get it out for me.
“Everything looks good,” I said. I wrapped up the blood-pressure cuff and placed it in my medical bag, hearing the buzz of his jacket zipper closing. It was now or never.
“I usually don’t do this, but I have to give you some groupie love,” I said.
His expression changed quickly. He leaned away from me with concern.
“No, not like that,” I laughed. “I just want you to know how important you are to me. You’re the reason I became a fight doctor.”
“Really? How’s that?”
I told him about my internship and how helpless I had felt. How watching him win as the underdog against De La Hoya had given me the courage to fight my way out of my own situation. How his grace and humility gave him the kind of strength I was still searching for in myself.
“And here you are,” he said, a smirk stretching his dimples. “Looks like you made it.”
I wanted to cry at that moment and for all the moments boxing had given me. “See you in the ring,” I said, my heart swelling with gratitude.
* * *
“I can’t believe he’s still fighting. How old is he now?” I asked Tom. We were standing near the ring before the main event, and I had just told him about Shane.
“Er, I don’t know, in his midthirti
es, I think,” he said. Then, without warning, “I heard about what happened with the state.”
“What did you hear?”
“It doesn’t matter. Don’t feel sorry for him. You’re not the only one, you know. He’s gone after all kinds of women. I’ve heard stories, believe me. He tells that same crazy shit about his life to anyone who’ll listen.” He acted indifferent, as usual, rubbing his facial scruff as he perused the crowd. He always looked around when he spoke. I thought it was because he was checking out the suited men and celebrities seated near the ring, but I realized, just then, that it was probably his way of maintaining distance. His emotions were hard to read, but his actions were always crystal clear.
I shouldn’t have been surprised. In my naïveté, I had singled myself out, even though the Chairman hadn’t. But I didn’t want to talk about the Chairman anymore. I changed the subject. “Isn’t there a limit to how long a boxer can keep going before he hurts something permanently?” I asked. “Some guys keep going forever, but others get one bad blow to the head, and it’s all over.”
“Eh—I don’t know. It must be genetic or something.” He blended the eh and I together into a whine. “Look, there’s your friend, Bernard, over there. Talk about fighting a long time. He’s—what?—in his forties or something?”
I looked over to where he was gesturing. There, in the front row, sat Bernard Hopkins. And right next to him was none other than Oscar De La Hoya. “Oh. My. God. What is he doing here?” I nearly yelled. I was expecting Shane, but Oscar was a whole different story. The two of them together was almost too much to bear.
“They work together,” he said, as if it were obvious.
“What do you mean work together? Like in an office? And how does he know Bernard?” It hadn’t occurred to me that fighters going for the same titles could be friends outside the ring. Seeing them root for each other made the whole battle seem like a fraud.
“Dr. Dahl, your simultaneous brilliance and stupidity never cease to amaze me. They work together in Golden Boy Promotions.”
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