by Anthony Youn
“Four years, Youner,” Tim says. “Gone in the blink of an eye.”
“If you speak in one more cliché, I’m gonna throttle you.”
“I can’t help it. I speak in clichés when I’m nervous.”
“You, nervous?”
“This calm, collected front? It’s an act. I’m dying to get this over with. Not that anyone should wish time away. I can’t stop myself.”
I don’t answer. I gaze at the sky and follow the murky shadow the moonlight casts over us. I feel as if I’ve drifted into a grainy 1930s black-and-white movie. After a moment Tim lays his hand gently on my forearm. “You all right?”
“I was just thinking. I can finally answer the question.”
“What question?”
“Why I want to be a doctor.” I hold for half a second. “I want to fix people,” I say. “I want to make them look different if they need to, or even if they want to. Because maybe I can make them . . . better.”
After a long silence, Tim says, “I guess I could say the same thing.” He pauses again. “I didn’t. But I could. And from now on, I will. And pretend that I was the one who said it first.”
“You’re such a jerk.”
We crack up, laughing the way we did the first night we went to the USA Café. Finally, we stand silently, neither of us wanting to be anywhere but here. “Tim, seriously. I couldn’t have gotten through these four years without you.”
“Same here.”
And then we hug, two brothers knowing that after tomorrow, nothing will be the same.
HIGH NOON.
An hour earlier, Tim, Jane, Amy, and I gather with the rest of our classmates in what swiftly becomes a hundred-person scrum in the lobby of the administration building. I see Shelly the gunner stationed in the very front. She probably slept here. Ricky huddles in a corner, alone, dressed in his lucky Hawaiian shirt. He blows us a kiss. James and Daisy occupy the opposite corner. They see us, wave, applaud. We applaud back.
For forty-five minutes we mingle, joke, make the lamest of small talk, my hand nervously clutching Amy’s. At noon, the campus clock tolls its first of twelve booming chimes, and then a distant door opens, footsteps clack onto the buffed hall floor, the throng of us lift our voices, then lower them into a collective murmur. In a moment the tall, skeletal, white-haired dean who first spoke to us at orientation appears, walking in an even more exaggerated hunch than I remembered, holding in both scarecrow hands a stack of a hundred envelopes. We part for him like a human Red Sea. He stops in the center of us, says a few canned words that not one of us hears, then slowly announces our names alphabetically, peering up after each one, waiting for us to come forward and claim our envelope, which he offers with a thin grim smile.
Some students tear open their envelope on the spot. Some retreat to a quiet corner and ease their letter out. Some of us shriek, some curse, several wail in agony, joy, or surprise. Others grab their envelope and leave to open it privately. Around the fiftieth name, the dean calls, “Tim O’Laughlin.” Tim slouches forward, snatches his envelope, shakes the ancient dean’s hand, and retreats. I, Youn, will have to wait until the dean reads off almost every name in our class except for two Youngs, a Yudelman, two Zees, and Zimmerman. Finally, the dean croaks out, “Youn,” and presses an envelope into my outstretched, trembling palm. I somehow manage to blurt, “Thank you, Dean,” in the voice of a soprano.
By prior arrangement, Tim, Jane, Amy, and I duck into the student lounge, away from the madness. Amy drops my hand and plants herself next to me, my spotter in case I read extreme news, good or bad, and start to faint and keel over.
“You first,” I say to Tim.
Calm no more, he tears open his envelope. We can all read the letterhead that he holds: Cornell University. He shouts, pumps a fist, and throws his arms around Jane, who sneaks a Cornell baseball cap out of her coat pocket and wriggles it onto his head. He screams again.
And then everyone turns to me.
Time stands still. I sway, light-headed. Then, as if I’m standing to the side watching somebody else, I see myself open the envelope, fumble with the letter, and read: Grand Rapids Plastic Surgery.
Shouting, screaming, wailing, some of it coming from me. Everything goes fuzzy, and then Amy and I are kissing while Tim hugs me. I break away and scream at the top of my lungs. Tim and I link our arms around each other, and we both scream at the top of our lungs. I feel stupidly, lovingly, insanely high. I grab Amy’s hand and we all bolt out of the lounge and look for James and Ricky, but they’ve gone. I will find them later and learn that both got into their top choices, meaning that Flower Street went four for four! We pour a round of champagne, and I call my parents. My mother sobs, and my father lets out a strange, unfamiliar grunt, and then I realize this is the second time I’ve heard him cry. We hang up, I start to pack, and as I do, I think about all the people I have to thank and the arrangements I have to make.
It—the Big It—doesn’t happen until I’m on the road, driving away from campus, my four years of medical school behind me, so recently gone, already feeling like a filmy memory. I head home, my fingers clenched white on the steering wheel of my rickety Ford Tempo, which I’ve noticed recently has begun to lurch like an old man.
It may be time for a new car. My faithful old buddy has done its job, taken me where I want to go. I’ve finally gotten there. I have arrived.
And that’s when it hits me for the first time.
I am a doctor.
Acknowledgments
TONY:
First and always foremost, thank you to God for all the blessings that have been bestowed on me. I know that I am not deserving of all the good fortune that has come my way. I am humbled by how good God has been, and continues to be, to me.
To Dad and Mom. Thank you for your unconditional love. While I didn’t realize it at the time, having you as role models for determination, work ethic, and dedication to family have helped shape me into the person I am today. I am forever grateful to have you as my parents.
To Amy, my wife and companion. Meeting you is the best thing that’s ever happened to me. Thank you for being so understanding and supportive with the time I took for this book. I love everything about you.
To my co-writer, Alan Eisenstock. You are a consummate professional, a fantastic writer, and a good friend. One of the best things about writing this book has been developing a friendship with you. It’s been an honor working together on this book. Thank you for dedicating a year of your life to my story. I still owe you a beer!
To my agent, Wendy Sherman. Thank you for believing in this book and believing in me. You are the best agent in the U.S., period! Your advice has been so unbelievably helpful throughout this crazy process. Thank you for creating the perfect match with Alan and Kara.
To my editor, Kara Cesare. Thank you for being the biggest fan of my story. I know that I couldn’t have sold this book without you, and am so grateful for your support and untiring dedication. I could not have asked for a better editor! The “Dream Team!”
To my editor-in-chief, Jen Bergstrom. Thank you for embracing me into the Gallery Books family and for all your kind words and encouragement. It’s an honor to work with you. You are a gem.
To my publisher, Louise Burke, and the rest of the staff at Gallery Books. Being one of your authors is a dream come true. Thank you for all your support and guidance.
To Brian Smith. You are a creative talent and one of my best friends. I could not have survived medical school or written this book without you. We’ve come a long way, Smither!
To Mike and Lisa, Jim and Py. Thank you for being my closest family. Your love and support mean the world to me.
To Rachael Ray and the staff at The Rachael Ray Show. Thank you for allowing me to be a part of your show and making me look good. It’s an honor to work with all of you.
To Nani Power. Thank you for taking the time to go over my manuscript and referring me to your agent.
To my family and friends who have supporte
d me throughout my life and in the writing of this book. There are too many of you to name, and I fear that I will inadvertently leave someone out. You know who you are, from New Jersey to Grand Rapids to Chicago to L.A., and many places in between. Thank you for all the fun and laughs through the years. See you on Facebook!
To my employees and coworkers. Thank you for helping make me the physician I am. I could not do my job without your help. A doctor is only as good as the nurses, techs, PAs, and support staff around him.
To all the physicians who have graciously given their time to train and teach me. I have taken pieces of each of you to become the doctor I am today. I hope I make you proud.
To all the patients, past and present, who have allowed me to care for you, treat you, and, especially, learn from you. Thank you for bringing me into your lives and trusting in me to be your doctor.
Finally, to D and G—I hope that someday reading this story gives you comfort, pride, and guidance, even long after I am gone. I love you so much.
ALAN:
Thanks to Tony, the coolest, smartest, savviest, nicest, best collaborator ever, and now my friend. You even got me to blog.
Thanks to Brian Smith. Could not have done it without you.
Thanks to Wendy Sherman, agent supreme, who never gave up, and found us the perfect match with Gallery.
Thanks to everyone at Gallery, with enormous gratitude to Jen Bergstrom.
Thanks to Kara Cesare, our editor, simply the best. Without you, babe, In Stitches would not exist.
Thanks to the doctors in my life who had my literary back during the writing of In Stitches—Dr. Phil Schwarzman, Dr. Linda Nussbaum, and Dr. George Weinberger.
Thanks to Katie O’Laughlin and everyone at Village Books in Pacific Palisades, California, “my office,” where Snickers and I hang out. And R.I.P. Top.
Thanks to David Ritz.
Thanks to all my dear friends and my family, especially my parents, Jimmy and Shirley Eisenstock.
And thanks, always, to Bobbie, Jonah, and Kiva, my heartbeats, and forever, Zachary.