Diego Pardo, M.D.: And the Darkness Within

The Rain

THE RAIN HAD been coming down steadily that night; it beat down upon the steel roof and ran down the gutters to an ever-growing pool at the base of the steps to the house. I’ve got to run that spout in the other direction toward the driveway, he said to himself. Four fifty-four, the clock insisted to him as he rolled over ever so quietly to gaze over at Kate; her blond hair glowed a mixture of red from the clock’s LED and the moonlight coming in from the window. He had been promising her now for well over three years that he would fix that gutter, but here he was now about to graduate as the top surgeon in his class; they would be moving out of the little abode they had been calling home, the Tin Home as they affectionately called it. Red brick, wooden floors, a chimney, but that metal roof—oh, that metal roof. During summer showers, that roof would become a snare drum, each raindrop playing its part in a chorus of melody seemingly orchestrated by God himself. In wintertime, the heavy snows would cause the roof to bend and buckle, an aluminum can about to crush its inhabitants. The little red house with the small manicured yard was a very important part of their lives; he had carried Kate across its threshold on their wedding night, both laughing at the silliness at their turn at this ancient custom. They tumbled across the scattered moving boxes into a pile by the fireplace; amongst the faded jeans, sweaters, and surgical scrubs, they made love for the first time as husband and wife. They had been looking forward to the freedom finally being married would afford them. They no longer had to hide from Dad. Dad, as fate would have it, was the dean of the school of medicine he was attending, and Kate was a young lady fresh out of high school, volunteering as a candy striper during that summer before his first year of medicine. Dad had always wanted his little girl to follow in his footsteps and be a physician as he was and as was his father before him. Kate however loved to write poetry and read those boring old books written by dead Englishmen, and that summer, as she had promised him, she was volunteering at his hospital to see if she would give medicine a try; if at the end of the summer she was not enamored by it, they had agreed that she was free to do whatever she wanted, no questions asked. Six years had passed since that summer. She had not gone down the path of her father; instead, she had gone down her own path and had gotten her teaching degree. Diego glanced over at the clock again, 5:32.

Seven hours from now, I will be walking off that stage, my medical degree in hand, finally finished. I can still recall that first day of med school, rushing into the dean’s office at the prestigious University of New York Health and Science Center, nervous, anxious, the rancid taste of bile still present on my tongue. I was due for an interview with the dean of medicine at 10:00

AM

that day. As usual, the snows kept me and my green ’78 VW Diesel Rabbit from making it on time. Sitting in his lobby, melting snow on my shoulders, I listened intently for my name to be called.

Pardo? Diego Pardo? the stern old woman called out from the open door leading to the dean’s office.

Here, I mean present. Sorry, I am here.

With a cold once-over, I am ushered into a large, imposing dungeon of an office, an old skeleton adorning a dimly lit corner and medical books dating back to the dawn of man, framing a small desk. A gargantuan man sitting in an ever-so-small chair beckons me over. He offers me his hand, and I shake the huge catcher’s mitt of an appendage as he motions me to sit.

Diego, welcome to my university. My colleague Dr. Ramon Garcia down in Monterrey highly recommended you to me. He says you are the most promising student he has ever seen. What say you about this accolade?

Thank you, sir. Professor Garcia is most gracious and very kind to offer me this recommendation, and I assure you I will do my best to maintain and earn his words.

Well, Diego, let me say I went to school with Ramon. We graduated one and two. He beat me by a fraction of a point—very smart man, very competitive, very honest, and a man of his word. If he says you’re the best he has seen, that means a lot. But let me tell you, I only take the best here. Every year, I turn away some of the brightest prospective physicians in the country. Most have gone to attend other programs and have led very promising lives. But let me tell you, the ones that leave here, they lead. They pull medicine into the future. They don’t dwell in the rank and file. They don’t suffer in the trenches. They instead forge ahead, create. They put us on their shoulders and blaze new trails for the rest of medicine to travel. Can you, Diego, further that cause? Ramon says you can.

The bile slowly makes its way back up my esophagus, stopping just short of the roof of my mouth. Swallowing it back down, I answer, Yes, sir, I can. I will. I—

Knock, knock

And before I could go into my goals, my aspirations, and how this Mexican boy from a small town east of Monterrey made it from there to here, in walks a lovely young lady dressed as Alice from Wonderland. At five foot seven and with blond hair and blue eyes, Alice walks over to the dean and asks something about lunch. I struggle to recall even now what she said; for me, it was as if time stood still. I see the dean motion toward me as I stand to my feet.

Diego, I finally blurt out.

Dr. Pardo, let me introduce my daughter, Kate. Kate, this is Dr. Pardo. He is doing a surgery fellowship here. Ramon, your godfather, seems to think he is something special.

Nice to meet you, Diego, er, Dr. Pardo.

Kate here seems to think dead Englishmen are more interesting than the living. I’m trying to convince her otherwise.

Dad, you promised. I’m giving you this summer. Let’s wait till it’s over to discuss what we need to discuss.

Very well, dear. Walk Dr. Pardo over to the dorms. I think we are done. Welcome aboard, Dr. Pardo. I trust you will live up to expectations.

Yes, sir, I will, and thank you.

As the massive door closes behind me, I let out a heavy sigh. The bile having burned a small sore spot in my throat, I clear it and sigh again.

Oh, he isn’t that bad. He does expect the most from you, but then he does of himself as well. He wouldn’t have accepted you in his program if he didn’t think you could better it. He takes only the best. Nothing short will do.

Thank you so much for that. It’s my first time in this country, and sometimes I just feel so overwhelmed.

I look upon her in her blue Alice-in-Wonderland dress; it fits her two sizes too large. Her hair is back in a ponytail that bobs left to right with each step.

A serene innocence radiated from her; her steps were confident and purposeful. She talked on and on about her father wanting her to be a physician, but it just wasn’t for her. At least, that is what I vaguely recall; it’s funny, I remember what she was wearing, her perfume, her blue eyes looking upon me, the soft parting of her lips, and her figure hidden behind an ever-so-large dress. What a klutz, falling like I did that day. Not the impression I was wanting, but did I have to drag her down with me? At least I didn’t break her; I could already see the dean dumping me off at the nearest bus station to send me back. She instead laughed, laughed so hard—more so at the horrified look I had on my face I imagine. I guess that little fall served me well for the next month as our little mishap that morning broke the ice between us. Whenever I’d bump into her during my rounds, we’d break out in laughter. It got to the point that we’d play little pranks on each other; soon we began to give each other a wide berth as we crossed paths for fear of falling prey to the other’s prank. When that summer began, we hardly knew each other, never talked other than to play a trick on each other or to crack a joke at the other’s expense, yet as the summer turned into fall, I could not take my eyes off her. Doing rounds with my attending was oftentimes so difficult; she would often stand just behind him and make these silly faces at me. She would cross those blue eyes, scrunch up those lips, and stick Q-tips in her ears. I mustered all my strength to not laugh; tears would often well up in my eyes. Patients would soon know me as the caring doctor as my eyes were constantly watery when I would do rounds; my smile, although it was meant for Kate, would envelop each of my patients as it were their own. I don’t recall when it changed for Kate and me; one day, she just stopped trying to make me laugh. She would still stand behind my attending, but this time, it was different. She would just stare at me with her elbows on the counter, head in her hands, her blond hair flowing just above her eyes and ending in that ever-present ponytail. Looking back, I don’t now what made me more nervous: my fear of breaking out in a blurt of laugher from her silliness or her soft, almost cradling and unassuming stare. The day it all changed for us, she was giving me one of her usual intent stares; it was almost as if she was thinking deeply, almost poetically, something about me. At first, I thought she was merely caught daydreaming and I happened to have gotten caught in her stare, so I changed places amongst my fellow students and got closer to the patient as if to see him better, but as I cast an eye over to Kate, she had followed me to my new spot. I smiled at her; she smiled back as she let her head down from her hands, and with a parting of her lips, she mouthed Bye and walked away, pulling my mind and my soul with her. I still recall wanting to run after her that day, but my attendant kept going on and on about fluids (yes, I know), monitor in and out BMs (yes, I know), it’s important that they poo, got to watch out for ulcers (yes, I know), and constant rotations and moving them from side to side keeps bed ulcers from happening. I knew all this; I needed to know about that smile—Kate’s smile.

My attending finally tires of hearing his voice and releases his pet gophers to carry out his tasks for the day. I am to run blood samples from the floor to the lab. Usually, I want to sit in and watch a surgery, but my attending sees the greatness in me and refuses to nurture what is my future. Instead, he is happy to maintain me as I am, an anxious and ambitious first year surgical resident. I take Mr. Stenworth’s still-warm tiger-top test tube to the lab. It’s on the second floor, but I purposely go down to the first where the candy stripers’ reception desk is located. As I enter the lobby, what must be a dozen worried eyes look for my gaze; they are hoping the man in surgical scrubs who just entered their world has some word about their family members who are located floors above them. The anxious expression on my face does little to offset any hope they may have for a good word. I look around at all the similarly dressed Alice-in-Wonderlands who are now looking at me and my vial of blood in my hand; I must have appeared to be some sinister mad scientist to them. When far off in a darkened room, standing in the doorway, is that silhouette I know all too well, a shy-yet-knowing smile adorning those lips. I see them mouth the word hi to me. My shoulders slump down in relief as I walk toward her; she motions with her head for me to follow, and I do as I am asked. She walks just a few steps ahead of me down the long white corridor. Her soft perfume and her bobbing ponytail drag me along. She turns right into another hallway and walks into the first room on the left. I follow into the dimly lit room. I can barely make out the large conference table in the center, the chairs barely visible by the light streaming in from the blinds. We stand inches apart.

Hi, she says to me in a whisper.

Hi, I muster as the bile, the damn bile, rises up again. I cough and swallow, sending it back into the pits where it belongs.

I’ve been thinking a lot about you lately.

As I have you, I say.

She moves closer to me; her hands clasp over mine that are at my side. She brings them up to her shoulders, and she moves into my arms. Her head nuzzles into the small of my neck.

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