the Dansko shoebox under my bed
According to the Wikipedia page for the TV show ER the first season premiered in 1994. As a millennial representing the plagued birth year of 1993, the truth checks out when I tell you that for as long as I can remember, every Thursday night I would stay up to watch the new episode of ER with my dad. Every Sunday I would flip TV guide religiously, ensuring things were lined up for our 10pm eastern viewing as usual.
As I got older, I would memorize reruns on TNT (we know drama lol) and draw pictures of childbirth that would get me kicked out of class during show and tell. As many other physicians will tell you in the most stereotypically trite way, I guess I truly did always want to be a doctor. Don't put that in a personal statement, though.
Years and ER reruns elapsed and instead of the usual excitement and motivation I’d get from my show, I felt dread and jealousy. Physician-hood felt more and more unattainable. I struggled in math and teachers told me I’d never make it to college, must less medical school. What did feel attainable was storytelling. I stopped watching ER and joined the choir. I went to theater summer camp and towered at the ballet bar in a leotard much too small. I spent hours in a purple inflatable chair in my room listening to the chicks and Paramore, typing away on my Sony laptop, telling stories. I was a writer, you see. Why chase a medical school dream when all my ideas were here right now?
If you're reading this, you know the end of the story. Thankfully you can learn to write during the essay-ridden electives you're mandated to take as a pre-med undergrad. Part of the fun game is to see if you can do organic chemistry AND write essays about late 18th century eastern Asian pirates while you masochistically chase an acceptance letter; permission to uproot your current life and financial future. Congrats, doc!
I know for a verifiable fact that my dad is proud of me, and always has been. The Dansko shoe box under my bed is packed with birthday, graduation, continuation, and celebration cards written in his loopy cursive, usually with an ink pen that smears the previous words illegibly.
And, I have wondered, both deep in my subconscious and recently out loud, if the box would be less full if I had chased writing instead of medicine. What if I was a struggling artist instead of a struggling intern?
Would he be less proud of me? More worried about me? When you're thinking about your accomplishments as a parent, does unconditional love (which I know he has for me) transcend expectations for financial and social success?
I think my dad would tell you that the nights he spent every Thursday night paid off; that we reached patriarchal mecca on the day we added the letters "MD" after name. I too treasure the hours we spent worshiping the fictional physicians of County General Hospital. I attribute both Dr. Green and my dad as major influences on my success. Not equally, obviously.
And, I still like to tell stories. I am working on owning the statement "I am a writer". Now that it is all said and done, Dr. Pemberton feels very grateful for the B+ she got in the history of pirates essay writing class, as it made her a better writer. She feels grateful for the professors who kicked her ass in grammar and literacy. – cue end of third person narration.
Recently I wrote a blog about a cheese stick and the man I think might be my soulmate. Apparently after I sent it to my mom for feedback, she read it to my dad. He called today and said we needed to talk. Then, he kind of rocked my world and provided the answers to the questions I’ve been pondering. Briefly, he said the following.
"Katie, you don’t need to tell the internet about your dirty underwear or your last great orgasm. But you do need to write. You need to talk about the pain you feel sometimes. How you’re afraid sometimes. The fear you feel sometimes. When you do, you let others come along with you. You give them permission to feel their pain, sometimes. In doing so, they learn that somebody else is going through the exact same thing. they are not alone. Or you could do nothing at all, too. That would be perfectly okay, too. But if you do decide to put it out there, you need to know that at least one person is out there reading, cherishing the work and connection. Moi. "
I sniff louder than I mean to.
"Oh god are you crying? Don't cry. Go eat something, you'll feel better. Love you, kiddo"
click.
Bye dad. I love you. Thanks for calling! in 45 seconds you managed to address and assuage every fear I’ve ever felt about writing and sharing vulnerable shit on the internet. Thanks for seeing me as the soul I am, allowing me to stand boldly at the intersection of the identities of the woman and writer and doctor I want to be.
And thanks for watching ER with me on Thursday nights. I think it really helped.
Bug