The next morning I caught my reflection in the bedroom window—my face was droopy and distorted like a Dalí painting—as dozens of numbers whizzed through my head. I had spent the predawn hours devouring research about HIV transmission, hoping that by precisely calculating my risk, I could establish statistical boundaries and somehow contain the nightmare. But the numbers only reinforced the reality of my situation; some unlucky souls were going to contract the virus after a needle stick and I might be one of them. I just had to take my pills, cross my fingers, and wait.
I auditioned various brave faces as I shaved. What if I cut myself? Would HIV-infected blood drip into the sink? I closed my eyes and put down the razor. Now that abject fear had begun to recede, a new, equally terrible feeling was emerging to join it: embarrassment. The idea of walking back into the hospital seemed excruciating. How was I going to face David? Or Ashley? I was a liability, a danger to myself and those around me. How could Ariel and Lalitha and Meghan trust me to do my job? How was I ever going to face all of those AIDS patients—the ones who were disintegrating before my eyes? What were the odds they’d trust a doctor careless enough to accidentally join their fate?
And that was just today. More worrying was what it might do to my reputation and career progress in the long term. Everyone in my intern group felt a pressure, spoken or not, to improve every day—to make diagnoses more quickly, to write notes more adeptly, and to know more about our patients and their illnesses than anyone else in the hospital. We did this by toiling behind the scenes, staying late to talk with a patient’s family or coming in early to read up on an obscure disease, and in many cases, we did this by quietly violating strict work hour regulations. No one knew about these violations because we didn’t formally punch in and out; we just stayed until the work was done. And the work was never done. Anonymity ultimately meant better care for our patients because we could bend the rules, and I feared that my needle stick would shatter my anonymity; I would become that guy, someone people knew about, someone to keep tabs on, and I would not be the only victim of my mistake.
I considered how far word of my needle stick might have traveled in our insular hospital world. Although we didn’t have much time to socialize, we had time to gossip. I knew who was screwing, who was pregnant, and who was trying to become pregnant. It was quite easy to attain vast sums of secondhand knowledge of questionable veracity about colleagues I’d never actually spoken to. I could only imagine what would be said about me. How would Ashley relay it? How would Carleton describe it?
What had he said after I was whisked away to meet Banderas? Did the calm, collected medical student describe the incident in detail to his classmates? Did he say I handled the situation well or did he acknowledge the truth—that I was scared and increasingly unable to function as the implications of my mistake set in? And why did I care? The incident was over, there was nothing to do but move forward and tackle the matrix of assignments that was about to unfold. Of course I cared.
I carefully laid out all of the HIV medications on the kitchen table, popping six in quick succession, followed by a glass of water and a handful of cornflakes. The remaining pills I packed in a Ziploc bag and stuffed in the front pocket of my white coat for later. I wasn’t technically required to go back to work—supervisors made it clear that I could come back to work when I was ready—but I didn’t want to let down my peers. Interns were spread so thin to begin with; sulking at home would only make things worse and perhaps create the perception that I was not a team player. Plus, the fact was that in spite of the psychological blow, there was nothing actually wrong with me. I had to get back to work.
I spent the subway ride to the hospital flipping through Heart Disease for Dummies as a mariachi band bounced from one car to the next, but I couldn’t focus. I closed the pages and shut my eyes until I arrived at 168th Street.
Entering the hospital, I slipped on my white coat and put my hand in my pocket, rolling the pills through my fingers. The first recognizable face I encountered was that of Benny, who was standing next to a vending machine with a large grin.
“How you doing, big man?” he asked. “You good?”
“Hi, uh, Benny.” He was undoubtedly the only patient in the CCU capable of taking a stroll to the vending machines.
He held up a Snickers and giggled. “Don’t tell.”
He shouldn’t be eating that, I thought. “I won’t.”
“You good?” he asked again, extending a fist. Doctors, nurses, and patients buzzed around us. Some peered into cell phones, others at scut lists. I didn’t recognize a single face.
“Well…”
“You look a little ashy,” Benny said.
Benny, by contrast, looked as well as I’d ever seen him. He was wearing a blue Giants sweatshirt and gray sweatpants and had just finished another session on the stationary bicycle. His enthusiasm for the new NFL season, I soon discovered, was mitigated by his frustration that one of his daughters had been misbehaving at home. I tried to imagine what it must be like for that girl, to miss her father, to tell friends that the old man’s not around because he’s waiting in the hospital for a heart transplant that might not ever come.
I noticed a small gauze pad near Benny’s neck where a large IV had been removed. It reminded me that the man wasn’t simply idly waiting, he was constantly undergoing blood tests, MRIs, CAT scans, and X-rays while receiving all sorts of powerful, potentially toxic medications. But to what end? In many ways, Benny reminded me of an intern: smiling on the outside, tortured on the inside.
“Matisyahu!” a passing intern shouted. I gave a small nod and looked into the vending machine for Doritos. My appetite momentarily appeared stronger than my resolve. Thoughts of the needle caused my index finger to throb; I wondered if I should cover the finger with a Band-Aid or if that would only draw attention to the site.
“I’m still waiting,” Benny said.
“I figured,” I said, referring to his impending heart transplant. “How much longer do they expect?”
He shook his head. “Still waiting for you to tell me you’re good.” He pointed the Snickers at me like it was a pistol. “Gonna make me ask again?”
I pounded his fist and smiled. “I’m good.”
He looked at me askance. “Yeah?”
“Yeah. Took your advice…slowed things down, not in such a hurry.” I hadn’t rushed that blood draw, had I? My mind jumped back to the needle stick, as it had every hour or so since it happened, and again I tried to figure out what went wrong. My mind leapt ahead a few years, to a time when I was just another patient in the HIV clinic. One who couldn’t drink alcohol because of the hepatotoxic side effects of ritonavir, one who might need weekly dialysis because of the dangerous side effects of tenofovir, which I learned could tear up the kidneys. I imagined myself on a waiting list, just like Benny, hoping for a new organ after my own had been eaten away by HIV.
“Whatever it is, Matt, you’ll get through it.”
“I’m good!” I insisted, giving him another fist pound. “What’s new in the CCU?”
“Reading a good book,” he said. “Sick Girl, about a heart transplant.”
“Haven’t read it.”
“And”—he winked—“it’s Bad Girls Week on Judge Joe Brown.”
A moment later my pager went off: PATIENT WITH ILLICIT ITEMS IN HER BUST. PLEASE EVALUATE.
“Popular,” he said, looking beyond me to a small boy holding a balloon. “Stay positive, friend.”
“I will,” I said. “Gotta run.”
“Gotta walk,” he said, taking one last bite of the candy bar.
I looked at the pager again, shaking my head at the impending search and seizure, and softly said, “Amazing things…”
“They’re happening,” Benny said, pointing at the slick, off-white floor, “right here.”
Exiting the elevator a few minutes later, I bumped into Ashley. “Question,” she said, pointing at my belly.
My knees buckled. What was she going to say about the incident? I was in no mood to relive the moment with her or be admonished for my sloppiness. “What’s up?” I asked nervously.
“Need your opinion.”
“Of course.”
“Would you rather marry someone who cheats on you one time or marry an alcoholic?”
She smiled, and a wave of relief washed over me. “Love this question.”
“So do I.”
We had occasionally batted this around in medical school. The consensus was to marry the person who cheats, but Heather and I had both initially said alcoholic.
“I’d go with the alcoholic,” I said to Ashley. “No question.”
She shook her head. “No way!”
I shrugged. “Maybe I have trust issues.”
“Have you ever lived with an alcoholic?”
“No.”
“Then you can’t answer the question.”
I smiled. “Let me amend my answer. I cannot answer your question because I have never lived with an alcoholic.”
Her pager buzzed and she shook her head. “See you in rounds, pal. You’re good.”
That stupid interaction with her glorious cheekbones was just what I’d needed. She’d treated me like nothing had happened. I didn’t have to feel embarrassed; I didn’t have to defend actions or offer some lame excuse. Perhaps things would unfold differently in the next few days, but for now, Ashley had tacitly let me know that I’d be able to focus on being a good doctor and not worry about what everyone around me might think.
“P.S.,” Ashley said, skipping away, “I think you broke Carleton. Holy shit balls!”