The chief resident looked at me, his eyes warm and full of understanding, as I genially told my story as part of the pre-interview dinner conversation. My story about how my grandfather, even in his quite biased opinion, knew that I was a terrible singer at a young five years of age, and had forced a violin into my hands, telling me to make the violin sing instead. And amidst the laughter after I reproduced my five year old falsetto, I could feel his gaze burning a hole into my sleeve. So I turned to look at him. And while everyone else was laughing, he looked at me and quietly commented, almost whispering, "I read your personal statement."
I just nodded. But that one phrase had so much meaning in it. He knew.
My face must have given me away.
"I'm so sorry for your loss," he said. Again, quietly, so the others wouldn't hear.
I nodded again. The smile stayed on my face, fixed and unfaltering, but with that simple standard phrase, I could feel my expression starting to crumple around the edges.
Every interview I go to is another test of composure. A hard lesson of learning to keep it together. During my Southern California interviews, my parents would get so frustrated with me, when they picked me up at the end of an interview day. Because they would inevitably ask me how it was, and besides the obligatory "it was fine" response that I would give, I always needed at least an hour or so for myself, for me to process and hide my emotions, before I could talk to them about what they wanted to hear. How many residents, how much call is there, what the pay is like, did the program like me, did I like the program, etc. And I wouldn't want to talk about that right away.
Because at every interview, the programs always ask me about my year off. About my grandfather. About his death. About how he has inspired me.
And as I talk about him, frankly, openly, honestly, I'm more than aware that I'm scratching off that scab that is bereavement. Stabbing at it. Yanking it off. And then, my wounds lie open, bleeding with reminders. And the more we talk about him, the saltier it gets.
But I keep it together. My voice might quiver occasionally, but with a quick clearing of my throat, all is back on track.
Tonight though, halfway through my flight, in my 6C Southwest seat, as I stared out at the rain creating rivers in the blackness of sky framed by my tiny airplane window, I felt my own tears come streaming down my cheeks. Mirroring the window. Maybe it was the book I was reading - a story narrated by Death himself. Maybe it was overhearing the conversation between my seatmates and finding out that she had flown back to Texas to bury her cousin who had been killed in the war. Maybe it was because I had interviewed with the best psychotherapist in the nation and my interview had turned into a therapy session of sorts. Maybe it was just the weather. Something broke, and I found myself weeping.
But whatever the cause, it was cathartic. And even though I couldn't stop the onslaught of tears, couldn't prevent my shoulders from shaking, when it had all quieted down, I sighed with relief. Relief at the release. Relief that my seatmates were all sleeping and no one had witnessed my break in composure.
When grief comes knocking, it never ever really leaves you.
Two more interviews to go.
