Beneath the Shadow

"Good morning, Doc!" the nursing aide, Mrs. Merrie Garcia, greeted me with a high bow as soon as I entered the hospital. "Got a lot of patients today?"

"Hello, Mrs. Garcia," I smiled back at her, like how I've always done for twenty-five years now, except this time, she probably couldn't see it behind my mask. "Just a few of my dad's patients for rounds," I answered as I continued to walk towards the elevator. Merrie followed suit, probably because she's headed to the wards as well.

"How are your parents, by the way? And your grandparents?" she asked while we were waiting for the elevators—both of which were currently stuck on the eighth floor.

I took a sip from my iced caramel latte before turning to answer her. "Mom and Dad are still asymptomatic, thank God. As for my grandparents, both of them have pneumonia but they're still quite strong for their age, I think. Can you imagine they still call me to report my cases to them? Unbelievable." I chuckle.

Merrie laughs.

"Gramps just asked me to report my dad's cases last night during our call and it was brutal," I complained.

"I see they're really unbothered by being sick, no," Merrie remarks, still smiling.

"Not at all," I grinned. "I thought they'd be a little gentler, but they are actually more terrifying this way," I whispered, getting another laugh out of Merrie.

"Up!" the elevator operator, Jason announced. I quickly walked towards the elevator, and greeted the employees inside.

"Good morning, Doc! How is Dr. Gomez doing at home? It's a little weird not seeing your father around for more than a week," Jason turns to me immediately after pressing the elevator buttons.

"Think of it as a blessing—he won't bother you for another week," I joked. As well-respected my father is, he still is an intimidating person. He rarely smiles at work, and is 100% concentrated on his patients and his surgeries once he steps foot inside the hospital.

"Ha ha that is quite true. But Dr. Geraldine must miss socializing with her colleagues and the secretaries, right?"

"Of course she does! But I do think they have a group chat where they talk about super random things," I laughed. My mom is such a stark contrast to my very rigid father. She was more sociable, more approachable—she's probably the reason why the hospital employees can still tolerate my dad.

"Oh, ninth floor, here's my stop. Thanks, Jason."

...

I strode quickly towards the nurses' station which, thankfully, was just several steps away from the elevator. I smiled at the nurses and asked for the charts of my dad's patients. Since graduating from residency training, I haven't really had much luck in landing my own patients. Truthfully, it's difficult to have patients these days—with the current pandemic and all. Everyone seems too scared to have their check-ups, or too scared to be exposed to positive patients. And so, most of my patients are either emergency neurosurgery cases or long-term charity patients—hand-me-downs from my Dad and Gramps. It's not all bad, actually, since I still think I'm not at par with my gramps or my dad in terms of clinical prowess, especially in the field where they're both superstars. Being given the chance to handle their patients is a gift, a learning experience.

I took the charts with me, and headed to the neurosurgery ward. Just before entering, I fixed my hair, adjusted my white coat, and smiled using only my eyes. A nurse followed me, and in the distance, a resident's heavy footsteps were becoming louder as it neared me.

The nurse opened the curtains for the first patient and took the charts from me as we waited for the resident to join us. Once he did, I immediately approached the patient closest to the door, a frail-looking man in his 70s who had suffered from stroke a little over a week ago.

"Good morning, Mr. Peralta. I'm Dr. Katrina Gomez. I will be your physician today. How are you feeling, Sir?" I said in the gentlest tone possible, which is still a little challenging, even for someone with my length of training.

He adjusts his position and leans back, moving slightly further away from me, as if I was carrying the virus. He looked even more confused as he continuously squirmed on the bed. The nurse handed the chart to the resident—who had just arrived—and approached Mr. Peralta and tried to calm him.

"Where's Do-Dr. Lu-luis Gomez?"he asked, with a slight stutter, still looking uncomfortable.

"Sir, remember I told you that Dr. Luis is sick and has to stay at home?" she chimed in.

I tried my hardest to smile with my eyes and leaned in a little closer. "Sir, he's currently isolating so he has entrusted all his current patients to me, his daughter," I said calmly. Though, I must say that repeating these words for the past two days has already been exhausting, to say the least.

"O-oh," he relaxes a bit. "Well, t-then, I-I've been feeling better since last night."

"Can you please raise your arms?" He follows my command. "How about your legs, Sir? Okay, very good." I then proceeded to examine his face and the rest of his body.

"Aren't you a little young to be a neurosurgeon?" He asked, just after I had finished examining him.

I laughed a bit uncomfortably, and slid my hands into the pockets of my coat, just to prevent myself from crossing them out of habit. "Yes, sir, I had actually just finished my training but I still have a lot of real-life experiences to learn down the road," I replied.

"Oh that's why," he sighed deeply. "But isn't neurosurgery traditionally for men only?"

To be honest, these questions do not surprise me anymore. But I suppose, I still react adversely every time I hear such questions. I can feel the nurse and the resident staring at me, waiting for a reply in hopes to defuse such a charged conversation.

I adjust my eyeglasses and tried to smile through the slight ire developing within me. "Ah, well all surgical fields used to be dominated by men but these days a lot of women are also gaining interest in the fields. It's a rewarding specialty," I finally mustered to say. Of course, these were not hard truths. I sometimes just tell myself these statements to make me feel a little better.

"Do you have any more questions, Mr. Peralta?"

"None at the moment, Doc."

"Very well. If you have more questions later, you can ask Nurse Marie or Dr. Kevin Martin. They will be here for the rest of the day. Thank you, Sir." I closed the curtain behind me and took a deep breath. There were four more patients left.

At the nurses' station, I was explaining to the resident my plans for the last patient when Dad called me.

"How is everyone?" he asked, as I felt myself curl—metaphorically—from the beginning terror I'm feeling in his virtual presence. I proceeded to report my findings to him, like how I always did in residency—in a professional manner, like I was just a trainee and like he was the training officer. I was holding my breath the whole time and praying hard for this to be over.

Once ended, I exhaled rather deeply and went back to the resident to finalize everything.

"Do you have any questions, Dr. Kevin?" I asked him, in a tone that's entirely different from my dad's.

"None really, Doc. But I do have a personal question if you don't mind my asking?"

"Thankfully, our patients are quite stable or else we won't have time for moments like this," I smiled—with my eyes. "Shoot."

He looked down coyly, before asking, "Well, I was just wondering why you did choose neurosurgery? Did you feel like it was a calling?"

I took a deep breath. "You're in first year of core surgery training, right?" I asked, remembering I had the same feelings during my first few months of rotation.

I had always been so sure of myself. I always knew which chocolate milk to drink in nursery. I always knew which sports I enjoyed and excelled at and which ones I will never try. I was always so sure of becoming a doctor since turning five, when on my birthday, my parents and grandparents all had to rush to the hospital. My Gramps and Dad had an emergency neurosurgery case: a guy in his 30s who suddenly collapsed during a school event. My grandma, had also been suddenly contacted for an emergency delivery. And my mom— though she wasn't a surgeon or an obstetrician or an anesthesiologist—was needed by my dad for neurology referral.

That same day, we were having a small luncheon at my grandparents' home, my brothers and my family of physicians, when all of a sudden we had to go to the hospital. I still remember walking down the hallway of the Medical Arts building of this very hospital with my two older brothers, my chocolate drink on my left hand, with my parents' secretary. The secretaries were by the doors of the clinics greeting us with a chorus of: "oh the little doctors!", "Here come the future surgeons", "My, I cannot wait for them to become doctors. Hire me as your secretary, kiddos!". Some would even ask whose kids we were and my parents' secretary would answer them matter-of-factly, that we were the children of the Gomezes, the hospital director and the hospital founder.

I suppose I was too young to understand everything that was happening, but I was well-aware of how the smiles and the greetings made me feel. It was surreal. The slight dismay I had for how my birthday turned out had been replaced by this feeling, like I know exactly what I'm going to do next.

And that's what I did.

"But why neurosurgery?" Kevin asked again. "Your mom's a neurologist, your dad and grandfather are neurosurgeons, and your grandma is an OB-GYN. Your brothers are general surgeons. Why not something else?" he pressed.

I was getting a little uncomfortable because I was also remembering the patients remark. I was remembering everything, not just the rose-colored version of my life's history:

Like ten years ago when we were all witnessing my dad yelling at my eldest brother for choosing general surgery and not neurosurgery, like it was a matter of life and death.

"Who's going to inherit my patients?" he would argue. 

Like they were properties to be given away.

Or that time six years ago when my mom begged me to take up neurosurgery instead because no one else in the family wanted to. And there I was, plain old sure-about-everything-me, crying because I, well, I wasn't sure anymore what I wanted. Sure, I wanted to not become a disappointment to this family. And sure, I also did like neurosurgery. Yes, to me, it was the most interesting course at school. And yes, my Dad and Gramps, always brought me along as an assist immediately after finishing internship—which was really cool and fun. But I also desired orthopaedic surgery.

I had been playing multiple sports since I was little—taekwondo, tennis, basketball—but soccer? It was like meeting my first love. For most of high school, I was living and breathing soccer—well, alongside getting high marks academically, of course, for medical school application purposes.

I was fifteen at the time I first watched a real football tournament, and it was of course an exciting experience. Seeing it live is completely different from watching it on TV. During the match, one of the players got injured, and in came the team doctors. Team doctors? I remember asking myself at the time. Huh, are they actually doctors? In the half-time, I tried to search for the validity of such occupations, and to my surprise, they were real. And I again, knew what I wanted to do next.

But I couldn't do it.

"Well, it was not an easy decision to make, to be honest, but I enjoyed the ride," I answered but I did not really answer his question. I can see him waiting for me to continue my statement and so, I did. "I liked it because it was what I was exposed to. Almost everyone at home is talking about neurosurgery at home, because of how great it is, of how cool the cases are. And I still think that way. But still there are things that excite and terrify me more."

"What I'm trying to say is, you have to listen to yourself. Just you. Know which speaks to you more. Or else you might regret where you end up," I smiled, pushing back the tears that had been welling up behind my eyes.

"I suppose you're right," he sighs. "Thanks, Doc! See you around!"

I smile at him one final time as he walked away from me. I strode towards the elevator, greeting people who pass me by. I still like this feeling, at least. The elevator in front of me opens and I wonder, for the third time today, was maintaining their legacy worth throwing my dream away?