Mrs. Minsky emphatically not ready to pay a twenty-thousand-dollar hospital bill.
Then, H advised, don’t let her sponge off the family, give her one last chance, if she blows that then don’t pick up the pieces again. And by the way you can give my secretary a check for two hundred fifty dollars. Melissa and I choked: poor Karen Minsky paying a seventy-five-dollar premium because Hanaper never read the Book of Esther.
After we slunk out as fast as we could Melissa said, “I would give up my residency if I thought I could ever dress and move like Luisa Montcrief.” I’d give up my residency if I could find another way to pay my medical school debts, I said,
and
we all went off to our respective patients.
Dr. Stonds pounced on me as I was writing up my last orders at the end of the day. What had happened with Mme Montcrief? He and his granddaughter used to enjoy her performances at Lyric Opera, Told him she seemed to be an alcoholic without any medical insurance, so tough love seemed to be the indicated treatment.
Stonds looked at me bleakly. Tough love is often the best treatment even in the presence of medical insurance, Dr.—Tammuz, is it? As you gain more experience you will be less willing to cry over the manipulators, the users, the abusers in the patient population. You
need
to develop a thicker skin, or you will be torn apart by your patients’ woes.
Advice I’ve been hearing since I was five, I think, Mom telling me not to be a crybaby. Develop a thicker skin. Instead, over time, my skin gets sandpapered to translucence.
6
Hagar’s House
Y OU SHOULD DO some volunteer work at Hagar’s House,” Mrs. Ephers told Mara one morning at breakfast. “Your heart bleeds over all these homeless women, but you should see what their lives are really like. Drunk, most of them, some from homes as nice as this one. Maybe it would give you more sympathy for their families, or at least stop you heading down the same road they’re on.”
Mara hunched a shoulder and left the table without answering. As a matter of fact, she had volunteered at the shelter a few times, without telling anyone at Graham Street, but she hated the shelter’s director. The church had approved Patsy Wanachs not only because she spoke some Spanish, but because she was a member of the congregation whom everyone had known since childhood. Patsy shared the obsession with order and decorum that the Orleans Street Church prized, and could be counted on not to let the shelter move from the basement into the pews.
Mara hated the fact that women had to ask permission to get tampons or seconds at breakfast, or for an extra blanket if they were shivering. The rows of cots, four feet apart, allowed no privacy. Women could put their personal belongings in a lockedoffice for the night, to protect them against theft from their sisters, but then had to come to one of the volunteers, Mara, for instance, to request access to their own possessions. A handful of private lookers could be “earned” by the inmates from points scored by good behavior.
Mara hated the way Patsy Wanachs looked at the women when they violated one of the shelter’s rules, a secret pleasure in power shining through as she shook her head, made a note: LaBelle, or Caroline, if you become abusive we have to ask you to leave.
Mephers poured out her grievance to Harriet that evening: I tried to get Mara involved in something outside herself, but I might as well talk to the elevator here. In fact, I’d get more satisfaction out of it—at least the elevator comes when I call for it.
Harriet was tired. She wanted only to lie down before dinner, when she’d have to play hostess to some of Grandfather’s surgical colleagues, but hearing Mara in the front room, trying to improvise on the piano, she took a breath and went in to talk to her sister. Mara was playing the same triad over and over with her left hand while fumbling with chords in the right.
Harriet couldn’t understand why
Then, H advised, don’t let her sponge off the family, give her one last chance, if she blows that then don’t pick up the pieces again. And by the way you can give my secretary a check for two hundred fifty dollars. Melissa and I choked: poor Karen Minsky paying a seventy-five-dollar premium because Hanaper never read the Book of Esther.
After we slunk out as fast as we could Melissa said, “I would give up my residency if I thought I could ever dress and move like Luisa Montcrief.” I’d give up my residency if I could find another way to pay my medical school debts, I said,
and
we all went off to our respective patients.
Dr. Stonds pounced on me as I was writing up my last orders at the end of the day. What had happened with Mme Montcrief? He and his granddaughter used to enjoy her performances at Lyric Opera, Told him she seemed to be an alcoholic without any medical insurance, so tough love seemed to be the indicated treatment.
Stonds looked at me bleakly. Tough love is often the best treatment even in the presence of medical insurance, Dr.—Tammuz, is it? As you gain more experience you will be less willing to cry over the manipulators, the users, the abusers in the patient population. You
need
to develop a thicker skin, or you will be torn apart by your patients’ woes.
Advice I’ve been hearing since I was five, I think, Mom telling me not to be a crybaby. Develop a thicker skin. Instead, over time, my skin gets sandpapered to translucence.
6
Hagar’s House
Y OU SHOULD DO some volunteer work at Hagar’s House,” Mrs. Ephers told Mara one morning at breakfast. “Your heart bleeds over all these homeless women, but you should see what their lives are really like. Drunk, most of them, some from homes as nice as this one. Maybe it would give you more sympathy for their families, or at least stop you heading down the same road they’re on.”
Mara hunched a shoulder and left the table without answering. As a matter of fact, she had volunteered at the shelter a few times, without telling anyone at Graham Street, but she hated the shelter’s director. The church had approved Patsy Wanachs not only because she spoke some Spanish, but because she was a member of the congregation whom everyone had known since childhood. Patsy shared the obsession with order and decorum that the Orleans Street Church prized, and could be counted on not to let the shelter move from the basement into the pews.
Mara hated the fact that women had to ask permission to get tampons or seconds at breakfast, or for an extra blanket if they were shivering. The rows of cots, four feet apart, allowed no privacy. Women could put their personal belongings in a lockedoffice for the night, to protect them against theft from their sisters, but then had to come to one of the volunteers, Mara, for instance, to request access to their own possessions. A handful of private lookers could be “earned” by the inmates from points scored by good behavior.
Mara hated the way Patsy Wanachs looked at the women when they violated one of the shelter’s rules, a secret pleasure in power shining through as she shook her head, made a note: LaBelle, or Caroline, if you become abusive we have to ask you to leave.
Mephers poured out her grievance to Harriet that evening: I tried to get Mara involved in something outside herself, but I might as well talk to the elevator here. In fact, I’d get more satisfaction out of it—at least the elevator comes when I call for it.
Harriet was tired. She wanted only to lie down before dinner, when she’d have to play hostess to some of Grandfather’s surgical colleagues, but hearing Mara in the front room, trying to improvise on the piano, she took a breath and went in to talk to her sister. Mara was playing the same triad over and over with her left hand while fumbling with chords in the right.
Harriet couldn’t understand why
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