The Real Doctor Will See You Shortly by Matt McCarthy Page B

medical training, I also had to learn how to treat everyday complaints like back pain or the sniffles. Many residents found the transition to a slower pace more difficult; they included Baio, who warned that primary care would be the most painful part of my medical education. Other residents loved it, considering it a much-needed change from the franticpace of the hospital. Given what I’d just been through in the CCU, an afternoon spent in an office chatting with patients who were in no immediate danger of dying seemed like a godsend.
    As the subway lurched northward into the dewy morning, I overheard two young men considering Barack Obama’s chances in the upcoming election—both agreed he had promise but was ultimately too inexperienced—and my thoughts turned inward to my own inexperience. My medical school diploma hadn’t yet been framed and already I found myself racked with guilt.
    On the other hand, it seemed impossible that this was all my fault. I had told Baio my differential diagnosis on the anisocoria, but he didn’t have to listen to me. He could make his own clinical decisions. His job was to show
me
the ropes. What the hell did I know? One might say this was really a case of faulty oversight. Still, I felt like shit trying to blame Baio, and either way it didn’t change what happened to Carl Gladstone. Or maybe Baio hadn’t listened to me; maybe he’d called my sedative suggestion “reasonable” but ultimately ignored it. What if I wrote a note that didn’t reflect what actually happened to my patient? I was very confused.
    My mind continued to wander, as it often did on the subway. Were these first few days in the hospital a sign of things to come or just a bump in the road? People enter medical school with the belief that they’re on the path to becoming revered, trustworthy physicians, but what if I was destined to become the one colleagues whispered about? Maybe it would be safer to have me tucked away in a laboratory, tinkering with those imaginary numbers and—
    â€œExcuse me, ladies and gentlemen!” a man in the center of the subway shouted. “It is your lucky day!”
    I looked up to see a black man a few steps away dressed in a purple bathrobe and sandals.
    â€œMy name is Ali and I am an internationally renowned spiritual healer.”
    I pulled out
Heart Disease for Dummies
.
    â€œI have been blessed with the clairvoyant powers of my ancestral spirit and I am here to help you!”
    Ali looked up and down the aisle, largely ignored, and raised his tawny arms. His facial hair had been fashioned into a Vandyke beard, and I guessed he was originally from West Africa. “My powers include, but are not limited to: bringing back loved ones, depression, substance abuse, debt, and impotence!”
    The woman next to me put down her
New York Times
and looked up at him.
    â€œI can also help with court cases, immigration status, breaking black magic, breaking curses, breaking jinxes, and all general demonic forces that may cause you trouble!”
    He paced the length of the subway car, tying and untying the bathrobe. “Your pain is my responsibility,” he continued. “I can also help with success in business, success in sports, and SAT prep!”
    He produced a stack of cream-colored business cards from the bathrobe pockets and handed one to me. It read:
A LI
Y OU K NOW I C AN H ELP
Y OU K NOW W HERE TO F IND M E
    I put down the book and stared at the card. I wasn’t a superstitious person, but at the moment I was willing to indulge almost any fantasy that my life could be improved instantly. Was this some sort of sign? After all, I did need help. I was unprepared for the extremes of emotion that medicine provided and found myself in search of something—a moral compass, a mood stabilizer—anything to get me through the ups and downs of hospital life. What if Ali was actually some font of wisdom who could