My Job: a Firefly Story

Kathleen’s world consisted of good intentions, boundless trust and infinite learning moments. It was this positive energy, coupled with an ability to see the good in everyone, that attracted me to her. She believed that every second contained the potential for making someone’s life a little better. And she was committed to living that vision.

That was all fine, of course. But I didn’t grow up in that world. “Do or Die Bed-Stuy” was often an angry place with every moment presenting the possibility of danger and disaster. In that world, not everyone is generous and kind-hearted, and unless you made provision for that reality, you could get hurt. You would get hurt. So from the beginning of my relationship with Kathleen, I understood that my job was to protect her from the danger I knew so well, and to shield her from that pain whenever I could.

Shortly after our devastating trip to Seattle, where Dr. Storek confirmed the diagnosis of leukemia, Kathleen entered Yale New Haven Hospital. While there, she endured a range of debilitating treatments designed to change her genetic coding. Cells were annihilated in the hope that newer, unwounded models would march in their place. Throughout these efforts to reformulate her biological constitution, Kathleen’s primordial character never changed. She put the interests of others before her own and ministered to the needs of others first.

This was never more evident than in the hospital, where Kathleen developed a unique relationship with her doctors and nurses. Though she was the patient, she felt it was her duty to look after their lives as they cared for hers. Even those who were not directly involved in her treatment somehow heard about her calming presence and migrated to her room for an audience. I would often spring into her hospital room only to find a nurse seated on the edge of the bed, whispering some heartfelt explication of her current woes, or to find Kathleen commiserating with a doctor who had experienced a setback with one of his patients. Weren’t the doctors and nurses supposed to be listening to Kathleen’s concerns? Healing her pain? Didn’t they see that her husband had entered the room? It’s not that I expected conversation to abruptly halt as I made my appearance. But a pause and some verbal acknowledgment of my presence would have been welcome. This was not to be, however. I had to simply be satisfied with Kathleen’s glance and a quick smile.

Professor Sullivan was holding office hours and I would have to wait my turn.

Successive rounds of chemotherapy were unsuccessful at eradicating Kathleen’s malignant cells. Her bone marrow was now damaged beyond repair and would need to be replaced. But first, a bone marrow biopsy would have to be undertaken.

Dr. Levy cleaned, disinfected and prepared an area about the size of a golf ball at the small of Kathleen’s back for an incision. Using a needle that resembled a thin, hollowed-out screwdriver, he bore through the skin until the needle abutted bone. Then, applying pressure backed by the weight of his body, he ground the needle through the bone to its center where the protected marrow lay. Once the marrow was uncovered, it was sucked out of the bone. Performed with a local anesthetic, a bone marrow biopsy can be a gruesome affair. Kathleen endured this experience with barely a sound (although she almost crushed my hand during the process).

Dr. Levy warned us that if this procedure yielded an insufficient quantity of bone marrow, a second biopsy would have to be done.

A few nights later, Dr. Levy stopped by to review the latest treatment plan. The time for a second bone marrow biopsy was upon us, and we were not looking forward to it. So we were pleased when Dr. Levy informed us that the procedure, scheduled for the following day, would not be necessary. 

The next morning, after I dropped off Victoria at school, I hurried to the hospital to spend time with Kathleen before I planned to continue on to the office. We chatted aimlessly but easily, the way married couples do when there are few subterranean cavities pressing on a nerve. As I was about to leave, a medical resident strode into the room. In my limited experience, surgical residents, those newly minted medical school graduates who were in training to develop their God complex, often possess a confidence that the battle-tested doctors lack; a confidence not yet punctured by failure and disappointment. The resident on this day announced that he was there to get Kathleen ready for her second bone marrow biopsy. 

“Oh, Dr. Levy said that wasn’t necessary,” Kathleen informed him, in her quiet, calming tone.

“It’s right here on the chart,” he responded, staring at the clipboard in his hand. 

“But Dr. Levy told us last night that he no longer thinks I need to have that done. He said he was going to wait.” 

“No,” the resident said, apparently having already exhausted his daily quota of eye contact. “It’s right here with Dr. Levy’s signature. I need to get you ready.” 

“Why don’t you call Dr. Levy and ask him?” I interrupted.

“I don’t need to. The chart is clear.” He was now pointing to the page, as if flexing his index finger towards the scribbled words could erase our previous conversation with Dr. Levy. Summoning all the authority he could muster, he added, “I need to do this … now.” 

“But I’m telling you, we spoke to him last night,” I replied as the tops of my ears started to tingle. “Call him.” 

“No.”

“No? Are you kidding me? Are you fucking kidding me?” The heat had now spread to my temples, which started to produce beads of sweat, futilely attempting to cool the erupting volcano. 

“Dr. Levy is very busy, the chart is clear, I won’t waste his time. You won’t waste his time,” the resident said. 

“If you tell him that Kathleen and Stephen asked you to call, he will take the call unless he is in surgery,” I offered. Months of helplessness, frustration and anger began marshaling their forces for an offensive into enemy territory as I felt myself losing the battle for self-control.

“No,” he said again. 

The utterly dismissive tone dripping from that single syllable convinced me that I needed to shift to the language of the Boy from Bed-Stuy.

“Look, if you don’t get out of this room and call Dr. Levy right now, I’m going to kick your ass,” I said, rising from my chair. “Do you understand me? I am going to kick … your … ass! Get out of this room and call him. Now.”

We were face to face. The resident backed away from this madman, my Incredible Hulk-like transformation back to the Boy from Bed-Stuy complete. He took two rapid steps towards the door and left the room. I sat down, chest pulsating from my rapid, shallow breathing. My hands shook from the rush of adrenaline. I stared just above Kathleen’s head, hoping she wouldn’t notice that I wasn’t looking her in the eye, wasn’t seeing the glare.

We sat silently as the beeps and buzzes of the medical machinery filled the void. Both of us refused to give in and break the tension that formed a cold war between us. In my mind, I began to formulate the speech I would give to Kathleen if the resident proved to be right, and I wondered if I should apologize to him. After all, I did threaten him, and he was unlikely to understand that this was just the Boy from Bed-Stuy making an unscheduled appearance. I also had to consider that Kathleen might be in his care at some point in the future. But no, I decided, better he live in fear of this patient’s husband.

Finally, the door swung open and the resident reappeared. But this time he was not the cocky self-assured man we had encountered before. This version was a chastened and humbled replica. My spirits rose.

“I spoke to Dr. Levy,” he acknowledged. “You were right. On the next page of the chart, he had canceled the biopsy. He left most of the previous page blank, so I didn’t think there were any additional notes.” He turned the clipboard towards me first and then to Kathleen so we could confirm the half-empty page. “Sorry,” he said, looking Kathleen in the eye for the first time that day.

With that, he spun on his heel, yanked the door open and left. With the golden glow of success and rosewater scent of victory washing over me, I looked Kathleen in the eye for the first time since my outburst. Then I launched into my victory speech.

“Look, Kathleen,” I started. “My job is to make sure you don’t get hurt. To make sure you get the right and best medical care possible. He was about to subject you to a painful and unnecessary procedure we knew you didn’t need. He was clueless and wouldn’t listen! My job is to protect you from people like him, protect you from that pain, particularly now. He was wrong and we were right. I was doing my job!”

Kathleen was silent for a moment. Then, in a calm but steely voice, she said, “No Stephen, my job is to help that doctor. You see, the next patient he has is not going to be a Yale Law School professor whose husband is a threatening Black guy who also happens to be the U.S. Attorney. His next patient is going to be some poor single mother who is so afraid of him, she will barely be able to ask him a question much less challenge his actions. She will muster all her confidence and strength just to ask, ‘Why?’ She will need to be listened to. She will want to be heard. So if I had to go through another biopsy procedure to help teach that doctor to listen to that patient, to learn that lesson, then that is my job.”

I looked at Kathleen and softened. Though I didn’t – and don’t – apologize for saving her from a young (and, let’s face it, arrogant and dismissive) resident’s mistakes, I understood her point. And for the millionth time since our first brunch “date” so many years before, all I could do was marvel at this woman and everything she stood for.

No wonder so many doctors and nurses lined up whenever Professor Sullivan held office hours.