leaving the patient with no quality of life. I did the very best I could for her, but sometimes my best isn’t good enough. At those times, this job can be tough to take.
I met with the new chair of the New York hospital’s board of directors, who issued a formal apology for the way I was treated and offered my job back along with a promise that I’ll be appointed head of neurosurgery when the current chief retires late next year.
It’s a good offer, and I promised to give it careful consideration. I think she expected me to jump at the opportunity to come back. She has no idea that my heart now lives in the Miami sunshine. I miss Carmen so much. More than I’ve ever missed anyone. I think about her all day every day. I dream about her at night, and I marvel at the way she came stampeding into my life and wiped just about every other thought out of my head that doesn’t involve her.
If I’m not working, I’m thinking about her. I wanted to reach out to her, to text her, to call her, to let her know I’m thinking of her and missing her and basically dying for her, but I can’t do that until I’ve made some decisions about where I’m going to work and live. More than anything, I want to be fair to her.
When I learned that the Miami-Dade board took my petition for privileges off their agenda last Friday after hearing New York wanted me back, I panicked that Miami was no longer an option. What did Carmen think when she heard that? Does she even know? Of course she does. Mona knows, so she would’ve told Carmen if Mr. Augustino didn’t.
And then it occurred to me that I needed to take control of this situation and stop letting others make decisions about my career for me. I reached out to Mr. Augustino, told him what I wanted and asked if he could help to make it happen. He said he’d do his best, which is why I’m back in Miami in an Uber on my way to the hospital to meet with the board.
My driver, a young man named Carlo, has the radio cranked to a light rock station and is singing rather loudly in broken English. What he lacks in talent he more than makes up for in enthusiasm.
The traffic is bad as usual. Thanks to Carmen, I know what usual looks like around here, and as we make the slow crawl toward the hospital exit, all I can think about is seeing her again, holding her and hoping she still wants me as much as I want her. And more than anything, I hope the presentation she put together on my behalf will sway the Miami-Dade board and convince them to allow me to join their team so I can live and work in her town—the only place in the world where she can truly be happy.
That’s what I want for her—happiness. She deserves it more than anyone I’ve ever met, and I want to be the one to give that to her for the rest of our lives. Of course, I can’t tell her that. Not yet anyway. But that’s what I want, and if things go well today, I may be able to offer her the first steps toward forever.
I just hope she still wants me after the turmoil I’ve brought to her life since we met.
A new song comes on the radio, something familiar, but I can’t quite place where I’ve heard it before. Probably in my mom’s minivan back when she was driving my brother and me to school and practices and everywhere else. We used to make such fun of the “dorky light rock” she made us listen to in the car. “My car, my music,” she used to say, telling us we could pick the songs when we had our own cars.
The song tells the story about a guy whose girl left him because she thought he’d been untrue to her, how he’s haunted by her, would give anything to be with her. I’m riveted as I listen to Carlo sing the chorus, “That’s how much I feel.” But it’s the last verse that really gets to me, the part where we find out the guy is married now, has been for years, but sometimes when he makes love to his wife, he still sees the face of the