A year and a half ago, when we stood in Lydia’s garden for the second time, I swore that I could never love a man as much as I did Ricky. And here I was, loving the same man, but somehow even more than before.
“You ready?” he asked when we had forty minutes left. Miraculously, I was, and we made the walk to campus.
When we reached the auditorium, the usher, a third-year medical student, directed me down one path, and Ricky into the friends and family seating.
“It’s gonna be okay, babe,” Ricky said, right before we split up. “Breathe. It’ll be over in an hour.” He waved to Nia, who had arrived early and saved him a seat, then gave me a brief kiss. “I love you.”
“Love you too,” I said. I took a shuddering breath and walked down the decorated aisle to sit next to Michelle. She gave me a shaky smile.
“You look bomb,” she said. “I told you the blue was a good choice.”
“Thanks, boo. So do you.” Much to Markus’s chagrin, much of the Sanity Circle group chat discussion for the last week had revolved around coordinating our outfits for the post-Match photos. Michelle looked incredible in a red dress that complemented her lipstick.
“Terrified?” Michelle asked. She’d only applied to psychiatry programs on the East Coast, and her rank list had been about ten institutions shorter than mine. She’d been radiating anxiety since the residency application submission deadline.
“Of course,” I said. She squeezed my hand.
“We’ll be okay,” she insisted.
Match Day, like every medical school ceremony, started with a whole lot of pomp and circumstance. Our dean introduced an esteemed physician-scientist as our speaker, who gave a speech about his illustrious career and how we too could be like him if only we were as naturally brilliant and charismatic. We watched a video, stitched together by our alumni, wishing us good luck in residency. Then, one by one, we were called to the front of the room to retrieve our envelopes.
When they called out my name—pronounced Ap-pie-ah instead of Ap-pee-ah even though I’d given them a pronunciation guide—I walked up to the stage. My professor gave me a reassuring smile as she handed me the envelope. No piece of paper had ever felt so volatile. We were instructed not to open our envelopes until all had been handed out, and I searched the crowd for Ricky and Nia, knowing that the moment the clock hit eleven they would be allowed into our section to celebrate. I caught Ricky’s eyes in the crowd. He held up his phone, recording the moment （“I’ve got to make sure I catch the moment you open it, or I’ll have two sets of parents on my ass,” he said）。 He threw me a thumbs-up; I returned a thin smile. I was envious of him, of his assurance that no matter what happened, we would be okay.
“You may now open your envelopes.”
With shaking hands, I ripped my envelope open. Heart pounding away in my throat, I scanned the piece of paper until my eyes settled on a line—
I’d matched at my second choice.
My first reaction was elation. I had thought this program was a reach! I had gotten along well with the program director during the interview, and we had talked extensively about my project, Physician Communication Practices with Black Inpatient Populations, and my recent oral presentation at the Society of General Internal Medicine on the subject. They’d seemed genuinely appreciative of my passion for disparities over traditional clinical research. But then I remembered that this program was in Seattle, and my heart sank. Chicago had always been home for Ricky. He had a new job that he genuinely enjoyed. Great friends. Family. A budding reputation as a muralist that had taken off after he’d finished the project at Rogers Children’s Hospital. Seattle was practically another country for him. Why had I let him convince me to rank it so highly?
Next to me, Michelle was draped across the back of her chair in relief; she’d matched at her number one. We hugged, both exhausted, just as our visitors swarmed in. I laughed as a throng of excited Korean women surrounded Michelle, all clamoring to be the first to see her sheet.
“CONGRATULATIONS, LADIES!”
A set of warm arms wrapped around me and lifted me off my feet. I squeaked in surprise, but laughed as Nia placed me down gently. She smelled like caramel, as she always did these days.
“Thanks!” I said, dampened. With Michelle going to New York, me going to Seattle, and Nia staying behind in Chicago, our Sanity Circle would officially be fragmented. Nia and I had only recently gotten used to living in different apartments, let alone time zones.