Chapter Text
It was to be expected that, with so many insane ambitions having been achieved as if they were nothing more than items on a trivial checklist, Victoria would be able to sleep at night. Don’t get it wrong, she takes immense pride in her hard work, she feels she honors all the women who wished they had done more. Been more. She feels her journey is more than personal; it is a love letter to the women who were killed and made noise so that she could dream and accomplish. So that being a woman would not be a limiting condition to her ambitions. Don’t get it wrong, knowledge, to her, is pure delight; the opportunity to learn is incomparable.
The problem is that being in prestigious academic environments always made sense to her. Come on, she always wanted the name, fuck, she always wanted to rub in everyone’s face that whatever she wants, she can get. The words “competitive,” “Ivy League,” “prestige,” “award,” “medal,” have always sounded like the hypnotic song of a siren in her ear since she was five years old. Hollywood films fetishizing ambition were her mantra; at thirteen she had no real certainties in life, but when she first saw Miles Teller banging on that drum set in Whiplash something hooked itself in her chest and she knew it was her, not the scene itself, but what it evoked. It was definitely her. The problem is that it had always been a fact that academic success would fill her up. That at twenty years old, halfway through medical school, a true prodigy, all that effort, dedication, discipline would pour satisfaction from the inside out and peace would finally reach her. There would still be much to come, of course, but she had made it, she was in medical school, very, very young. She made it. She is a prodigy. Her merit. She is deserving. She made it. A prodigy.
The problem is that now she watches Whiplash and feels nothing. Miles Teller hitting that drum set feels so distant. So mismatched. She almost feels hollow.
It’s been happening more often. Nights like this. And she doesn’t know what to do with it. She doesn’t know what to do now that all her sacrifice, all the sweat, all the sleepless nights, haven’t brought her the “piece.” That’s what she’s called it since she was nine. Before nine, she felt it was missing but didn’t know how to name it. At twelve, her mother would find her in tears in her room, violently erasing her study notes and rewriting them with intensity while muttering, “the piece, the piece, the piece, the piece.” Eileen Shamsi questioned her daughter at dinner, curious about this so-called piece. Victoria’s answer was simple, as if the “piece” were the most tangible, obvious thing in the world.
“Oh, it’s just the part of me that’s missing. Like there’s a hole in me, like there is in you and everyone else, and it gets filled with something specific. That something is the piece. Mine, for example, is being a prodigy and getting into medical school as a prodigy.”
Eileen found it amusing. A bit dramatic, maybe. What mattered was that her daughter had the determination to fulfill her proper mission: becoming a surgeon. Shamsi wouldn’t complain about all that melodramatic ambition.
On nights like this, Victoria starts questioning the “piece.” She stares into the hole inside her and wonders if anything would ever fill it. If it’s normal to always be searching, searching, searching; if it’s supposed to be this hard to fill it; if finding the “piece” shouldn’t be easier, more natural. Sometimes she even wonders if maybe, just maybe, the hole shouldn’t exist. If maybe other people don’t have it. If maybe she shouldn’t have to look for the piece because there shouldn’t be one missing. Maybe. Maybe. Maybe.
The future felt so discouraging. She talked to Whitaker about it last week. They were sitting on a bench in the square in front of the hospital, procrastinating going home after a rough shift.
“So, what are you gonna do after this?”
“Dunno, watch some shitty reality show Trinity picks?”
“No, Dennis, after Pitt!”
“Oh, right… I guess there won’t really be an after. Emergency medicine is my thing. But I change my mind every day, so ignore that. And you, Victoria?”
“I don’t know, Dennis. I’m so lost it feels like a joke. Like, really lost. And now I’m screwed, because the only thing I’m sure of is that I’d rather die than do surgery. I’m fucked.”
Whitaker widened his eyes and started laughing at the curse. Victoria doesn’t usually swear, so of course it was funny when she did, kind of out of place. Like an obedient child trying to simulate rebellion. She nudged Dennis’s shoulder and ended up laughing too.
This was becoming routine. Going to the square after shifts and hoping someone would be there or would go there with her. She almost felt naive about it, but despite all the chaos of the Pitt, there was something about the people who worked there that she couldn’t explain. From the very first day, when she was exposed to those social dynamics, there was something she wanted. It’s not like she had never been in social environments, but charisma had always been calculated, there was always performance in the academic spaces she inhabited. So after being exposed to all the warmth those Pitt people radiated, she couldn’t help but feel a sense of lack. She felt so needy. She wanted to belong, and she thought maybe there she could. Today, when Robby told her, “I think you could do anything you put your mind to, Victoria”, she felt so seen she could’ve exploded. And now he’s leaving.
She also has no idea how she’s going to tell her mother she doesn’t want surgery. Now everything in her life feels so pointless. Her entire life no longer feels like hers, it’s as if every step she took was directed toward Eileen’s dreams. The route was wrong. Everyone always says, “It’s okay to make mistakes, just recalculate the route,” but she lost her fucking childhood and adolescence for this.
Now the best she can do is emergency psychiatry. After her conversation with Whitaker today, everything became much simple. It was obvious psychiatry was the best option. Clearly it wasn’t the “piece,” but it was better than surgery. She has a genuine interest in the human mind and in helping. It is noble.
During the day, the whole issue of the emptiness inside her ran on autopilot and logic prevailed. She felt her life on track and thought positively. Fuck the so-called “piece”, she didn’t need it. She would become a respected doctor, continue being her parents’ pride, and her life would be aligned.
But at night, she couldn’t breathe. And that was the problem.
It was the case of that Fourth of July night.