Page 1 of Free to Fall

From the Journal of Dr. Laura Lockwood

THOUGHTS ABOUT THE LEGEND OF AMARYLLIS

If it wasn’t for the indelible strength of my parents at mending the broken pieces within themselves, as well as relationships with their family members as they arose over the years, we wouldn’t be where we are now. None of us would have what we do.

By that, I don’t mean tangible items like homes, jewelry, or money. I mean items of true worth.

The most important being love.

Until my eighteenth birthday, I believed I was born the daughter of two people who dedicated their lives to accomplish greatness. Technically, that’s the truth. Still, there was a price paid for my mother’s determination and my father’s infatuation. It’s a price they never knew they were paying with pain and blood from the time they were both children.

I have a new appreciation for the way I was raised—the bond between our found family means more now that I know its origins. Still, there’s no escaping the fact our next generation is ready to assume the thrones they created. Is it really time for the kings and queens of my parents’ generation to abdicate their thrones?

Yes and no. They may be ready to hand over the reins, but they’ll always be there for us. I know that down to the depths of my soul.

Our family blossomed and multiplied from the ashes of a legend—the legend of Amaryllis. It’s one of pride, determination, and radiant beauty. We evolved from the hearts and souls of people who understood the sacrifices necessary to find love and to hold on to it.

Now that I’m older, I appreciate why my parents didn’t raise us on Cinderella fairy tales. Their own experiences demonstrated it was necessary to bleed while we’re falling in love. Just like the Oracle of Delphi warned Amaryllis when she fell for Alteo while trying to win his heart.

I know the truth. It’s burned in my heart and mind. Now, it’s inked on my skin as a reminder.

Do I believe in everlasting love? Yes.

Am I prepared to sacrifice for it the way they did?

I hope.

Prologue

As the clock ticks toward noon, I feel the unknown future I’m clasping between the palms of clammy hands may just cause my lungs to collapse. That’s a virtual impossibility, of course. I should know, I’m a doctor.

But in less than ten minutes, me and the other one hundred classmates I’ve gone to school with these last four years are about to find out where we’ve matched to complete our residencies. It was four years of blood, sweat, and tears—most days, literally. Not just my own but the patients I intend to dedicate my future to helping.

A peal of laughter from my right distracts me from the envelope I’m clutching in my fist. My head whips in the direction of my mother, who is snuggling within my father’s embrace while laughing at the poleaxed expression on my younger brother’s face.

Jonathan, my older brother by six minutes, murmurs amusedly in my ear, “Chuck was just hit on. Then they found out he was your baby brother and backed away with the most horrified expression on their face. What have you been doing within Yale’s hallowed halls, Laura?”

Loftily, I manage, “Nothing you need to be concerned with, Jon.”

His “uh-huh” comes just as I surreptitiously check my watch for the tenth time in the last two minutes.

Eight minutes.

My eyes are drawn to the blank map where I’ll soon place the pin announcing my match. It’s moments like this that I acknowledge the study of medicine so often reflects the reality of life. Too often, it’s a hard-fought battle where the stakes come down to a fight that’s over long before it’s begun.

Also, like life, nobody said it was fair.

My stomach churns with anxiety as I smooth the envelope against the side of my thigh. My father leans over to wrap his free arm around my shoulders. “No matter where you’re matched, it’s going to be perfect, Laura.”

“I’m certain you’re right, Dad.” But the truth is, I can’t imagine what will happen if I don’t get my number one choice—Greenwich Hospital, a key asset to the Yale New Haven Hospital’s residency program.

It’s not that I wouldn’t learn incredible things at Mass General or Stanford, my mind reasons. In fact, be grateful if you do get into any of those, Laura, I scold myself harshly. Any doctor here would feel overwhelmed with joy matching with such prestigious programs. But my anxiety boils down to one thing—I’d have to leave. Neither of those programs would allow me to be where I most want to be.

Home.

As the electronic clock flickering beneath the tent set up on Harkness Lawn at the Yale School of Medicine flashes five minutes, the energy ramps up higher. There’s eager excitement from faculty, staff, family, and friends. Meanwhile, every single member of my graduating class looks as if they want to find the nearest waste receptacle to release the acid in their stomach.

Same, my friends. Same.

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