Kyle Bradley: A Man With No Class

 

ÝÝÝÝÝÝÝÝÝÝÝ He walks the halls with a pleading smile, raising a hand to greet former friends who now look away or dart down side stairwells at his approach.

 

ÝÝÝÝÝÝÝÝÝÝÝ He holds the elevator door for the sound of racing footsteps. The person arrives, out of breath, grateful, stepping into the space, then pausing with recognition. ìOh, never mind,î she says. ìIím going down.î And he is left to ride up alone, thinking, ëbut that was the basement.î

 

ÝÝÝÝÝÝÝÝÝÝÝ He wonders what has changed, why no eyes will meet his own, no mouth will speak his name. Feeling invisible, he only wants to be seen. Feeling silent, he only wants to be heard. He longs for the touch of another but is, himself, untouchable.

 

ÝÝÝÝÝÝÝÝÝÝÝ These days, his only refuge is the dank 4^th floor corridor of pathology labs. These days, his only companions are the tissues and fluids of the dead and diseased.

 

ÝÝÝÝÝÝÝÝÝÝÝ He is Kyle Bradley. And he is a man with no class.

 

***

ÝÝÝÝÝÝÝÝÝÝÝ Some call him a traitor. Others call him a turncoat. Since his desertion of the class of 2003 for a one-year pathology fellowship and subsequent reassignment to the class of 2004, perhaps the only thing Kyle Bradley hasnít been called is a classmate.

 

ÝÝÝÝÝÝÝÝÝÝÝ At the mention of Bradleyís name, former classmate Marcy Swogger tears at her scrub bottoms and spits.

 

ÝÝÝÝÝÝÝÝÝÝÝ ìKyle is dead to me,î Swogger says. ìDead!î

 

ÝÝÝÝÝÝÝÝÝÝÝ Mark Hamblin spoke with similar conviction, referring to his former classmate as a ìleperî and ìthe Jonas of medicine.î

 

ÝÝÝÝÝÝÝÝÝÝÝ ìKyle lied to me, he betrayed us all,î Hamblin said. ìI remember we sat near each other at the white coat ceremony. I remember the wink he gave me when Winship called us ëfuture doctorsí and the twinge it made me feel. I remember his promise that we would walk this road together, to residency and beyond. Well, where is Kyle now? Making more empty promises to members of the class beneath us?î

 

***

ÝÝÝÝÝÝÝÝÝÝÝ Of course, the class beneath him or, ìmy class,î as Bradley likes to call it, has shown no interest in accepting Bradley as one of its own.

 

ÝÝÝÝÝÝÝÝÝÝÝ ìKyle is damaged goods,î said Maria Broser. ìThe class of 2003 chewed him up and regurgitated him on our doorstep. We might throw him a cracker or two, a quick hello on our way out the door, but we sure as hell wonít invite him in to lay on our rug.î

 

ÝÝÝÝÝÝÝÝÝÝÝ M3 Jake Kesterson agrees.

 

ÝÝÝÝÝÝÝÝÝÝÝ ìLast year,î Kesterson said, ìthat guy was up at a podium, lecturing to us on mother-fucking hemodynamics. Now he wants to hang with us? Now he wants to be cool with the class of 2003? Shit.î

 

ÝÝÝÝÝÝÝÝÝÝÝ ìHeís got to choose a side,î said former M4/current M3 Jen Spitler. ìSure, he can sit at the big kidsí table with Jason Hand and Jay Sleesman and Pritish Tosh during lunch in the med student lounge, and laugh and talk and play the part of the ëguy who never left.í But if, after lunch, when his good time pals are gone and itís just me and lowly Dipika and Minnie watching soaps on the couch, he better just walk right out that back door, because we wonít have a word from him.

 

ìNo, he canít have it both ways,î Spitler continued. ìIs he an M4 or is he an M3? I donít even think he knows. His only allegiance is to the department of pathology. Beyond that, he has no class. Right now, heís in limbo.î

 

***

ÝÝÝÝÝÝÝÝÝÝÝ And right now, as members of the class of 2003 apply to residencies in fields like orthopedics or dermatology with stiff competition, those like medicine or general surgery with grueling internships or those like pediatrics or psychiatry with low pay, Bradley is sitting pretty with a future in pathology that promises little competition, no internship and a high salary.

 

ÝÝÝÝÝÝÝÝÝÝÝ ìWhyís that bastard got to be so happy all the time,î said neurologist Robert Burger, not a member of the class of 2003 or 2004. ìJesus Christ, he paints this picture of the carefree, pathology lifestyle, with quirky colleagues, weekends off, no callÖ God dammit. Heís got to learn that work is a grind, to be endured with outwardly expressed boredom and irritation, not perky, pain-in-the-ass enthusiasm.î

 

***

ÝÝÝÝÝÝÝÝÝÝÝ Bradleyís isolation seems to have been written in the cards. Even before his abandonment, he was something of an outcast among the tight-knit fraternity that is the MU School of Medicine.

 

Born in North Carolina. Educated in South Carolina. A member of the wrestling team in college. His trademark goatee, grown during the summer between his M1 and M2 years, served only to further the divide between himself and his more wholesome schoolmates. His decision to join the pathology department, as it is for many pathologists, was only the last of many nicks that finally severed his kinship with humankind.

 

ÝÝÝÝÝÝÝÝÝÝÝ His wife, his only remaining contact, is now living apart from Bradley, in Illinois, working on her Masters degree and working through the pain of her husbandís demise.

 

ÝÝÝÝÝÝÝÝÝÝÝ ìWe were high school sweethearts,î she said. ìWe were best friends. We were partners in loveÖ NowÖ I donít feel that I know him anymore. NowÖ I donít think I can know him.

 

ìNoÖî she continued. ìHeís gone tooÝ far. He may be lost to us now.î

 

And to the classes of 2003 and 2004, he most certainly is lost. Whatís more, they arenít looking to find him.

 

And so, Kyle Bradley continues to stand, one foot in each class, straining to span the widening distance between. His legs are growing tired. No hand reaches to pull him to one side or the other. Soon, he will stumble and fall into the gap, spinning through the expanse of a great nothingness. He will scream, but no one will hear. He will flail, but no will see. He will reach out, but no one will take his hand. No one will care. Because he is the man with no class and he is forever alone.