During the drive from San Francisco, Carol appreciated companionable silence. On the way home, however, she wanted to know about her oldest friend’s life, because it was the life — more than any other — to which she could compare her own.
Her friend, the Best Person in our class, was her best and most trusted counselor, but she was also relentlessly private.
Carol said, “For me, that old roadhouse, The Timbers, marks the northern extreme of Santa Barbara, and when I pass it the magic of the place starts to dissipate.
“We were too tired to talk on the way down, and you were too busy with Steve while we were in Santa Barbara, so how was it? And what’s going on with you?”
“What a town. If I came here when I was young, I don’t think I would have left.”
Carol tried again, “Yeah, yeah, it’s a great place, it really is, but what about the people? What about your heart?”
“My heart’s fine, and I liked seeing your sister; otherwise, I would say it was a disconcerting weekend.”
Disconcerting? This was a promising subject, and Carol wanted to know more. She primed the pump with a personal and painful statement, which could stand on its own and turn the conversation back to her friend.
“I see Linda two or three times a year. As my faultless older sister, she thinks she has an obligation to tell me what’s wrong with me,” she said.
“When did that happen?”
“Saturday, while you were with Steve.”
“What could Linda say? There’s nothing wrong with you. I mean nothing serious,” she teased.
Carol said, “I know. I finished eleven years of training, and I work at one of the best private clinics in Northern California.
‘I’m proud of what I’ve done, but Linda knew exactly how to evoke my self-doubt. After that, I spent time with Raj, which made it worse. And it’s mostly your fault.”
“My fault! What’s my fault?”
“Didn’t you notice how carefully Linda orchestrated every detail of Friday’s dinner. She planned to pair me off with Steve and you with Raj. But you pulled out your 3,000-year history card and poor Steve falls for you butt over boots.
“Linda was seriously annoyed with me and wanted to know why I left my card in my dresser drawer.”
“Butt over boots? Carol, your language! Why don’t you have your history card? Is that all Linda said to demoralize you?”
“No. But did you have to take yours out?”
“Oh, come on. Steve and Mr. Banks gave us those cards, what, about fifteen years ago? The subject came up at dinner. I had my card in my wallet. Of course I took it out, and what Linda said about the history card isn’t what got to you. What was it?”
Darn, Carol thought, this is about me, what about her? She said abruptly, “The truth.”
“Which is?”
“You already know. I’m spending my life providing people with the best medical care money can buy. And my patients have the money to pay for it. Some see me as a servant responsible for making them feel good. It’s a set up.
“When patients are doing well I feel good. When some, or even a few, are not doing well, I feel responsible.”
“Let me see if I understand. Even when you think you are doing everything you can do for your patients, and some of those patients don’t respond well to the treatment, you can’t help feeling that you are somehow inadequate?”
“Mostly.” Carol said.
“What did Raj say?”
“That’s the thing,” said Carol. “If we were born with a zillion dollars, Raj and I would feel a deep obligation to use the money in a way that would do the most good for as many people as possible.
“Neither of us was born with money, but we were born with whatever it takes to be good doctors. We were given some talent, and we worked hard to turn that talent into the competence to help sick people. We each think we have a duty to use that competence well.”
“Are you thinking about being a jungle doctor?”
“When I have a patient who needs special equipment, a drug, or someone with specialized training, I get it. Immediately.
“When Raj has lots of patients who need things he doesn’t have, he has to improvise. It’s a creative challenge — and too often the outcome is bad.”
“Meaning death?”
“Death or a ‘poor neurological outcome,’ which is worse. But enough about me.”
“So, are you thinking about being a jungle doctor?”
“I guess my mind is opening. But come on, what about Steve?”
“I like him. We didn’t know each other in school, but we still have a lot in common.”
This was more than she had ever said to Carol about a man. “That’s it? You went to high school together so you have a lot in common and you like him?”
“No. There’s more.”
“What?”
“Passion.”
That was what Carol was fishing for, “Your connection was passionate?”
“His passion for his work — his teaching.”
“No interpersonal passion?”
“I didn’t say that. He and I are on the same wavelength, but it’s his enthusiasm for what he does that strikes me, and it’s something I don’t have.”
Carol asked, “How so?”
“Okay, I would like your take on something. I was one of 17 associates hired by my firm at the same time. Our deal with the firm was that we get seven years to prove we should be partners.
“A few will get a partnership offer and most will not. They will get some severance money and a good letter of recommendation. According to firm lore, two guys were so good that they were made partners in their fifth year and several got the offer in their sixth year.
“A couple of associates who don’t get a partnership offer are offered a well-paying job as a ‘contract lawyer.’”
Carol asked, “You’re not worried about making partner, are you?”
“Well yeah, kinda. My boss took me to lunch two weeks ago and told me the partners were unhappy with the firm’s profits, so there would be fewer than usual partnership offers to the group a year ahead of me.”
Carol asked, “Didn’t you tell me you were the biggest earner in your group?”
“Yeah, and I still am. I’m a money machine for the firm.”
“It’s sounds like you’re golden.”
“That’s what I thought. But I was shaken by the fact that my fifth year came and went without being asked to join the partnership.”
Carol asked, “Do you think you should get an offer in your sixth year?”
“Well, yes. No one spends more time working than I do, and my clients pay for every minute of my time.”
Carol asked, “Want to know what I think?” (Making sure her opinion was being solicited before announcing it was new behavior for Carol.)
“Yes.”
“Walk into his office tomorrow and ask him to disambiguate.”
“There’s more.”
“Finally, you want my opinion but fail to tell me the whole story. What was left out?”
“Because it involves both math and statistics, no one in the firm really knows what I do. The clients understand and appreciate the work, but all the firm knows is that I’m very busy, and I bring in the money.”
“So, what’s the problem?”
“My boss started talking about the benefits of being a well-paid contract lawyer instead of being a partner.”
“What is the difference?”
“Partners make a lot more money. Everyone knows that the contract lawyers weren’t good enough to become partners. They don’t have to go to partnership meetings, and they don’t worry about being cheated out of their share of the profits, which is what partners are really concerned about.”
Carol summarized, “Ego and money…”
When there was no reply she asked, “Did I hurt your feelings?”
“No.”
“So, what are you thinking about?”
“What have I been doing with my life? I’m a damn striver. So are you. So is Raj. So is Steve. You and Raj are concerned about whether you are doing the most good for the most people. Steve is the only revolutionary I’ve ever met.
“I care a lot about being a partner in my law firm, but I don’t really care about my work.”
Carol asked, “Is that a new realization?”
“Yeah. I talk to clients about what I’m doing for them, but I don’t talk about what I do. Few people know enough about math and statistics to understood, and few of those who can understand are willing to make the effort to understand me.
“I don’t blame them. Steve understood what I do immediately but, once I had an audience, I didn’t want to waste our time talking about my work.”
Carol asked, “How much of this is about your partnership and how much is about Steve?”
“I don’t want ‘she made partner’ on my tombstone. Actually, ‘She didn’t make partner,’ would be more interesting.”
“When are you seeing him again?”
“He said he was coming to San Francisco to talk with a book publisher, weekend after next.”
“Are you going to see him?”
“Yes.”
— Brian Burke is a certified family law specialist practicing family law and mediation in Santa Barbara. A researcher and educator in the field of divorce and family conflicts, he also is the creator of the Legal Road Map™. Click here for more information, call 805.965.2888 or e-mail brian@burkefamilylaw.com. Click here to read previous columns. The opinions expressed are his own.