Epigenetics and the Illustrious MRS. Degree,

by Shannon Frost Greenstein 

The bell choir broke into an austere rendition of Silent Night, and Heather tried to yawn inconspicuously.

The Christmas Eve candlelight service had been lovely, Grandmother was beaming that her favorite granddaughter had attended with new husband in tow, and Heather suspected she herself would be receiving something new and sparkly and expensive in the morning, as Christmas danced on the horizon a mere handful of hours away. Right now, however, she was exhausted from the drive to Philadelphia, she had woken up hungover from the firm’s holiday party, and the Lutherans did tend to go on (and on and on) during their services.

“…And the peace of God, which surpasses all understanding, will guard your hearts and your minds in Christ Jesus.”

Heather glanced over at Nick as the congregation stood, understanding intimately that he must be even more fatigued than she. He had been on-call for a full 36 hours before they left for Pennsylvania, and there is only so much restful sleep to be had in the passenger seat of a Subaru barreling down I-95.

“…Glory to God in the highest heaven, and on Earth peace to those on whom his favor rests.”

“You ok?” she whispered. “Almost done.”

He nodded and squeezed her hand reassuringly. He rarely complained about the sleep deprivation pre-necessitated by his profession, nor the length of his shifts or the toll of his work – something that seemed to further reinforce his calling to the sacred art of medicine.

“…for already here God showers us with his grace. The Lord lift up his countenance on you and give you peace.”

Heather herself was a lawyer, and a good one. She was ruthlessly smart and socially savvy; she worked relentlessly hard; no one could state she was not an extremely valuable catch for any lucky husband. But…no trial she’d won, no case she’d built or statute she’d thrown down, measured up to saving a human life.

Nick, however, accomplished that on the regular; and the sheer adoration showered upon him by the families of his surgical patients was so lavish and pure that it was almost enviable…if Heather had not been so ridiculously proud of her new husband’s gift as a healer. 

“Peace be with you,” intoned the Pastor.

“And also with you,” the congregation returned obediently. There was a final hymn, a final prayer; then the sweeping notes of the organ were echoing from the peaked rafters and the service was over.

Grandmother rose stiffly and turned to her granddaughter. Her eyes were shining with the lights of Christmas and the comfort of ritual; she was in her element. Grandmother had always been at her most comfortable within the sanctuary of St. Paul’s Lutheran Church, ever since she and Grandfather had immigrated through Ellis Island to the Land of Opportunity, ever since she traded her native tongue for the King’s English – an alien language she learned entirely on her own, studying under the tutelage of Bob Barker and Lucille Ball and the sort of films that starred Shirley Temple – ever since Grandfather passed away while her own life lingered stubbornly on.

“Thank you both for coming,” she expressed, magnanimous as a Queen, and if not for her usual prim, stoic, Germanic affect, one might even imagine she was feeling happy.

“Thank you for inviting us,” Nick answered smoothly, and Heather knew immediately from Grandmother’s slight nod of approval that she was as enamored with Heather’s husband as Heather herself had been since senior year of college.

Although they did not make it down to Pennsylvania very often, and Grandmother had met Nick only a few times before, the man’s Christian upbringing and willingness to attend this evening’s candlelight service seemed to solidify his standing in Grandmother’s extremely judgmental eyes.

“Let’s say goodbye to a few people,” she decreed, accepting Heather’s arm to maneuver out of the pew.

Like any house of worship after a service, the vestibule was chaos. Men and women scurried this way and that, donning coats, greeting friends, seeking out the pastor and showering Christmas wishes upon one another like confetti.

Still clutching Heather’s arm, Grandmother made a beeline for an elderly couple chatting against a wall, moving with as much purpose as Heather had ever witnessed the dignified octogenarian move.

“Irma,” she greeted the woman, her articulation flawless but her accent inescapable. “Leon. Merry Christmas.”

“Merry Christmas!” they responded together, and Heather felt a flash of warmth through her weariness, immediately picturing the decades of love they must have shared to be so in sync, immediately picturing 50 years in the future when she and Nick would be so closely knit as to speak in unison as well.

“You remember Heather,” Grandmother encouraged, gesturing to her granddaughter, and while Heather was certain Irma and Leon did not actually have a single recollection in which she was featured, she smiled and greeted the couple politely.

“And this is her husband, Dr. Becker,” Grandmother continued, placing her hand upon Nick’s bicep and ushering him into view.

Nick shook Leon’s hand and exchanged the proper pleasantries, then waited patiently next to his wife as Grandmother and Irma hashed out the details of the next Women’s Club Sunday Post-Service Coffee Hour.

Finally, Leon bid the group goodnight and led his wife gently out the door. Grandmother scanned the room, then turned abruptly and waved across the vestibule, setting off for the opposite corner with Heather and Nick in tow.

“Hello, Richard,” she acknowledged an elderly man without bother to slow down. “My granddaughter Heather. And her husband, Dr. Becker.”

Arriving by the coat rack, Grandmother next hailed a white-haired congregant dripping in gemstones. “Thelma, good to see you. This is Heather, my granddaughter. And this is Dr. Becker, her husband.”

“Oh, my,” quavered the woman. “I remember hearing about you as a little baby, just getting baptized. And look at you now, all grown up and married.”

Heather nodded self-consciously and smiled to acknowledge that, yes, she was indeed both grown-up and married. Grandmother eventually wished Thelma a Merry Christmas, then began to struggle into her bulky winter coat. Nick sprang forward to assist with her sleeve, earning himself Grandmother’s lifelong esteem, and the trio edged through the crowd towards the door.

“Let me get the car,” suggested Nick, and Heather looked at him gratefully.

“Thanks, honey,” she expressed, digging through her purse for the keys, handing them off to Nick, moving with Grandmother away from the door. Grandmother kept up a steady stream of greetings and holiday wishes as congregants trickled out of the exit, socializing as only a Lutheran widow at church can socialize.

“Good night,” a member of the bell choir wished Grandmother, coming out of the door. She turned to Heather, who was starting to shiver in the December night air. “It’s so nice to see some young people at church these days!”

“Yes, this is my granddaughter,” Grandmother explained, as Nick finally pulled up in the car and exited to steer the diminutive woman into the passenger seat. Grandmother resisted for a moment, sticking her head out to add, “and her husband, Dr. Becker.”

For the fourth time, the conceit in Grandmother’s voice was unmistakable, and Heather – finally unable to restrain herself any longer – snickered aloud, hiding her smile behind a discreet hand.

Nick glanced at her strangely but left it alone, and Heather was extremely grateful to avoid the painfully-awkward situation which would be the consequence of that explanation.

The car was warm; there were Christmas carols on the radio. They drove through along the suburban streets – essentially deserted, after midnight – and soon arrived at the assisted living complex that housed Grandmother’s apartment.

“Merry Christmas,” Grandmother wished the couple. “Thank you for coming.” Nick conveyed his gratitude for the invitation once again, while Heather exited the Subaru to walk Grandmother to the door and kiss her on the cheek.

Finally, they were heading back to their hotel, Heather once again fantasizing about the jewelry she was sure Nick had purchased to gift her in the morning.

“What was making you laugh out there?” Nick suddenly inquired, the sense memory of his wife trying not to burst into braying laughter at church jumping into his forebrain.

“Didn’t you notice?” Heather inquired.

“Notice what?” Nick said blankly.

“How Grandmother was introducing you?” she pressed.

“No?” Nick countered, sounding uncertain.

“She literally referred to you the entire time as “Dr. Becker.

“What?” he gaped in disbelief. “No she didn’t!”

“Oh, yes,” confirmed his wife. “I’m ‘Heather,’ but your name apparently pales in comparison to your degree.”

Heather was unable to help but snicker again. She herself was professionally successful, financially secure, a talented woman and a devoted granddaughter, but—according to Grandmother, apparently—her greatest accomplishment had obviously been snagging an M.D. in college.

Nick flushed a brilliant magenta; then he sputtered unintelligibly, and then blushed even one more shade darker.

“But you’re a lawyer!”

“Yup,” Heather agreed. “And you’re a doctor.”

“I’m a resident! You make more money than I do!”

Nick sounded both anxious and flummoxed, and Heather tried to stop laughing.

“Doesn’t matter. For her, Doctor’s wife is the ultimate win. It’s something to shoot for.”

“You don’t think that, do you?” asked Nick with disbelief.

Heather snorted.

“Of course not. But, like, I totally get it.”

“Get…what?” Nick queried cluelessly.

“I mean, she grew up on a farm in Czechoslovakia—in poverty—between two World Wars. Her hometown was legit annexed by Hitler. Then she got here and had to start from scratch with Grandfather again.”

Heather thought for a moment, attempting to articulate Grandmother’s lived experience, the details of which the two had never once discussed but the trauma of which Heather sensed in her bones.

“It was the 50s. Physicians were, like, idolized. And back then, it’s not like her own little girl could even have considered medical school. It’s why my mom is a nurse. That was, like, the only option for daughters. So of course every mother hoped her daughter would find a physician for a husband.”

She shrugged.

“She came here for the American Dream, and is there anything more American than status and wealth?”

“Status and wealth?” Nick repeated cynically.

Heather assumed—probably correctly—that he was picturing his last overnight shift, picturing the repetition and the drudgery and the endless scut work, the only way to “pay his dues” in the traditionally-patriarchal, embarrassingly-archaic hierarchy of any operating room.

“I know,” she empathized. “I really do.”

She did understand, better than most, that the reality of taking the Hippocratic Oath in the 21st century is markedly different than most of the population assumes, here in the land where Western Medicine reigns king. No longer the 1950s, the once-venerated profession has become a Sisyphean task of managing bureaucracy and fighting with insurance companies and navigating the quagmire of Big Pharma; medicine is no longer simply a matter of study and healing.

“I know residency sucks,” Heather continued, still trying not to smile at her promotion to “trophy wife” in Grandmother’s eyes, the greatest thing to which to aspire if one is unlucky enough to be born a woman; the greatest thing to which one’s descendants can aspire when one has endured a life of hardship and transition and loss. “But someday, you’ll be the one torturing the interns and post-docs.”

She reached for his hand, then added as an afterthought, “…and for way more than a resident’s salary.”

Nick sighed.

“Can you just ask her to say ‘Nick’ next time?” he pleaded. ‘Maybe Nicholas, if it needs to be fancier?”

Heather laughed and assured her spouse she would pass along the message, knowing she never would, knowing Nick would be “Dr. Becker” to Grandmother until the end of time, until they all met in the heavenly afterlife about which Grandmother was so certain.

They drove in silence for several minutes, the Twelve Days of Christmas counting down birds on the radio and Christmas lights twinkling out the window and Nick yawning widely every few minutes into his cupped hand.

“I love you, Dr. Becker,” Heather suddenly voiced, ruminating on the immigrant experience, ruminating on family, ruminating on privilege and progress and the sprawling roots of her family tree. She saw its branches stretching back to the past and forward into the future. She pictured a daughter with Nick’s eyes and the luxury to go to medical school, or not; to be a trophy wife, or not. She saw graduations and grandchildren and dozens of Christmases with the man sitting to her right, and the prospect made her glow with love.

“I love you, too,” Nick answered, rolling his eyes and pulling into the hotel parking lot. “Let’s go to bed already.”

So they walked through the automatic doors of the Holiday Inn like newlyweds crossing the threshold, Dr. and Mrs. Becker, representing everything for which Grandmother had hoped and worked, Darwin singing in the background like a Greek chorus.

And it was a Merry Christmas, indeed.

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