Chapter 4:

#NotSoWhiteCoatCeremony

We invite incoming medical students and their families as we celebrate our White Coat Ceremony for the Pritzker College of Medicine.  

Keynote Speaker : Aiden Metsler, M.D., Dean of the Pritzker University School of Medicine, Endowed Professor, Pritzker University Health Care System

Friday, August 18 at 2 p.m at the Fitzgerald Winery

I plucked the trampled invitation from the grass, eyeing the flowery font. I was here at the winery to serve hors d’oeuvres, not collect trash, but my OCD kicked in.

"Michael Anderson." Another name rang out over the speaker system as I weaved through the crowd, balancing a tray. I felt like the food I was carrying—a mini caprese skewer slow-cooking in the relentless sun.

I watched Michael’s football physique stomp onto the stage’s wooden planks—a tall, broad-shouldered lineman charging into a tackle as he accepted the gleaming ivory jacket from Dean Metsler.

Someday, that’ll be me.

But what will I have to sacrifice to make it onto that stage? Sleep? Keg stands? FOMO? My sanity?

For a day that marked the beginning of future sacrifice, it was undeniably beautiful. The sun peeked through the clouds, and the air carried the faint, sweet aroma of dried grapes–a novelty to someone raised just outside Las Vegas. I took in the picturesque villa nestled in the greenery; the breeze tugging at summer dresses and suit jackets. 

On my third lap through the crowd with a half-empty tray, I discreetly slipped a shrimp skewer into my apron pocket. Gross, I know. But it was one of the few appetizers that would still resemble actual food by the time I ate it for dinner. 

“Prin, is that you?”

My head snapped around at the mention of my name. A petite blonde beamed at me, her bright pink lips stretching into a familiar grin. She wore a designer floral-print maxi dress that blended so perfectly with the lush backdrop, she practically disappeared into it—like a chameleon effortlessly adapting to its chosen environment.

“It’s me, Madison.”

It took me a moment to recognize my former dorm mate from Coronado Prep. During my senior year of high school, I had tutored Madison—a wide-eyed junior from the first floor of our girls’ boarding house, trailing behind Zara and me like Paris Hilton’s chihuahua. I’d always found it endearing. Zara, on the other hand, had been one eye-roll away from losing her mind.

“Hi, Madison. Good to see you. It’s been a minute.”

Madison’s eyes sparkled. “I can’t believe it—I never thought I’d see you again. And honestly, I almost didn’t recognize you. You look so... different.”

She wasn’t talking about the uniform. I was the photo-negative version of my former self—everywhere light, now dark. My hair, my nails, even the liner around my eyes.

“I never thought I’d see you again, especially at my cousin’s white coat ceremony,” she added, her voice laced with something between awe and uncertainty.

“I’m starting school here next week…majoring in pre-med” I said, adjusting the tray in my hand. “Just working for extra cash.”

“I’m starting too! We’ll be pre-meds together. How have you been…these past few years?” Madison’s eyes sparkled with curiosity, and I could already see where this was heading. I didn’t like it.

“Love your dress. Excited for school to start?” I deflected, knowing nothing redirected a Prep schoolgirl’s attention like a well-placed compliment. My gaze flickered to her outfit—tight as ever, a size too small, revealing more than intended…or maybe that’s exactly what the intention was.

“Can’t wait. Not sure how many of us from Coronado made it in,” she said, smoothing down the fabric as the breeze toyed with the hem.

Ah, yes. The Coronado Seal Six—a self-proclaimed elite vortex of former Coronado Prep students who had secured their spots at Pritzker. I scanned the crowd, shielding my eyes from the sun.

“I’d better get going,” I said, shifting my weight.

“We should do a study session some time! It’ll probably be you tutoring me again—just like the old days. I’ll message you,” she chirped, waving like a pageant queen before strutting off.

I spent the next twenty minutes threading the busy crowd like an embroidery needle, passing colorful finger food to sweaty A-listers in business casual. On my way back to the kitchen, I slid between two young men, my tray accidentally jutting against his shoulder. 

“Watch it.”  An unwelcome yet familiar face stared back at me—Zara’s ex boyfriend, Sebastian. In high school, he’d clung to her more tightly than his high-yield brokerage account, probably because she checked every category for him—including a tenfold boost in his social media followers. I tried to veer away, but it was too late. His predatory gaze had already locked onto mine.

“Well, look who it is—the girl who vanished and had half the school convinced she faked her own death. Can’t believe I’m seeing you in person… and not on a milk carton.”
Sebastian’s scowl deepened, his eyes sharp and cold.

Of course the rumors hadn’t faded.
Nothing digital ever does—it’s all etched into the internet like stone.

But he needed to know I wasn’t afraid of him anymore.

I stepped forward, closing the space between us.

“What’s that smell?” I asked, tilting my head. “New cologne?”
I paused, then smirked.
“No, wait. Just the stench of your old-money privilege.”

I backed away slowly, my expression dripping with sarcasm.

He ignored the comment. “Watch your back, GoFundMe poster child. It’s your fault what happened… to Layla.”

Zara’s sister. Post-it Lie: My actions have not killed someone. A secret that would destroy both of us if it got out. Even Sebastian, with all his connections and wealth, couldn’t escape that fallout. Like facing a mountain lion, I tried to make myself look bigger. I hadn’t spoken to Zara in over a years, but Sebastian didn’t need to know that.

“Why are you here, Sebastian? Don’t donor students still need a minimum GPA to go pre-med?” I tried to sound bored, but my insides were trembling. I knew exactly what Sebastian was capable of—a kid who once called him out in class for confusing a bear market with a bull market mysteriously ended up with bruises and a limp the next day from basketball.

“Think I’d set foot in a hospital by choice? I’m a finance major. A family friend invited me, not that it’s any of your business.”

An announcement over the speakers instructed every​​one to take their seats. “Saved by the announcement,” I said as I headed toward the kitchen to return my tray and take my legally required—yet well-deserved—break. My tray felt like a ton of bricks, piled high with wine glasses, half-eaten plates of food, and a smelly paper bag courtesy of a kid clutching his stomach after one too many deviled eggs.

As Dean Metsler’s voice echoed across the vineyard, delivering his keynote address, I slipped away from the ceremony, cutting through the crowd toward a small rose garden at the far end of the estate. The sun had softened the chocolate in my pocket, but I popped it into my mouth anyway. I wanted privacy while I licked the sticky remnants from my fingers, like a kindergartener let loose in a sweet shop—shameless and savoring every last bit.

“In my opinion, no one’s too old to lick chocolate from their hands.”

The unexpected voice startled me. I turned to see an older woman approaching—Rosa, I’d later learn—her flyaway grays escaping from beneath a wide-brimmed straw hat. She wore a lopsided grin, the kind that hinted at a lifetime of unfiltered wisdom. One hand pushed her sunglasses up the bridge of her nose; the other clutched a watering can.

Must be her garden.

“Lovely, isn’t it? So much goes into creating beauty like this.”

Her accent was noticeable as she plucked a handful of weeds, her expression disapproving—like an aesthetician tending to an overgrown brow.

I leaned against a nearby tree. “You’ve done a beautiful job.”

She let out a small sigh, adjusting her grip on the watering can. “Yeah, it’s my little escape. Too bad my knees don’t always cooperate.” There was something disarming about her honesty that made me feel at ease.

“My grandmother loved roses,” I said, letting my gaze drift over the delicate blooms. “Seeing these makes me think of her.” I shifted my weight against the trunk, relaxing. “Do you live here?”

“Yes. I’ve worked with the Ozlers for almost forty years. They’re like family. I don’t think I could ever leave.”

She spoke fondly of her husband and their early years at the vineyard, her voice rich with nostalgia. But as she bent to grab the watering can, a sharp grimace crossed her face.

“Are you okay?” I stepped closer, concern tightening my chest.

“Oh, I’m fine. Just a sore shoulder,” she waved off my worry, but her petite frame lurched forward as she clutched her side. The reassurance in her voice faltered, and I wasn’t convinced.

“You look pale.” I stepped nearer, observing her.

Suddenly, she dropped the pitcher, spilling water as she fell forward. I lunged to catch her, but her weight pulled me down with her. What the hell was happening? Was she having a heart attack?  

I leaned in close, trying to feel her breath against my cheek. I’d seen heart attacks before at the rural clinic in Indonesia. Panic surged from my core to my throat, a visceral reminder that every second mattered. “Help!” I shouted, hoping someone would hear.

Just as I reached for my phone, a worker ran over from the vineyard. “Rosa!” he cried. “What happened?” He froze in place, unsure of what to do.

“She collapsed… she’s not responding. Call 911!” I shouted, my pulse spiking with panic.

I forced myself to focus, running through the steps ingrained in my mind.
A—Airway. I tilted her head back, scanning for any obstructions.
B—Breathing. I listened—nothing.
C—Circulation. My fingers pressed against the side of her neck—no pulse.

Adrenaline surged as I started compressions, my hands locking into position over her sternum.
One, two, three, four… I counted, pushing down hard and fast. Every thirty compressions, I tilted her head back and gave two rescue breaths, willing air into her lungs.

You can do it. Stay with me. 

My arms burning from the force needed to keep her blood circulating. I tried not to think about how fragile she was—how easily her ribs could crack under my weight.

I stole a glance around. Where the hell is that guy? Had he even called 911?

I kept going, alternating between breaths and compressions. Still nothing. Damn it!

At last, the vineyard worker returned, a small group of students trailing behind him. Relief surged through me, though exhaustion was quickly catching up. My shoulders ached, and I hoped someone would step in.

“The ambulance is on the way,” the worker announced. “What can I do?”

I scanned the group, desperate for backup. “Does anyone here know CPR?”

Silence.

Seriously? Not a single one of these so-called future doctors could help?

A few more minutes passed before a faculty member arrived, his tall frame quickly bending over Rosa.

“I’ll take over,” he said, seamlessly stepping in. Together, we alternated between breaths and chest compressions, keeping a steady rhythm.

Sweat dripped down my face, but I had no free hand to wipe it away. My arms burned with exhaustion, but I kept going. Then, finally— a faint pulse. A shallow breath.

She was alive!

Three EMTs arrived and immediately took over. I stepped back, observing as they used a bag-valve mask to support her breathing.

“What happened?” one of them asked, focused but calm as they worked.

“She had acute onset shoulder pain, possibly referred pain from an acute MI. She collapsed with no pulse or breathing, so I started CPR,” I explained, my voice shaky from the adrenaline and exhaustion.

In under a minute, they attached a cardiac defibrillator. The machine detected an arrhythmia, then instructed us to clear the area as it delivered a small shock. Rosa’s eyes fluttered open. Relief flooded my body as the tension in my shoulders melted away.

The EMTs prepared to transport her, and I walked alongside the gurney, feeling a sense of responsibility. 

As they loaded Rosa into the ambulance, an older man approached, holding Rosa’s hand. Her color had returned, and she nodded weakly in his direction—a good sign. I was high on the feeling of bringing life back into the world. Maybe not everything I touched brought death, like it had for my mom and Zara’s sister.  It felt good to be one life to two deaths on the life-death scoreboard. 

I watched as the ambulance pulled away while a large crowd of students and staff grew around us. The faculty member who’d helped with chest compressions walked over, extending his hand.

“I’m Dr. Kieran Thomas, the Vice Dean of Academic Affairs,” he introduced himself.

“Prin De Sangue,” I replied, shaking his hand, though my arm was still sore.

“You’re ACLS certified?” He seemed surprised, glancing at my uniform.

“I learned while working abroad at a rural hospital,” I said, feeling the weight of the afternoon settle over me.

“Lucky for her, you were nearby.” Dr. Thomas wiped sweat from his forehead. We shared a look of mutual understanding—no words were necessary.

Just then, an older gentleman and a young woman carrying a baby approached. “Are you the person who helped Rosa?” he asked, eyeing me with a mix of skepticism and gratitude.

I nodded. “Yes, I think she had a heart attack. But she was conscious by the time the EMTs loaded her. I’m hopeful she’ll be okay. Do you know her?”

“She’s worked with us for years,” he said, his voice thick with emotion.

The young woman stepped closer, cradling the baby. “You’re a med student?” she asked, tilting her head.

“No. I’m a college freshman—starting next week,” I replied with a weak smile.

They both stared at me in astonishment. “We can’t thank you enough,” the woman said, gripping my hand. Her voice wavered as she rocked the baby, trying to calm it down.

Instead of soothing the child, the baby let out an ear-splitting scream—followed by a spectacular stream of projectile vomit. Right onto my uniform. And my hair. And my face.

“Oh my gosh, I’m so sorry!” The woman gasped, mortified, and frantically handed me a burp cloth.

I wiped my face and hair while she tried to clean up the baby. “I’m okay,” I assured her, swallowing a sigh. I’d dealt with worse.

After all, I survived elite boarding school—this wasn’t my first run-in with vomit. At least this time, it didn’t reek of cheap vodka.

Surprisingly, the  uniform held up well—the vomit slid right off. It likely wouldn’t be the last bodily fluid it encountered over the next four years.

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