Fools Rush In . . . (LynnK)

. . . unless they get tripped up.

That can be a good thing. Sometimes we need to be stopped, and the sooner, the better. But the death of a dream, even the most ridiculous one you ever had, is still a deeply felt loss.

I was devoted to my childhood fantasies—me as Commander-in-Chief of the Space Parol or maybe a king—but I never actually aspired to them. Even in second grade, it was pretty clear I wasn’t going into space. And I wouldn’t want to live in a country that would choose me as king.

My true dream, which began about the sixth grade and persisted through high school, was to become a Maryknoll Missionary Sister. Specifically, I longed to be a doctor-nun. So I read everything I could find about medical missionaries, which wasn’t a heckuva lot.

The Maryknoll nun is on the right. That's what I'd have been wearing in sub-tropical Africa.

In all my research, one theme never failed to turn up. Nuns take a vow of obedience, which means that nuns do what they are told. What if a misguided mother superior decided I should be a teacher, or a nurse, or an accountant?

Clearly, the vows I eventually decided not to take were already getting in my way. But I was a wily child. First, I’d become a doctor. Then I’d enter the Maryknolls. Surely they wouldn’t waste my education and wondrous talents.

So I set about choosing a medical school and settled on Johns Hopkins. I’d have applied straightaway, but it seems they weren’t taking middle schoolers. First, I’d need a college degree. Pre-med, of course, and admission to the program would require a good record in math and science.

My quest was sincere, if characteristically desultory, and I did in fact receive the Science and Math award on graduation from high school. By then, however, I had learned a few things about myself:

I utterly wilt in hot, humid weather;
I turn into a popsicle when the temperature drops below 50;
I am incapable of learning a foreign language;
I can’t stand bugs.

My missionary zeal having fizzled out, I entered instead a pristine and bugless community of nuns perched on a So-Cal hill overlooking a tony section of Los Angeles. But my dream was not altogether squelched. While my fellow postulants were inspired by scripture and the saints, my own role models were Dr. Kildare, Dr. Marcus Welby, and Dr. Ben Casey. Yup. I still wanted to be a physician.

At some point, I mentioned that to the Mistress of Postulants, and sure enough, I soon found myself in an Anatomy and Physiology Class at a nearby college. All was going well until the day we were divided into teams of four and presented with wet, stiff, almost unrecognizable specimens stretched out on large trays.

Each team was to dissect a cat!

By that point, the stench of formaldehyde nearly had us flat on the floor. We gazed helplessly on our hapless critter. I sought internal counsel. What would Ben Casey do?


Not what I did! Securing one of the notebooks into which our actions and results would be recorded, I bravely appointed myself Team Captain and proceeded to direct the festivities . . . from a distance.

Oh, and I declared that we should name our cat. We chose “Elfego Baca.” Long-time TV fans may recognize the character, modeled on a real-life guy who was also known as El Gato. The Cat.

We wanted our own little guy to have a identity, and I’m sure every member of the team remembers him to this day.

The dissection required several weeks of work. Our black postulant uniforms and blue gingham aprons began to stink. Back in the convent, noses wrinkled discreetly when we passed by. But only once, when my team demanded I get my own hands wet, did I actually pick up a scalpel and wield it.

And at that moment, nearly eight years after I first envisioned myself as a dedicated doctor, my cherished dream gave up the ghost and stretched out alongside the cat.

Anyone who knows me, even slightly, could reasonably ask, “What took it so long?” I dunno. But I learned that it’s as easy to persist in a delusion as in a reality-based plan. Easier, really, without pesky facts and humbling self-awareness getting in the way.

On reflection, I probably had a better change of becoming Commander-in-Chief of the Space Patrol. Or a king.