The forensic mum

A story about identity

Picture by Maria José Bosch Campos

Two years ago, I was 42, and my age and computer-bound job started weighing on my eyesight. I went to the optician, who confirmed I needed reading glasses. I was not prepared for those glasses that you hang from the edge of your nose while half reading a pathology report and half addressing a colleague. Nor could I afford to lose a pair of glasses every two weeks because I was putting them on and taking them off 23,000 times a day trying to knit, cook, play with my toddler, read with my 7-year-old, and watch my 5-year-old dance simultaneously. So, I invested in a very fancy pair of “progressive” glasses that I could wear all the time. I loved those glasses. They had the capacity to convey that I was highly intelligent and outstandingly handsome at the same time. They were almost miraculous, and their price reflected that superpower.

I lost them 3 months later.

I looked everywhere with my dwindling eyesight to no avail. The price was so astronomical that replacing them with a twin was impossible and, what’s worse, irresponsible. The brand was “Barton Perreira,” and the whole Perreira collection was (is) breathtakingly beautiful. And the name?!?!? Barton Perreira is the perfect name for an eyewear designer; almost too perfect. It seems made-up, really. I wondered if I would have picked up the glasses to try them on in the first place were it not for the name.

This whole episode got me thinking about the power that a good name has. In one or two words, so many things can be communicated. Like Coke, Fanta, Cher, Mary Poppins, Ye Olde Pub. A name is what makes Benicio del Toro a movie director and John Bull the owner of a chain of pubs. A whole destiny hides inside a name. The good thing about this name/destiny tandem is that you could potentially change the latter just by changing the first.

I have a friend who is hilarious at demystifying fancy names. I am sure he would say that Barton’s real name is Bart Phillips (or even Bartolo Pérez, most probably since my friend is Spanish too), and when Bart moved to the big city, he needed a name to fit his new identity. Thus, Barton Perreira was born. Disclaimer: I have made no attempt to search who is behind the brand Barton Perreira, I like certain mysteries to remain so. Hence, if you meet a Giorgio Rossetti- hairstylist, he is possibly good old George Robertson the barber. And I am sure that if a Giselle Carvalho- interior designer exists, it is because Gracie Holmes knew she needed a name-makeover to make it big.

All these musings got me thinking about my own name and my destiny. I have a colleague who says I was destined to be a breast oncologist since my initials ABC can be found in any breast cancer publication, being the acronym for Advanced Breast Cancer.  So, it seems fitting.

It was not always so. When I was 12, I wanted to be a lawyer, mainly because “LA Law” was the prime-time show, and I relished the final statements made by the lawyers. Forget about evidence! They could sway the jury in any direction with the proper final speech. At sixteen, I found out that lawyering had little to do with speeches and a lot to do with studying the law- that put me off the subject forever.

But I have a knack for imagining myself in any possible situation (impossible ones, too), so I have often thought about what I would be were I not an oncologist. The one recurring identity is Ana Bosch- private detective. Be it my passion for solving puzzles, my wholehearted enjoyment of crime novels, or my infatuation with Hercule Poirot, PI is my second calling. I would not even need to change the name; mine fits. I could be Harry Bosch’s second cousin; it runs in my blood.

I see myself examining the crime scene, finding all possible clues, writing down my always-accurate conclusions, and asking uncomfortable but pertinent questions. I see my suspects sweating beneath my steady, determined gaze… and so on. I also think about how I could use my honed medical skills and throw them in the mix of the whole PI identity, and the answer is pretty obvious- Forensic medicine. I have talked about this a lot with my doctor friends in our sessions of daydreaming about changing careers. Here is a secret: doctors tend to think about changing careers a little too often, and we almost never do so for many reasons, which I could write about in another story.

In my case, I have looked into switching careers to forensics. It seems a smooth transition, having already acquired the medical degree and all. Alas! Every course I find on the subject inevitably includes law and the legal system… that sort of puts me off that subject, too. Private detection would be more fun if one could just smell tobacco and make crooks crack without the legal system cramping one’s style.

Now, I sit in front of my computer with the cheap “terminal” glasses I replaced my fancy Barton ones with, thinking about the ephemerality of eyesight and the fleeting nature of identities. And I read CT scans, and interpret my patients’ symptoms, and try to the very best of my ability to provide a cure when possible or relief when not. And I realize I like my work; I love it, really. So, I plough through with my endeavours and try to be the best oncologist I can be for my patients’ sake.

I have shared these thoughts many times with my husband. Whenever I find something lost or make a particularly brilliant interpretation of a situation whilst tapping my right temple with my index finger, he turns to our children and says- “nothing escapes mummy. She is forensic, you know?” as they stare in awe. My children think that finding things is my superpower. Like the good detective I am, I can find anything. Unfortunately, finding my fancy glasses was a feat of Kryptonian proportions.