pre-Daddy, pre-Matt.
Let me tell you about Dr. Michael Bernstein.
I met Michael in 1996 at the wedding reception for John Kennedy and Carolyn Bessette on Cumberland Island, Georgia. I must
admit that both of us had led pretty charmed lives up until then. My parents had died when I was two, but I was fortunate
enough to have been raised with great love and patience by my grandparents in Cornwall, New York. I went to Lawrenceville
Academy in New Jersey, then Duke, and finally Harvard Medical School.
I felt incredibly lucky to be at each of the three schools, and I couldn’t have gotten a better education—except that nowhere
did I learn the lesson of the five balls.
Michael also went to Harvard Medical School, but he had graduated four years before I got there. We didn’t meet until the
Kennedy wedding. I was a guest of Carolyn’s; Michael was a guest of John’s. The wedding itself was magical, full of hope and
promise. Maybe that was part of what drew Michael and me together.
What kept us together for the next four years was a little more complicated. Part of it was pure physical attraction, and
at some point I want to talk to you about that—but not now. Michael was—
is
—tall and dashing, with a radiant smile. We had a lot of mutual interests. I loved his stories, always so droll, laconic,
biting; I also loved to listen to him play the piano and sing anything from Sinatra to Sting. Also, we were both workaholics—me
at Mass. General, Michael at Children’s Hospital in Boston.
But none of these things are what love is really about, Nicholas. Trust me on that.
About four weeks after my heart attack, I woke up one morning at eight o’clock. The apartment where we lived was quiet, and
I luxuriated in the peacefulness for a few moments. It seemed to have a healing quality. Finally, I got up and went to the
kitchen to make myself breakfast before I went off to rehab.
I jumped back when I heard a noise, the scratch of a chair leg against the floor. Nervously, I went to see who was out there.
It was Michael. I was surprised to see him still home, as he was almost always out of the house by seven. He was sitting at
the small pine table in the breakfast nook.
“You almost gave me a heart attack,” I said, making what I thought was a pretty decent joke.
Michael didn’t laugh. He patted the chair next to him at the table.
Then, with the calmness and self-reverence I was used to from him, he told me the three main reasons why he was leaving me:
he said he couldn’t talk or relate to me the way he could with his male friends; he didn’t think that I could have a baby
now, because of my heart attack; he had fallen for someone else already.
I ran out of the kitchen, and then out of the house. That morning the pain I felt was even worse than the heart attack. Nothing
was right with my life; I had gotten it all wrong so far.
Everything!!!
I did love being a doctor, but I was trying to do it in a large, somewhat bureaucratic, big-city hospital, which just wasn’t
right for me.
I was working so hard—because there was nothing else of value in my life. I earned about $120,000 a year, but I was spending
it on dinners in town, getaway weekends, clothes that I didn’t need or even like that much.
I had wanted children all my life, yet here I was without a significant other, without a child, without a plan, and no prospects
to change any of it.
Here’s what I did, little boy.
I began to
live
the lesson of the five balls.
I left my job at Mass. General. I left Boston. I left my murderous schedule and commitments be- hind. I moved to the one place
in the world where I had always been happy. I went there, truly, to mend a broken heart.
I was turning endlessly around and around like a hamster on a wheel in a tiny cage. My life was stretched to the limit, and
something was bound to give. Unfortunately, it had been my heart.
This wasn’t a small change, Nicky; I had decided
Let me tell you about Dr. Michael Bernstein.
I met Michael in 1996 at the wedding reception for John Kennedy and Carolyn Bessette on Cumberland Island, Georgia. I must
admit that both of us had led pretty charmed lives up until then. My parents had died when I was two, but I was fortunate
enough to have been raised with great love and patience by my grandparents in Cornwall, New York. I went to Lawrenceville
Academy in New Jersey, then Duke, and finally Harvard Medical School.
I felt incredibly lucky to be at each of the three schools, and I couldn’t have gotten a better education—except that nowhere
did I learn the lesson of the five balls.
Michael also went to Harvard Medical School, but he had graduated four years before I got there. We didn’t meet until the
Kennedy wedding. I was a guest of Carolyn’s; Michael was a guest of John’s. The wedding itself was magical, full of hope and
promise. Maybe that was part of what drew Michael and me together.
What kept us together for the next four years was a little more complicated. Part of it was pure physical attraction, and
at some point I want to talk to you about that—but not now. Michael was—
is
—tall and dashing, with a radiant smile. We had a lot of mutual interests. I loved his stories, always so droll, laconic,
biting; I also loved to listen to him play the piano and sing anything from Sinatra to Sting. Also, we were both workaholics—me
at Mass. General, Michael at Children’s Hospital in Boston.
But none of these things are what love is really about, Nicholas. Trust me on that.
About four weeks after my heart attack, I woke up one morning at eight o’clock. The apartment where we lived was quiet, and
I luxuriated in the peacefulness for a few moments. It seemed to have a healing quality. Finally, I got up and went to the
kitchen to make myself breakfast before I went off to rehab.
I jumped back when I heard a noise, the scratch of a chair leg against the floor. Nervously, I went to see who was out there.
It was Michael. I was surprised to see him still home, as he was almost always out of the house by seven. He was sitting at
the small pine table in the breakfast nook.
“You almost gave me a heart attack,” I said, making what I thought was a pretty decent joke.
Michael didn’t laugh. He patted the chair next to him at the table.
Then, with the calmness and self-reverence I was used to from him, he told me the three main reasons why he was leaving me:
he said he couldn’t talk or relate to me the way he could with his male friends; he didn’t think that I could have a baby
now, because of my heart attack; he had fallen for someone else already.
I ran out of the kitchen, and then out of the house. That morning the pain I felt was even worse than the heart attack. Nothing
was right with my life; I had gotten it all wrong so far.
Everything!!!
I did love being a doctor, but I was trying to do it in a large, somewhat bureaucratic, big-city hospital, which just wasn’t
right for me.
I was working so hard—because there was nothing else of value in my life. I earned about $120,000 a year, but I was spending
it on dinners in town, getaway weekends, clothes that I didn’t need or even like that much.
I had wanted children all my life, yet here I was without a significant other, without a child, without a plan, and no prospects
to change any of it.
Here’s what I did, little boy.
I began to
live
the lesson of the five balls.
I left my job at Mass. General. I left Boston. I left my murderous schedule and commitments be- hind. I moved to the one place
in the world where I had always been happy. I went there, truly, to mend a broken heart.
I was turning endlessly around and around like a hamster on a wheel in a tiny cage. My life was stretched to the limit, and
something was bound to give. Unfortunately, it had been my heart.
This wasn’t a small change, Nicky; I had decided
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