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Chapter 1: The Breakup
“Joe, I want to end our relationship.”
I looked up from the suitcase I’d started to unpack. My girlfriend, Staci, and I had just arrived back at our apartment after what I'd thought had been an exhilarating one-week vacation in Cancun, away from our medical school studies at NYU. Then I heard Staci’s words.
Why would she say that? Was she joking? I turned to check on her,
“What did you say, Staci?”
With her hands on her hips, Staci fixed her brown eyes on me. She stood five feet six inches tall with short, brown silky hair. Again, she stated, “Joe, I want to end our relationship,”
At first, her words refused to sink in. Then my heart raced, and my legs threatened to give way. What was happening?
“What?” I stammered, hoping against hope that she was playing some cruel joke.
“I've been thinking this for a while now, and I believe it's the best course of action for both of us. I shouldn't waste your time,” Staci reiterated.
It took me a while to accept that this wasn't a nightmare from which I could wake up. I started screaming, “What? You can't be serious! We just had an amazing time in Cancun. What's going on? Did I do something wrong?” The tears threatened to break free, but I fought to hold them back.
I felt like a frightened child, threatened with abandonment in a dark room, bargaining for a reprieve. Staci's response only added to the cruelty of the moment.
“It’s not you, Joe. It’s me.”
There it was—the cliché sentence. So much for her being different from other girls— another cliche. There was no empathy in her tone. How could she be so composed? I wished she would at least show some remorse —perhaps some tears.
I started to tear up. “Staci, you can’t do this. I love you," I confessed like a fool, my pride forgotten as I clung to a sliver of hope that she might reconsider. How long had she been harboring these thoughts?
“I’m sorry, Joe. My decision is final.”
“Don’t feel bad, Joe. We have been together for the past ten years. There isn’t anything wrong with you. So, please don’t ask me such questions because I won't be able to answer them, and all you will find yourself asking me is even more questions. The truth is, we are just too perfect for each other.”
My anger rose, and sweat poured down my forehead. Although I usually never got mad at Staci, I could not control my rage.
“What are you on about? Do you even know what that is? What we have is perfect for each other, so why the hell are we doing this? Have you lost your mind?”
Staci turned her body slightly, avoiding my angry face. I was sure she didn’t want to listen. Did she really think I would accept her decision as a matter of fact?
“Don’t you turn away from me. I have loved you more than I ever loved myself. Everything I do, from the clothes I wear to the food I eat, I think of you. Every decision I make is in accordance with your preferences. My life revolves around you. What more do you want? Tell me what it is, and I will do it or give it to you.”
Staci moved her body so she could face me. I could see some anger on her face.
I tried to soften her up. “Staci, we grew up together and have been inseparable by the time we were both accepted to NYU Medical School and shared an apartment. I enjoy making you laugh and acting silly. The way you cover your mouth when laughter bubbles from your lips—I adore you”.
“You’ve just identified the problem. We are kids still. We are only twenty-four years old, and all this time that I have been in school has been shared with you and no one else. Haven't you ever noticed this? We never made friends. We always hung out with each other.”
My mouth opened, and I rubbed the hair on top of my head continuously as I stared at her. I felt utterly helpless, realizing that I could do nothing to fix the situation, nothing that could erase what she had just revealed.
Staci, however, barely showed any emotion. “Look, Joe—In two years, when we begin our residency, we'll embark on separate paths for the first time. I want to meet new people in medical school. I don't want to study, eat, and socialize with only one person. In fact, I'd like you to move out tonight. You can come back next week to get the rest of your things.”
The shock of her words left me speechless. It was late evening, and I couldn't fathom where she expected me to go.
“What now?” I finally managed to utter, my confusion evident. “Where am I supposed to go? This is my apartment, too.”
Staci folded her arms. “I found this apartment, and most of the furniture is mine. You can visit your parents or stay at a hotel and come back and get the rest of your things later,”
The pain ripped through me. I clenched my fists, my jaw aching.
“Staci, why don’t you move out? You’re the one breaking up with me.”
“Grow up. My name is on the lease, not yours. If I move out, I will tell the landlord to cancel the lease, and then both of us will have to leave. If you have any respect for me, you will be the one to go.”
I ran my hands through my hair. Like a child, I kept reassuring myself that this couldn't be real, but slowly, the harsh reality set in, turning what I hadn't even anticipated into a haunting memory.
At that moment, I wanted nothing more than to punch a hole in the wall. The hurt ran too deep for me to engage in any further conversation with her. I repacked my suitcase and grabbed my schoolbooks.
Staci watched me. How could she not even express a single emotion?
“I don’t want to discuss this further,” I muttered, my voice heavy.
I turned my back to Staci and continued aggressively stuffing my belongings into bags—clothes, books, and anything that was mine to take. My desire to leave everything behind burned within me, but I knew I had to maintain some semblance of dignity. I wanted to fight, complain, and argue, but her mind was made up, and there wasn’t a damn thing I could do.
Yet, as I packed my bags, I couldn't help but feel lost. For the first time, I left without taking a moment to say goodbye or kiss her. Was it truly over? I slammed the door to our apartment on the way out and pondered this question as I made my way to the Long Island Railroad, purchased a ticket to Great Neck, and boarded the train.
During the ride, I remained surprisingly calm. It was late at night, and few passengers shared the carriage, most either asleep or deep in thought. I would’ve loved to share my misery with a total stranger at a bar, but it was not to be. It felt like I had been thrust into a nightmare where a mugger might appear to seal my fate at any moment.
I was scared and exhausted, but most of all, I was overwhelmed by the loneliness that enveloped my heart. Who would I confide in now, sharing the little things that bothered or excited me?
Was this what loneliness is? It wasn’t people leaving you and having no company around to share secrets and moments of despair and joy. It was when you didn’t talk to yourself anymore. I wanted to scream but couldn’t. I wanted to cry but couldn’t. I wanted to hate but couldn’t.
At precisely eleven twenty-three p.m., I arrived in Great Neck, hailed a cab, and found myself standing on my parent’s doorstep after a brief five-minute drive. I knew what awaited me inside and was entirely unprepared for it. The only thing I craved at that moment was sleep. With a deep breath, I pushed the doorbell, and within minutes, the sound of approaching footsteps confirmed that I had roused my parents from their slumber.
“Joe, what are you doing here this late? Is everything all right?” My mother, Leah’s voice rang out, filled with concern and a hint of breathlessness. She stared at me, all five feet four of her, with her eyes wide with surprise, while my father, much taller at five feet ten, stood beside her in his bathrobe and wore a similar expression. As the dean of the NYU medical school, he dealt with crises every day and never rushed to make an impulsive decision. However, the difference was that he preferred not to speak his mind while she chose otherwise.
I stood there, not knowing what to say. Should I tell them about my breakup with Staci now, in the dead of night? Or should I wait until morning? My mother would bombard me with loads of questions. Concealing the truth seemed pointless. If anything, it had been a mistake to come here. I should’ve gone with the other option of staying in the hotel.
Right now, I was too weary to pretend that everything was fine. My hair was disheveled, my face tattooed with a frown, I needed a shower, and I looked sleep-deprived. Speaking felt like an insurmountable task.
“Why don't you come inside?" My father, Robert, finally spoke, his voice soft but lacking compassion.
We settled at the dining table in the dimly lit hall, and a silence hung over us. My mother returned with a glass of water, which I gratefully accepted.
“Tell me the truth, son. Is everything all right? Aren't you supposed to be with Staci? Did you two have a fight?" My mother showed no mercy. In the middle of her interrogation, the sound of a ticking clock reverberated in the room, making me even more uncomfortable.
I wanted to throw up, but “Mother—" I forced the words out, my voice strained. "Staci broke up with me.”
“What?” She nearly stood up, her hand covering her mouth. My father remained silent, his gaze locked onto my soul, while I stared at the almost empty glass of water.
“What do you mean she broke up with you?" “You must have done something. Did you apologize to her?”
“What do I apologize to her for?” I shouted, “I didn't do anything. We went to Cancun and had a great time, or so I thought. She smiled, laughed, and played. She seemed happy, and I was, too. We didn't argue once the whole time.
My mother interrupted. “You mean she never told you what was wrong? Did you even give her a chance to tell you?”
Damn it, she didn't even mention a single thing she didn't like about me. What the hell would I have apologized for, Mom? For being nice? Loving? Caring? Responsible? Hygienic? Trying to make her happy?”
I finally broke down and covered my face with my hands. I couldn't bear to hear my mother seemingly siding with her. Why? It wasn't like Staci was her best friend. She liked Staci, yes, but not to that extent. She hated the idea of me being without a girlfriend. She believed that if I had a stable relationship with a nice Jewish girl, my life would be on the right track, and my future would be secure.
I found solace in my father's stoic demeanor and silence for the first time. I wouldn't say I liked his judgmental looks, but they were exactly what I needed today.
“Calm down, honey,” My father directed his first words at my mother, “Panicking won't do any good right now.”
“But this is bad. Can't you see? There's nothing that can't be solved by talking things out. Please tell him to talk to her,” she implored.
“Talk about what, Mom? She fell out of love with me. Please, tell me, how do I make her love me again?”.
“Listen, Joe,” my father interjected. “You shouldn't be dwelling on this now. Whatever has happened is now in the past. Move on and focus on the things that matter. “Your studies should be your priority. There are plenty of fish in the sea.”
I took back what I’d said about my father. He was as unyielding as ever. If this was what he believed being strong was like, I wished no part of it. I wanted to mourn my losses, regret my decisions, and celebrate my victories. Unlike with my mother, however, I couldn't negotiate or express my opinions regarding my father.
When he spoke, I listened. When ordered, I complied. I wasn’t exactly afraid of my father—he’d never hit me when I was a child—but he preferred things to be done his way, which had brought me here. Even in my broken moments, I didn’t talk back.
My academic success was undeniably tied to my father's influence. Given his position as the dean, it was almost a given that I had no choice but to excel. He’d played a pivotal role in pushing me to choose NYU over Yale’s and Harvard's offers. His rationale revolved around the idea that NYU was my superior option, primarily because he could look out for me.
The hours my parents spent talking to me— “Give it time—Things will work out” felt more like a series of instructions than a consoling conversation. I couldn't help but wonder if they truly understood the extent of my heartbreak, as their words only seemed to reinforce that I had failed beyond repair. And, in all honesty, I had indeed failed miserably. It was a humbling experience. It was like God himself wanted to punish me.
My father stressed that regardless of my feelings for Staci, I had to preserve my sanity and, more importantly, my academic performance. I reluctantly agreed, but I knew my attention in the ensuing weeks would remain fixated on one person and one person alone: Staci.
###
Two days later, I was back in class surrounded by hundreds of medical school students. Our relationship and shared apartment had been an open secret. Everyone knew about us. We attended all our courses together, sitting side by side, sharing meals, and chatting. But now, I found myself alone in class, my gaze fixed on her. I noticed several people staring at me. What was going through their brains?
It was an odd sensation, not because I was unaccustomed to solitude. I had mentally prepared for that. What made it peculiar was that she never met my eyes when I looked at her in class or the hallways. Instead, I found her absorbed in the professors' lectures, diligently taking notes. Not once did she spare me a glance.
How cruel you are, Staci. Do you even have a heart?
My days became an unending punishment. Each morning, I woke up, went to NYU, and fixed my gaze on Staci. I would then tune out the conversations of supposed friends until I returned home, where I would listen to my mother's relentless reminders of the mistake I had made. I would dutifully report my academic progress to my father and then lie in bed, consumed by thoughts of Staci. This pattern repeated itself day in and day out.
Some nights, the weight of my sorrow was too much to bear. I would curl up, clutching at my chest as if I could hold the heartache at bay. The evidence showed beneath my eyes in the form of dark bags, but it seemed like no one cared about my suffering, not even Staci.
I wished for her to reach out just once to inquire about how I was holding up. I had accepted that she was gone, but I craved a small acknowledgment that perhaps she could have been kinder the way she left.
Days dragged on, and I found myself sinking deeper into a self-destructive abyss.
Then, one day, I heard a voice, the feminine voice I had once loved so deeply. I turned around to see Staci standing there, looking exactly as she always had, with no hint of sadness in her eyes.
“Staci,” – I started, but she cut me off.
“You've left some of your stuff behind. Come around this weekend and get it,” she said before walking away.
I stood there, dumbfounded. She hadn't waited for my response, and I couldn't help but think she loathed me. That was how I spent the next few days—grappling with uncertainty.
I eventually made my way to what had once been our home to retrieve my belongings. She wasn't there, so I went about the apartment, moving from one room to another, reminiscing about all the memories we had created together. The apartment was eerily quiet, except for a note that caught my eye. It read, “Leave the keys on the counter once you're done.”
Seeing that note gave me a strange sense of happiness. She had written something for me, no matter how brief. How low had I sunk to find solace in such meaningless gestures?
In the following days, I half-heartedly began preparing for the second-year final exams at medical school. My motivation was nonexistent. I was going through the motions for my father's sake. It was evident in my study habits, or rather, lack thereof. The outcome reflected my lack of dedication—I passed but with a B grade.
As expected, my dad was disappointed. For the first two days, he didn't even make eye contact with me, let alone talk. However, as his initial anger and embarrassment subsided, he finally sat down with me.
“Joe, what the hell are you doing?” he asked,
I shrugged, incapable of defending myself.
“Is this the real you?” he continued, his disappointment mingled with a hint of compassion.
I was relieved that he had taken the first step to address the situation, even if his self-interest drove it.
“You're a smart kid, and seeing you like this… it's embarrassing,”
His words hung in the air, and for the first time, I found the courage to speak my truth. “I can't do this. I just can't. Not with Staci around. I can't take my eyes off her. You may think that changing my section or putting me in a different class will help, but it won't. I'll still look for her. I tried my best, and this is the result I got. She performed better because somehow, this didn't affect her."
There was a moment of silence as my dad absorbed my words, “Give me a few days.” Then he left the room, leaving me to wonder what he had in mind.
I couldn't help but entertain the notion that my father might be planning a vacation for me. That idea seemed absurd because he was not the type to allow a vacation, especially when my grades were less than stellar. However, a few days later, what he revealed to me was surprising.
He motioned for me to sit across from him at the kitchen table. I sat down, and my mother joined us. I waited for him to begin.
“Son, I have a friend in Jordan, Dr. Thomas Johnson, overseeing a hospital in a Syrian refugee settlement. I believe this is a good opportunity for you to divert your focus from Staci.”
My mother nodded, but I could see the sadness on her face.
“Sounds interesting. How long would I be gone for—a month or two? I guess I’d be home in time to start class again in the fall.”
“No, son, you will be gone for one year.”
As I looked back and forth at my mom and dad, My mind and body froze. One year! How could I possibly survive for one year in a Syrian refugee camp surrounded by thousands of Sunni Muslims?
“What do you mean one year? That means I’m going to miss a whole year of school, which means my graduation from medical school will be postponed.”
My dad showed no emotion; he simply stared at me. “Yes, one year. The internship will also be valuable for your future.”
It was ironic and somewhat cruel. This was the same person who had opposed the idea of me joining Yale or Harvard so I could be close to home, and now he suddenly endorsed the idea of me living thousands of miles away for an entire year.
I couldn't help but wonder what had prompted this change of heart. If only he had allowed me to go anywhere other than NYU, perhaps none of this would have happened.
“Dad, can I refuse this? I mean, I’m twenty-four years old and capable of making my own decisions.”
“Yes, you are twenty-four, and yes, you can make your own decisions. However, if you decide not to accept this internship, you can pay for medical school and all your living expenses. So now you have a choice to make.”
“My mother butted in. “Joe, I know you don’t want to go to Jordan, but your dad has told me so much about Dr. Johnson. Your dad and he were very close years ago when they did their residency together in the Philippines. You will learn an incredible amount of surgery, as that’s what they do mostly there. Plus, you really need to get your mind off Staci. If you go to class with her next fall, that will never happen.”
My mom was right about the part about Staci. I still thought about her every night.
“OK, so, if I accept this internship, when will I start?”
“July first.”
“That gives me a month to have some fun at home and see a few friends.”
“Yes, we will help you get ready for your trip and spend some fun time together.”
I put my hands over my eyes. Shouldn’t I have gone somewhere close to home in the United States? I don’t know a word of Arabic. How will I communicate? I put my hands down on the table.
“OK, dad and mom. I’ll go to Jordan for a year like you want. I have no idea how this will work out, but what the hell.” Then, the three of us hugged and went our separate ways for the day.
I thought it was the right decision. Perhaps the distance could solve my problems.
A month later, I boarded a plane embarking on a grueling ten-hour flight to Amman and then to a Syrian refugee camp in Za'atari, Jordan, where I hoped to find a new beginning.
Chapter 2: Welcome to Jordan
I boarded the plane bound for Amman, Jordan, and was stuck between a woman sitting with her baby and a tall, heavy male. I turned to the man beside me and said, “So, where are you from? I’m Joe.”
The man replied in Arabic. I guess all conversations with him on this trip just ended.
After five or six hours stuck in the middle seat in economy, a sensation akin to poison coursed through my bones. My legs had gone numb; my back felt like it had borne the weight of an elephant. I desperately longed for some inhumane force to twist and crack my body, to break the relentless grip of my physical turmoil, not being able to move.
A more profound concern gnawed at me. I was supposed to be with Staci, teasing her while we studied our medical books. But here I was, stuck on a ten-hour flight to a Syrian refugee camp in Za’atari, Jordan.
I had time to reflect on the events that led to my breakup. How could this have happened? Everything had been going so well. I’d been so happy. Was God punishing me? I felt terrible and lost. God, I didn’t want to wake up anymore.
Staci, the girl of my dreams—the only one I’d loved—was the reason I was floating l in this misery. I hate you, Staci.
A whole bunch of random thoughts entered my brain. Was I scared to fly thousands of miles from home to a place ravaged by war and death? Or was my confusion stemming from the very reason I was leaving home? Had my heart truly been shattered to this extent? I couldn’t help but question my father’s decision. Yet, simultaneously, I felt a restlessness, as if something awaited me on the horizon, something that could offer solace—enough of Staci. I needed to wipe her from my mind and focus on my future.
Perhaps this journey to the refugee camp holds more than physical displacement. Maybe it’s a quest for solace, redemption, or a chance to redefine my purpose.
My mind swirled with questions as I pondered my one-year stay in Jordan. What would the people be like there? Were they just like us, or had the media painted an entirely wrong picture? How long would I last in this unfamiliar place? Perhaps my father had sent me here as a test to force me to confront my current reality. If that were the case, I must admit he was as astute as everyone believed.
But would a father truly go to such lengths? I’d long understood that my dad had his way of showing affection. Instead of hugs and expressions of love, he molded me into a responsible and successful person. It was a thoughtful gesture in his eyes, but a child was still a child. All I wanted was for my father to demonstrate empathy when I needed it. I wanted him to tell me that the world hadn’t ended when Staci broke my heart instead of sitting there and watching my Mom blame me for everything.
I understood my father might not have sent me to Jordan as a punishment or to make me long for home but rather to teach me about life and people and foster my growth as a medical practitioner. Or maybe he was trying to show me, after seeing life in Jordan, how much better I had it in New York. However, he never considered what I wanted.
I needed to prepare myself for whatever lay ahead. The place I was exiled to was administered by an individual my father knew and trusted. What of Dr. Johnson? He was someone my dad believed in enough to entrust with my guidance.
So why was I complaining? Ever since Staci bared her heart to me, all I’d been doing was whining and griping. As we were nearing Amman, I texted Dr. Johnson, informing him that I would land at the airport in an hour. His response indicated that he knew and would be there to pick me up personally.