{"product_id":"the-white-coat-diaries-isbn-9780593098196","title":"The White Coat Diaries","description":"\u003cb\u003e\u003ci\u003eGrey’s Anatomy\u003c\/i\u003e meets \u003ci\u003eScrubs\u003c\/i\u003e in this brilliant debut novel about a young doctor’s struggle to survive residency, love, and life. \u003cbr\u003e \u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Having spent the last twenty-something years with her nose in a textbook, brilliant and driven Norah Kapadia has just landed the medical residency of her dreams. But after a disastrous first day, she's ready to quit. Disgruntled patients, sleep deprivation, and her duty to be the \"perfect Indian daughter\" have her questioning her future as a doctor.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Enter chief resident Ethan Cantor. He's everything Norah aspires to be: respected by the attending physicians, calm during emergencies, and charismatic with his patients. And as he morphs from Norah’s mentor to something more, it seems her luck is finally changing.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e But when a fatal medical mistake is made, pulling Norah into a cover-up, she must decide how far she’s willing to go to protect the secret. What if “doing no harm” means putting herself at risk?\u003cb\u003eOne of PopSugar's and Marie Claire's Best New 2020 Books\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Readers looking for thrilling medical-drama goodness should turn to Madi Sinha's The White Coat Diaries.\" —\u003cb\u003ePopSugar\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\"Move over Meredith and McDreamy, there's a hot new medical couple in town.\"—\u003cb\u003eE! Online\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003e“Norah Kapadia is among the most lovable and compelling characters in all of medical fiction.”—\u003cb\u003eKimmery Martin, author of \u003ci\u003eThe Antidote for Everything\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“This authentic, no-holds-barred novel based on a savage intern year, is gripping. Her navigating love—in the hospital and in her traditional Indian family—is touching, funny, and fraught. Welcome, author Madi Sinha, to the club of doctor\/writers.”—\u003cb\u003eSamuel Shem, author of \u003ci\u003eThe House of God, The Spirit of the Place, \u003c\/i\u003eand \u003ci\u003eMan’s 4th Best Hospital \u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"An engrossing story featuring an endearing protagonist. Madi Sinha offers a compelling glimpse into the world of medicine and desi culture through Norah Kapadia, a witty, fierce, memorable character. As Norah navigates her personal and professional struggles, she may falter, but she's never defeated. Readers will delight in her self-discovery and development—both as a doctor and an individual.\"—\u003cb\u003eMargarita Montimore, author of \u003ci\u003eOona Out of Order\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003ci\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\"Sinha tells a compelling story of self discovery and blends it beautifully with the chaotic world of medicine and the wrenching nature of love.\"\u003cb\u003e—Sarah Smith, author of \u003c\/b\u003e\u003ci\u003e\u003cb\u003e\u003ci\u003eFaker\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\"Charming, authentic, and deeply moving, \u003ci\u003eThe White Coat Diaries \u003c\/i\u003eexplores one young doctor's quest for meaning amid the competing demands of career ambition, family obligation, and romantic entanglement.\"\u003cb\u003e—Kristin Rockaway, author of\u003ci\u003e She's Faking It\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003ci\u003e\u003cb\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Madi Sinha's witty, heartfelt novel navigates the worlds of medicine and South Asian culture. Readers everywhere will root for Norah Kapadia's compelling journey of self-discovery. Told with equal parts wit and warmth, this story beautifully explores ambition, romance, and identity.”—\u003cb\u003eSaumya Dave, author of \u003ci\u003eWell-Behaved Indian Women\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"A smart, zippy gem of a read with a lot of heart and humour, and an endearing heroine.\"—\u003cb\u003eLauren Ho, author of \u003ci\u003eLast Tang Standing\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\"An absorbing novel that follows the maturation of a strong, determined woman who—despite missteps—becomes who she wants to be.\"\u003cb\u003e\u003ci\u003e—Kirkus\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003eMadi Sinha is a physician, and THE WHITE COAT DIARIES is her debut novel. She lives in New Jersey with her family.  You can find her at madisinha.com.Chapter One\u003cbr\u003e     \u003cbr\u003e     I just want to help people, I just want to help people, I just want to \u003cbr\u003e     help people. . . .\u003cbr\u003e     \u003cbr\u003e     I crouch on the floor in an Emergency Department supply closet, wedged \u003cbr\u003e     in between boxes of adult diapers and pregnancy tests. The door swings \u003cbr\u003e     open, and a nurse pokes her head in.\u003cbr\u003e     \u003cbr\u003e     “Are there any linens left in here?” she asks.\u003cbr\u003e     \u003cbr\u003e     “I’m not sure.” I stare into my lap, letting my hair fall across my face \u003cbr\u003e     like a curtain. Hopefully she doesn’t notice my puffy eyes.\u003cbr\u003e     \u003cbr\u003e     “Are you the intern that just stuck herself?”\u003cbr\u003e     \u003cbr\u003e     “Yes.” I discreetly wipe my nose with the back of my hand. I try to \u003cbr\u003e     sound less panicked than I feel. “Yup, that was me. I just took the \u003cbr\u003e     needle out of the patient and accidentally stuck myself in the hand with \u003cbr\u003e     it. Like an idiot.” I attempt to laugh ironically, but it comes out \u003cbr\u003e     sounding more like a desperate whimper.\u003cbr\u003e     \u003cbr\u003e     “Well, when you’re done doing whatever it is you’re doing, you need to \u003cbr\u003e     report to Employee Health. They’ll test you and give you medication.” \u003cbr\u003e     She peers down at me through her tiny bifocals. Her voice sympathetic, \u003cbr\u003e     she asks, “Have you ever had a needle stick before?”\u003cbr\u003e     \u003cbr\u003e     My chest is so tight I can barely get the word out. “No.”\u003cbr\u003e     \u003cbr\u003e     “Well, I’ve had four in my career, and it’s not that big a deal.”\u003cbr\u003e     \u003cbr\u003e     “Really?” I’m buoyed by a surge of hope. “Did you—­”\u003cbr\u003e     \u003cbr\u003e     “Make sure to get yourself together before coming back out here. It’s \u003cbr\u003e     unprofessional to cry in front of the patients.” She closes the door \u003cbr\u003e     abruptly.\u003cbr\u003e     \u003cbr\u003e     The motion-­sensor light goes off, and I am left in near–­pitch darkness.\u003cbr\u003e     \u003cbr\u003e     I just want to help peo—­ Oh fuck everyone!\u003cbr\u003e     \u003cbr\u003e     I spend probably fifteen minutes sitting in the dark supply closet, too \u003cbr\u003e     exhausted and depleted to move. I’ve been awake for over twenty-­four \u003cbr\u003e     hours. During that time, I’ve peed twice, eaten once, and asked myself, \u003cbr\u003e     How did it come to this? eighteen times. I thought I’d be good at this. \u003cbr\u003e     Why am I not good at this? I reach into the pocket of my white coat for \u003cbr\u003e     my inhaler, and the lights flick back on. From the corner of my eye, I \u003cbr\u003e     see something tiny and brown scurry across the floor and dive behind a \u003cbr\u003e     box of gauze pads. I spring to my feet, and my head strikes the shelf \u003cbr\u003e     above me. Pain sears through the back of my skull. I yelp, and as my \u003cbr\u003e     hand flies up to my scalp to check for bleeding, I knock over a box, \u003cbr\u003e     causing a million little Band-­Aids to come fluttering down all around \u003cbr\u003e     me like ticker tape, as if to say, Congratulations! You’re a \u003cbr\u003e     twenty-­six-­year-­old loser hiding in a closet.\u003cbr\u003e     \u003cbr\u003e     It wasn’t supposed to be like this. I graduated at the top of my \u003cbr\u003e     class—­Alpha Omega Alpha honor society, in fact—­from medical school. I \u003cbr\u003e     beat out hundreds of other applicants for a coveted internal medicine \u003cbr\u003e     residency spot at Philadelphia General Hospital. The Philadelphia \u003cbr\u003e     General, my first choice. I could have easily gone to the Cleveland \u003cbr\u003e     Clinic or Mass General or Mayo, but I chose to go where I knew the \u003cbr\u003e     training was rigorous and unmatched because I was certain, beyond a \u003cbr\u003e     doubt, that I could handle it, probably with one arm tied behind my back.\u003cbr\u003e     \u003cbr\u003e     I can recite the name of every bone, muscle, and nerve in the adult \u003cbr\u003e     human body the way other people can recite song lyrics (and, just for \u003cbr\u003e     reference, there are 206 bones in the human body). I can diagram, from \u003cbr\u003e     memory, the biochemical pathway by which the liver converts squalene \u003cbr\u003e     into cholesterol. I can list the top twenty medications for hypertension \u003cbr\u003e     and the side effects of each, without using a mnemonic device. I’ve \u003cbr\u003e     studied. My God, have I studied. I’ve studied to the point of \u003cbr\u003e     self-­imposed social isolation. To the point of obsession. I’ve prepared \u003cbr\u003e     for this for years, decades, my whole life. I wrote an essay in third \u003cbr\u003e     grade titled “Why Tendons Are Awesome!” that not only earned me an A, \u003cbr\u003e     but was prominently displayed for months on the classroom bulletin \u003cbr\u003e     board. I mean, I was meant for this.\u003cbr\u003e     \u003cbr\u003e     I’ve been an intern for twenty-­four hours, and that arm that’s tied \u003cbr\u003e     behind my back? I’m ready to rip it off this instant.\u003cbr\u003e     \u003cbr\u003e     Sighing, I crouch down, pick up all the Band-­Aids, and cram them back \u003cbr\u003e     into their box. Then I emerge from the closet sheepishly, expecting to \u003cbr\u003e     find at least one of the several ED nurses waiting for me, ready to \u003cbr\u003e     comfort me in that stern-­but-­understanding, maternal way of theirs. \u003cbr\u003e     The only person at the nurses’ station is a disinterested janitor on his \u003cbr\u003e     cell phone.\u003cbr\u003e     \u003cbr\u003e     A balding man wearing large, square wire-­rimmed glasses and an angry \u003cbr\u003e     expression barks at me from the hallway. “Excuse me! Miss, do you work \u003cbr\u003e     here?”\u003cbr\u003e     \u003cbr\u003e     I nod, and he approaches. “My wife is still waiting for a bed.” He \u003cbr\u003e     indicates a woman in a hospital gown lying on a stretcher that’s been \u003cbr\u003e     pushed to one side of the bustling ED hallway. “When is she going to be \u003cbr\u003e     moved to her room?”\u003cbr\u003e     \u003cbr\u003e     “I’m not sure . . . ,” I say, uncertain if I can help him but \u003cbr\u003e     desperately wanting to do something, anything, right. “Has she been \u003cbr\u003e     admitted?”\u003cbr\u003e     \u003cbr\u003e     “Obviously, yes. She’s being admitted for observation for pneumonia. Her \u003cbr\u003e     name is Tally. Lenore Tally. Do you have any information on her?”\u003cbr\u003e     \u003cbr\u003e     The name means nothing to me. “I’m sorry, she’s not one of my patients, \u003cbr\u003e     but I can try to find her nurse for you,” I offer. The few nurses in \u003cbr\u003e     sight look busy, drawing blood and taking vital signs. “It might take a \u003cbr\u003e     few minutes, but—­”\u003cbr\u003e     \u003cbr\u003e     The man throws up his hands in frustration. “None of you people have any \u003cbr\u003e     answers! Oh, for God’s sake, I’ll find her nurse myself!” He storms off, \u003cbr\u003e     and I can hear his voice echoing down the hall: “Excuse me? Do you work \u003cbr\u003e     here?”\u003cbr\u003e     \u003cbr\u003e     My shoulders sag. So much for doing something right. At this point, it’s \u003cbr\u003e     clear: the gaping black hole of despair that has consumed my being can \u003cbr\u003e     be filled by only one thing. I need baked goods, and I need them stat. I \u003cbr\u003e     hurry to the vending machine in the ED waiting room, eat two and a half \u003cbr\u003e     bags of mini chocolate chip cookies while waiting for the elevator, and \u003cbr\u003e     find, to my great disappointment, that my mood is only marginally \u003cbr\u003e     brightened.\u003cbr\u003e     \u003cbr\u003e     It had never occurred to me—­until the moment I drew the needle out of \u003cbr\u003e     my patient’s vein, popped off the test tube full of his blood, crossed \u003cbr\u003e     my hands to reach for the gauze pad, and jabbed the end of the needle \u003cbr\u003e     into the back of my hand—­that I might be putting myself at risk by \u003cbr\u003e     spending my days and nights tending to sick people. Well, then again, \u003cbr\u003e     that’s not true. It had occurred to me, but before it became an actual \u003cbr\u003e     possibility, the idea of contracting a potentially lethal disease from a \u003cbr\u003e     patient had a noble, romantic, Victorian sort of feel to it: the \u003cbr\u003e     selfless, waistcoated doctor carrying a leather satchel and a jar full \u003cbr\u003e     of leeches, sacrificing herself at the bedside of her patient—­that sort \u003cbr\u003e     of thing.\u003cbr\u003e     \u003cbr\u003e     I know the chances of actually getting sick are extremely slim, \u003cbr\u003e     especially if I take prophylactic antiviral medication, but I worry \u003cbr\u003e     nonetheless. I worry with a fervor that I both recognize as irrational \u003cbr\u003e     and embrace as inevitable. Worry out of proportion with reality is kind \u003cbr\u003e     of my thing.\u003cbr\u003e     \u003cbr\u003e     “Is this your first needle stick?” The nurse at the tiny Employee Health \u003cbr\u003e     office next to the hospital pharmacy—­her name tag identifies her as \u003cbr\u003e     “Rhonda”—­looks irked and preoccupied. When I walked in a moment ago, \u003cbr\u003e     she was engaged in a heated phone conversation with someone named Hank \u003cbr\u003e     about getting his lazy ass off the couch and maybe, for once in his \u003cbr\u003e     worthless life, cleaning up the cat’s vomit. It was quite a few minutes \u003cbr\u003e     of this sort of thing before she turned around and realized I was \u003cbr\u003e     sitting right in front of her desk, awkwardly trying to decide whether \u003cbr\u003e     to wait for her to notice me or just interrupt her. When she hung up the \u003cbr\u003e     phone, it was with one eye fixed suspiciously on me. “Can I help you?”\u003cbr\u003e     \u003cbr\u003e     I told her what had happened and, in doing so, triggered another bout of \u003cbr\u003e     panicky tears. Rhonda kindly, if impatiently, handed me a box of \u003cbr\u003e     Kleenex. Then she proceeded to fish out from a filing cabinet no less \u003cbr\u003e     than eight different questionnaires, each of which she now seems \u003cbr\u003e     determined to methodically complete in its entirety.\u003cbr\u003e     \u003cbr\u003e     “No. This is my first needle stick,” I answer, twisting the damp Kleenex \u003cbr\u003e     around my fingers.\u003cbr\u003e     \u003cbr\u003e     “Do you have any risk factors for HIV or hepatitis C?” Rhonda asks.\u003cbr\u003e     \u003cbr\u003e     “No.”\u003cbr\u003e     \u003cbr\u003e     “Have you ever been tested for either?”\u003cbr\u003e     \u003cbr\u003e     “No.”\u003cbr\u003e     \u003cbr\u003e     “Are you currently sexually active?”\u003cbr\u003e     \u003cbr\u003e     “Nope.”\u003cbr\u003e     \u003cbr\u003e     “When was the last time you were sexually active without barrier \u003cbr\u003e     protection?”\u003cbr\u003e     \u003cbr\u003e     “Um . . . never.”\u003cbr\u003e     \u003cbr\u003e     “As in you’ve never had unprotected intercourse?”\u003cbr\u003e     \u003cbr\u003e     “As in . . . I’ve never had intercourse.”\u003cbr\u003e     \u003cbr\u003e     Rhonda pauses, her pen hovering above the paper.\u003cbr\u003e     \u003cbr\u003e     “It’s cultural,” I add quickly. “I’m Indian. Premarital sex is frowned \u003cbr\u003e     upon. Like, a lot. You’ve seen Bend It Like Beckham, right?”\u003cbr\u003e     \u003cbr\u003e     “That’s . . . fine,” Rhonda says, scratching one raised eyebrow.\u003cbr\u003e     \u003cbr\u003e     I sigh inwardly. Whatever, Rhonda.\u003cbr\u003e     \u003cbr\u003e     She asks me for my medical history (None, except a mild case of asthma), \u003cbr\u003e     list of allergies (None, except cats), and social history (Do I smoke? \u003cbr\u003e     No. Drink? No. Do I use illicit drugs? Obviously not.). Then she asks me \u003cbr\u003e     to put my arm on her desk, ties a tourniquet around my biceps, and draws \u003cbr\u003e     four vials of blood.\u003cbr\u003e     \u003cbr\u003e     As she tapes a wad of gauze over my skin, she says, “You’ll need to come \u003cbr\u003e     in for another blood test in six weeks and again in three months.” She \u003cbr\u003e     hands me a slip of paper. “And this is for the antiviral tablets. Pick \u003cbr\u003e     them up at the pharmacy next door. You’ll take them three times a day \u003cbr\u003e     for the next six weeks.”\u003cbr\u003e     \u003cbr\u003e     I look at the prescription. “Lamivudine? A nucleoside reverse \u003cbr\u003e     transcriptase inhibitor?” I say, aghast.\u003cbr\u003e     \u003cbr\u003e     Rhonda stares at me. “That’s the protocol.”\u003cbr\u003e     \u003cbr\u003e     “But the potential side effects of this are nausea, diarrhea, abdominal \u003cbr\u003e     pain, headaches, pancreatitis, and liver failure.”\u003cbr\u003e     \u003cbr\u003e     She regards me skeptically. “If you say so.”\u003cbr\u003e     \u003cbr\u003e     “Isn’t there anything else I could take instead?” I plead. “I’m an \u003cbr\u003e     intern. I can’t afford to have headaches and go into liver failure. I \u003cbr\u003e     have patients to round on. I have a lot to do.”\u003cbr\u003e     \u003cbr\u003e     “That’s the protocol.” She enunciates each word in a way that indicates \u003cbr\u003e     that she has fulfilled the duties laid out in her job description and, \u003cbr\u003e     therefore, our interaction must come to an immediate close.\u003cbr\u003e     \u003cbr\u003e     I turn toward the door. “You don’t think didanosine or even efavirenz \u003cbr\u003e     would be a better—­”\u003cbr\u003e     \u003cbr\u003e     Rhonda puts her phone to her ear. “Have a nice day, Doctor!”\u003cbr\u003e     \u003cbr\u003e     I’m sitting at one of a cluster of long tables near a picture window. A \u003cbr\u003e     curt little sign in a metal stand nearby reads: Reserved for PGH Doctors \u003cbr\u003e     and Staff. It’s early, a half-­moon still visible in the dawn sky, and \u003cbr\u003e     the only other patron in the cafeteria dining room is an elderly man \u003cbr\u003e     connected to an oxygen tank that he carries in a cloth duffel bag. He \u003cbr\u003e     shuffles in my direction, notices the sign, then shuffles away. A \u003cbr\u003e     plastic tray appears across the table from me, and a slender young man \u003cbr\u003e     with round glasses says, “Hi. Stuart Ness, Harvard Med.” He begins to \u003cbr\u003e     vigorously dissect a grapefruit.\u003cbr\u003e     \u003cbr\u003e     “Yes, I remember. We met at orientation.” Where you introduced yourself \u003cbr\u003e     as Stuart Ness from Harvard Med. Twice.\u003cbr\u003e     \u003cbr\u003e     “Being on call is great!” he enthuses without prompting. “I admitted \u003cbr\u003e     eleven patients, started fourteen IV lines, and still had time to watch \u003cbr\u003e     a movie. I’m not even tired. I think I’ll go for a run when our shift is \u003cbr\u003e     over.”\u003cbr\u003e     \u003cbr\u003e     I wonder if it’s possible that I’m so fatigued I’m hallucinating this \u003cbr\u003e     entire interaction with this gratingly peppy Harry Potter look-­alike. \u003cbr\u003e     “That’s dynamite,” I say.\u003cbr\u003e     \u003cbr\u003e     “I’m so psyched to finally be here. I can’t wait to meet Dr. Portnoy. \u003cbr\u003e     The man, the legend, am I right?”\u003cbr\u003e     \u003cbr\u003e     “Yup.”\u003cbr\u003e     \u003cbr\u003e     “And the Dr. V. Did you hear that we get to work with him? Like, \u003cbr\u003e     actually round with him and everything?” His eyes gleam. “So awesome!”\u003cbr\u003e     \u003cbr\u003e     “It’s pretty awesome.” I manage a thin smile.\u003cbr\u003e     \u003cbr\u003e     “What was your name again?”\u003cbr\u003e     \u003cbr\u003e     “Norah Kapadia.”\u003cbr\u003e     \u003cbr\u003e     “Hey, any relation to Dr. Kapadia, the head of Pediatrics at UPenn? The \u003cbr\u003e     one that came up with the Kapadia criteria for Kawasaki disease? I mean, \u003cbr\u003e     I don’t know how common a last name of Kapadia is, but—­”\u003cbr\u003e     \u003cbr\u003e     I blow a puff of air through my pursed lips. I’ve lost track of how many \u003cbr\u003e     times I’ve answered this question over the years, but it always comes \u003cbr\u003e     from someone eager to show off that they’re well-­versed in rare \u003cbr\u003e     pediatric disorders. “That’s my father.”","brand":"Berkley","offers":[{"title":"Default Title","offer_id":46303434539237,"sku":"NP9780593098196","price":16.0,"currency_code":"USD","in_stock":false}],"thumbnail_url":"\/\/cdn.shopify.com\/s\/files\/1\/1842\/7735\/files\/9780593098196.jpg?v=1767742196","url":"https:\/\/k12savings.com\/products\/the-white-coat-diaries-isbn-9780593098196","provider":"K12savings","version":"1.0","type":"link"}