OK, yes I admit it. I do aspire to greatness. Tell the truth, I really have my eye on the Surgeon General’s chair. I’d love to be Surgeon General, to be on the President’s cabinet, to be so close to politics without having to sell my soul for a vote.

I dream of doing great things and being something, someone great. I want my kids to look up to me; I want them to say, “You know what my mom does? My mom’s an important woman.”

I dream of the long white coat, of consultations, people seeking out my opinion – MY opinion – and working off what I think of the case. I want to be an expert in my field, and sought after for different things. I want to speak at commencements and at dinners. I just want to be important.

Because really… Dr. Hillman. That could be a great name, don’t you think? All my kids will be proud to be a Hillman, proud to say that I’m their mother. My husband will beam with pride. People will get excited when they hear I’m coming. Even the President will ask for me and ask my opinion, commission me to start programs for different things, to oversee different things. Could you imagine the President of the United States having the utmost confidence in you? Could you imagine him seeking you out for help? The leader of the free world?

And then I wake up, and I’m standing at the kitchen sink. My hands are covered in soap and I’ve just dropped another wine glass. Instead of being sought out for my opinion, I’m sent to find a dustpan and brush to clean up my mess. I realize I still have three chapters to read for class the next day because, oh darn, I’m still a medical student. I haven’t even had a day of medical practice, so what right do I have to dream? I don’t know a damn thing.

My husband loves me and my children are a faint dream for another day. We’re thinking three children, who may or may not grow up loving their mother. Their mother, who dreams of something greater than motherhood. She dreams of making a greater impact on the world than passing out into the world three kids who may better it or graffiti it.

I’m sure my husband dreams as well. Ten hours a day, standing aside an assembly, inspecting televisions we’ll never be able to afford for folks who have no idea what kind of struggle the workers are living through… I’m sure he dreams in those ten hours on his feet. What does he dream of? I think he dreams just of getting a better job, of getting us out of this rut. I’m dreaming of glory and praise and attaining the highest medical office in the country, and he’s dreaming of getting us into a better financial position.

I’m still standing at the sink, and I’ve dropped another glass. Is it wrong to dream? Are the broken shards trying to tell me something?

What do you think, Doc?

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