In the movie “The Sixth Sense,” there was that kid who saw dead people. I’m like that. But I see patients and their parents instead. They’re all around me.
They’re watching at the grocery store when my kids act up. We meet during anniversary dinners, at Christmas Eve service, and on the treadmill at the Y. I bump into parents when buying personal effects and even during the early morning coffee run in my oldest sweats. I see patients.
The follow-up dialog between the parents might go something like this:
Dad: “Marge, don’t you think Billy’s colitis might be better managed by a doctor capable of pulling himself together?”
Mom: “Don’t be ridiculous, Frank. DrV’s bedhead has nothing to do with his ability to care for Billy. And besides, I’ve heard that he can intubate the terminal ileum in under 10 minutes.”
It’s not that I necessarily mind being seen in the wild. I’m pretty comfortable in my own skin, even when it’s glistening after a workout. I’m bothered more by the fact that patients may be repulsed by my occasional bedraggled appearance. If I knew they were good with it, I might be less caught up with the whole matter. Read more »
*This blog post was originally published at 33 Charts*