On birthdays and holidays, many girls get chocolates or flowers from their fathers, but my dad is a little different.
One day I receive a package of Godiva gallstones. Wow! I imagine glistening gallbladder sacs sliced open, oozing with coconut cream, cherry chunks, or nutty nougat, and then I lift the cover off the gorgeous gold box to discover seventeen clear containers with tight-fitting lids.
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I often wonder: why am I a doctor?
The truth is, I want to live in the real world, a world without pretense, a world where people can’t hide behind money or status.
Illness uncovers our authenticity. Doctoring satiates my need to be witnessed and to witness the raw,
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People stare. They gather around. “You can touch it, but guess what it’s made out of,” I say.
One woman whispers, “It’s not part of an egg carton, is it?” Then a man behind her shouts, “It’s a condom, blown out and rolled up, ya know,” just as another lady interrupts,
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Want a starched, white coat or a faded pair of Levis?
Want a serious face or a warm, welcoming smile?
Want a quick visit or a long discussion?
Guess what? You CAN have exactly what you want from your doctor IF you tell your doctor what you want!
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I live in a sweet little town in Oregon–with snow-capped mountains, farmers’ markets, and the friendliest people around.
But a few weeks ago, one of our beloved pediatricians shot himself in the head in a public park. Earlier this year, one of our surgeons was found dead in his car from carbon monoxide poisoning.
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Doctor revived after suicide. Here's what he says.
