Champion

I've never been one to have a hero.  Growing up I, like most kids, looked up to certain people.  Whether these people were real or from my favorite animated television show varied greatly.  As I grew older, and started taking a closer look at the human race, those individuals became more and more of the animated persuasion.
In my adult life, the concept of a hero has grown into to something that only children can truly appreciate.  There are some amazing humans out there, don't get me wrong, but none that I would consider idolizing on the hero stage.  We're all just human, right?  Those of us that do "good" are really just doing what we're supposed to be doing.
On January 19, 2013, I changed my mind. Before my very eyes I saw a single human being endure what I perceived as impossible.  There was pain and exhaustion beyond anything that I've ever experienced.  There was also strength and determination that I could never emulate. Before me was the will of a human juggernaut.  I held this person in my own arms, so even if my vision was telling lies, my sense of touch made it tangible.  I was there when I thought that I'd seen all this person had to give, and I was there when this person showed me there was so much more.
After two days of labor, Lan gave birth to our son.  And after all of that, she held him with the strength fueled by a love that endures regardless of any burden placed on it.

My wife is my hero.

Smelling Roses

I'm a Pediatrician. That is to say, that is the career path I pursued and was lucky enough to obtain it. Like the majority of doctors around the world, I listen. I listen to stories, machines, babies, organs, etc.  I will admit that I get on cruise-control with some of the physical exams. It's not that I'm missing anything of diagnostic value, but a healthy portion of my exam is "non-focused."
Let me explain. When a person, in my case a child, comes to the hospital, they are usually complaining of one major issue. If that issue is a skin infection that's very localized and the history is not suggestive of anything out of the ordinary, then my listening for bowel sounds is important, but unlikely to yield any additional information that will change my decision making. So, I "focus" my exam on the involved area and then add "non-focused" elements as I see fit.
Every so often, in a situation like I just explained, I'll settle my stethoscope over the heart. I'll wait, and listen. It's a beautiful thing, to be honest. Never stopping to take a break; never questioning the demands placed on it; striving to perform, even in times of injury. If any single piece of our body deserves the perseverance award, my vote goes for the undulating muscle slaving away in our chest.
Sometimes, I listen to my wife's heart when she's sleeping. It's strength gives me pause. Soon, provided the unthinkable doesn't happen, our family will be one larger. I hope this new heart is as strong as Mother's. I can't wait to hear it.

Sears

Allow me to regale you in the story of my interaction with the company known as Sears. This is not a happy tale; if fact, it borders on inciting rage just thinking about the facts before I type them down.
We moved. Our brand new home was just completed and we were in desperate need for appliances. One of those acquired was a refrigerator. The only fancy features were a freezer on the bottom and one of those water/ice dispenser contraptions. It was very highly rated on the Sears website. I will, henceforth, take all high ratings from Sears with a 3 foot cubed block of salt.
Firstly, the device was delivered and professionally installed. We were told to leave the doors closed for the first 24 hours to allow for proper cooling. Twenty-four hours later, the 200 pound block of plastic was still the same temperature as it was when it first got plugged in. So, I called the Sears Support person who told me I would have to wait 5 days until a repairman would come to work on it. I was also given the option for an installation technician to come that same day, but as I would rather have a stranger enter my home who could actually fix the thing and not just tell me it needed fixing, I chose to wait. Five days of having to eat at restaurants and our old food going bad later, the repairman arrives.
The diagnosis: Broken Beyond Home Repair.
Naturally, the Sears Support Team was overwhelmingly ready to come to my assistance and tell me that they would have to call me back once they've found a solution.
The solution came in the form of a computer voiced phone-call telling me that Sears would deliver another fridge the next day (Friday), within a 4 hour window that couldn't have been more inconvenient. I pressed the number to reschedule and waited, listening to Sears Brand Muzak. The woman who answered read off her script, which I was now mouthing silently to myself, and then told me that it was my fault for scheduling the delivery for a time no one would be present. I then thanked her for accusing me of something I had no control of in the first place and made it clear that I'd had enough with the Sears Customer Service paradigm. She hung up.
Still with no fridge, I placed another call to the actual store where the first piece of rubbish came from and gave the entire story to the manager. I then discovered that he, like myself, was completely powerless to help anyone with this problem. You see, beyond the store, Sears exists in the ether; and entities in the ether don't care one drop of muskrat urine about yours and my feelings, lives, obligations, or pains.
Later that day, the computer call rings me again, and it tells me to ready myself for a Saturday AM delivery (this is Thursday, mind you). With a little shuffling, Saturday will work. Of course, on Friday morning, I get another computer calling to tell me there is a problem with the Saturday delivery and rapidly tells me the phone number that I have to call. Fortunately, I carry a pen and paper. I call the delivery people, who tell me Saturday is a no-go, and it's gonna have to be Sunday. I ask for the complaint department; oh, I'm sorry, Customer Solutions.
I tell the entire story to the first person, who puts me on hold so long that a second person picks up. The first person was probably in another state so the second person is unable to connect me and I have to repeat the entire story again to the second person. She tells me that I'm stuck with Sunday. I then proceed to explain the logical problem that my mind was wrestling with; how could the refrigerator that was scheduled to be at my home on Friday, all of the sudden be unavailable until Sunday? I was not shocked by her lack of insight into this metaphysical conundrum. As she's telling me my options, the code blue alarm goes off and I tell her to rush with the phone number to call back. In my haste, I copied the wrong number, but did discover a 1-800 line for Male/Female Mature Dating.
I call the first support number again, explained to the scripted, polite individual that he couldn't help me if his life depended on it, and requested the Costumer Solutions number again.
This time, I finally got the person we all wish we could have on the other end of the line. This woman knew who to call, did it quickly, and promptly came back to me with options. Unfortunately, they all ended the same with a Sunday delivery. She gave me a 75 dollar gift card and apologized deeply.
It's now Tuesday, I have a fridge that works and I haven't eaten out since Sunday. Life is back to normal. Just don't get me started on Time-Warner Cable.

                                  http://www.bbb.org/

Marlow is Old English for Driftwood

I'm currently rereading one of my favorite novels, Heart of Darkness by Joseph Conrad. My wonderful significant other couldn't be more disenchanted with this activity. Multiple times in our history, she has asked me the question, "Why do you read that all the time?" Granted, her phrasing is much more eloquent and her critique can be much more scathing, but it is a question I wish I could easily answer.
I'll make an attempt, but in order to do so, I feel I must mention one other habit my wife gets irritated by. More often than not, if I'm introduced to something new and interesting (to me, at least), I'll do my best to research as much as I can in what time I have available. This has only gotten worse by some unknown magnitude since I started carrying a smartphone in my pocket.
Heart of Darkness, when taken at face value, is not the best book in the world. It's plot is laborious at times; Marlow's narration is difficult to follow as his sentence structure defies nearly all conventions of grammar, and it's hardly filled with anything that could be considered suspenseful. I found it very boring my first read through, and that's coming from someone who loves Moby Dick.
But my moral issues professor in college, the one who assigned this book to me, later showed me why this book is important. Heart of Darkness, in my mind, is one of those perfect examples of how easily we can walk away with very little gained if the subtext is never addressed. So much is going on in this relatively short story, and it's written in a way that forces you to miss it. You have to take your time. You have to question and research. You have to be curious.
I recently watched the documentary "Forks Over Knives" and immediately freaked out. After a few days of decreasing, internal panic, I started looking more into it and found a very insightful review from someone who's job it is to promote healthier, albeit mostly vegetarian, eating. This individual wrote a wonderful explication of the film breaking it down minute-by-minute and questioning all the references provided. People like this help us to see the man behind the curtain and remind us that presentation can blind us all to easily.
That's what Heart of Darkness does for me. It encourages me look for the curtain and pull it back myself. Now I just need to research the author of the critique. Life is fun.

Joseph Conrad

Artist: Jack Coughlin

More on that

As I mentioned before, most of my colleagues could stand a healthy dose of humility. In pediatrics, there's a fair amount of that already, which makes the discipline more appealing.
The residents and medical students are a special cohort of fellow health professional. Still young in their training, you're able to see the individual personalities as they've yet to be influenced by the system. A great deal remain close-minded and, through sheer obstinacy, soar through the career being mostly ridiculed by others and, occasionally, having their talents revered by their patients. Ladies and gentlemen, I give you the Narcissist.
The answer to why I would choose this as my career certainly doesn't dwell with these individuals. I put on the show of collegiality in their presence as best I can. They're too self-absorbed to realize.
Luckily, there are residents and medical students which give it all meaning. Being an attending physician, you have a lot of interaction with both. A great deal of what they do is provide the majority of the physician workforce, but they also learning (most at least) at an exponential rate.
Let me try to convey what I feel with my most recent encounter. I was in the emergency room seeing a young baby that was sick with the popular lung cold of winter. The medical student told me about the child, and together, we arrived at a plan that alleviated most of the parents fears and the child went home. Around that time, I received a call saying a child that was already in the hospital with the same infection was having a worse time. On the way to the room, I talked with the medical student about how this illness has the tendency to take a quick turn for the worst in a small number of cases. I also explained that it's the fear of most attendings that residents don't appreciate the gravity of this disease, as most never see just how bad it can get.
As we arrived to the room, I saw a cadre of residents and nurses around. The situation was turning out to be one of the difficult ones. I can't say that I was happy with how things turned out, but that's only because a child's health is at the core of it all. I do feel contentment. The residents, medical student, and myself all worked together, bonded with the family, collaborated with the nursing and additional staff, and ended up doing what was best. I like to assume that most of us grew with that experience. I'm most sure that I was able to.
I do this job because moments like that give my decision validity. Not being a religious person, but a spiritual one, it's hard for me to connect with other people on those levels metaphysics because of the schism of beliefs between us. But it's these experiences that allow me to be a part of something bigger. Residents and medical students urge me to engage in ways I would have difficulty doing on my own; and I appreciate that. I'm comfortable needing their help; and, although unaware, they are constantly lending me a hand. I feel like I belong.

Not sure why I do this

Everyone who goes into medicine, at least to my knowledge, gets asked the question, "Why do you want to be a doctor?"
I thought that I knew the answer to that. Like others in my situation, my old answer was mired in a compulsion to help those in need.
I asked myself that question the other day, and I faltered. I sifted through the standby reasons, but those didn't hold any more water now than they did back then.
Most people want to help others. Most people want to treat those who are ill. Parents, friends, nurses, first-responders, and so on. Why be a doctor? Why put yourself through the process? Although I'm sure they exist, I'm unaware of any career path that forces you to migrate your whole family, at least twice, but sometimes more, just so you can be a part of system that's as demanding as it is disorganized. It also doesn't help that the majority of my colleagues have come from very privileged backgrounds, where the real world is a distant planet. I could go on.
So, why do this to myself? It wasn't until the last few years that I began to understand.
I work with residents and medical students. I think, through them, I may have settled on an answer that makes sense to me. I'll try to put it into words on my next post.

First Post (Working Title)

My name is George.  My baby deserves too many kisses.