It was all I had, all I've ever had, the only currency, the only proof that I was alive. Memory.

Being the first born gives you great patience.

There is a point when grief exceeds the human capacity to emote, and as a result one is strangely composed-

She died chasing greatness and never saw it each time it was in her hand, so she kept seeking it elsewhere, but never understood the work required to get it or to keep it.

We're losing a ritual. We're losing a ritual that I believe is transformative, transcendent, and is at the heart of the patient-physician relationship.

If 'ecstasy' meant the sudden intrusion of the sacred into the ordinary, then it had just happened to me.

We come unbidden into this life, and if we are lucky we find a purpose beyond starvation, misery, and early death which, lest we forget, is the common lot. I grew up and I found my purpose and it was to become a physician. My intent wasn't to save the world as much as to heal myself. Few doctors will admit this, certainly not young ones, but subconsciously, in entering the profession, we must believe that ministering to others will heal our woundedness. And it can. but it can also deepen the wound.