Sometimes I like to look at the people on the other side of the glass.

I watch them as they live their lives.

Trusting in the world around them, trusting that the sun will rise.

I used to trust too. But trust can take you places.

Places you never wanted to go. 1/ It’s 2004. I’m an intern, fresh out of med school.

So far the experience of being an actual honest-to-goodness bonafide doctor has been a mixed bag.

Some days are encouraging. But I’m struggling with imposter syndrome.

I didn’t know the M.D. stood for “Mostly Depressed.” 2/

I glance down at the paperwork my patient has filled out before his visit.

Occupation: Retired harbour master.

Two things: I’ve never met a harbor master before. And “harbour” with a “u.”

Interesting.

It’s the little everyday mysteries that I love most. That reveal us. 1/ He’s almost 100 years old, and yet he springs up from his seat when I enter the room. He shakes my hand so firmly I can feel the sting in my knuckles.

His smile is ear to ear, and his eyes are bright.

“Doctor, how are ya? Good to see you!”

I can’t help but smile, “Hello!” 2/

To all those students who’ve had a question, but worried that it’s too obvious, or unnecessary, or worst of all, stupid…

Ask.

As someone who answers questions for a living, let me tell you something about questions.

They’re more than just questions. 1/ Every question asked is a spark. A sign. That wheels are turning. That thoughts are following a thread.

Even if it’s the wrong thread, you won’t know until you ask.

Questions give us pause.

Questions give us chances.

Chances to review. To reframe. To re-evaluate. 2/

I went into medicine to help people.

No, really, I did. I know it sounds corny now, or fake, I suppose. But there was a reason for this.

At least once.

I have to keep telling myself that. Keep remembering that.

Because I’m running out of time.

And I want you to know. 1/ Anyways, backtrack. I’m a radiologist. I spent years training to be able to look at imaging and see a vast variety of problems.

I’m not one to boast, but I’m pretty good at what I do.

You might even say I’m gifted.

But some gifts… well, they come back to bite you. 2/

On the morning of his 95th birthday, Joe woke up at exactly 6AM.

This small irony never failed to irritate him: he had never been a morning person, but the more the years passed, the earlier he woke.

“Well, this is it!” He said, to no one, as he swung his legs out of bed. 1/ He brushed his teeth methodically, a small timer telling him when it had been exactly three minutes.

Rinsing out his mouth, he couldn’t help but smile as he thought of the day ahead.

The last day.

Joe had made up his mind years ago that his 95th birthday would be his last. 2/

I have only ever known you within the confines of this exam room in my office.

Years ago, you were sent to me for a consultation.

Understandably nervous, you had all your questions written out on a notepad in your spidery handwriting.

You believe in being organized. 1/ As we go through each question, one by one, you cross it off your list.

I have questions for you too. For one, I want to know where you got your glasses. I need new frames.

It makes you smile for the first time in the visit.

As if perhaps things might be okay.

Maybe. 2/

Michael Crichton’s novel “Jurassic Park” had a series of fractal iterations forming a “dragon curve.”

With each iteration was a description of how hard it was to see the final image with only the initial pattern being repeated.

It’s also a description of how systems can fail…

His room is painfully small.

It makes me wonder. How many times can you fold a person’s life over onto itself, to cram it into a place like this?

He’s lived a long life, a full life, and now he’s here. Filed away and forgotten.

He blinks as I enter.

He can’t see me. 1/ He has a degenerative eye disease. Bernie couldn’t help him, and neither could I.

“It’s okay, I prefer the darkness to whatever there is left to see.”

That was years ago.

“Welcome, Hand-Holder,” his voice is whispery, weak, “it’s been too long.”

“Hello Max,” I smile. 2/

For many, it's the water.

Having enough water to use gallons in a toilet. To leave a tap running while brushing your teeth. Swimming pools.

For me, it's not the water. It’s the colors.

The world before seems so much more colorful. I haven't seen a blue sky in decades. 1/ The sky nowadays is usually a muted gray.

Or sometimes, rarely, a sickly greenish black. Something to do with the attempt at "atmospheric processing" that ended up poisoning our air instead of cleansing it.

I wish I could see a blue sky again. Or feel green grass.
2/

#Lightscape at @sabotgarden is absolutely beautiful. A light show for the ages in a lovely garden setting.

Photographs and video don’t do it justice, but here goes anyways… twitter.com/i/web/status/1… Blue bonnets!

It started with a crack in the wall.

It was subtle, so subtle I almost didn’t notice it. But once I saw it, I couldn’t unsee it.

I had moved into this housing complex several years ago. I had made friends here. I had made a life here.

But we have a new landlord now. 1/ When I first moved in here, I didn’t know anyone. I didn’t have any friends. But this building has these remarkable open-air spaces where you can listen in on conversations, and even chime in.

Sure, some people here aren’t the best, but I made all sorts of friends. 2/

There’s a cyclical nature to life.

Rhythms and orbits that bring us back, again and again.

I read the tweets about ERAS applications being submitted for the residency match.

I read the tweets about organic chemistry being required for med school.

And I remember. 1/ For most of my life on the path to medicine, it was a constant struggle.

Like climbing a mountain, trying to reach a faraway summit wreathed in faraway clouds.

Every single step up the mountainside brought with it fresh obstacles.

Organic chemistry was one of them. 2/

The room is empty.

But earlier it wasn’t.

Earlier a battle took place here.

A battle without winners or losers.

Just doorways, and those who walk through them. 1/ There is an empty bed.

If you look closely, you can see where the sheets were bunched up while compressions were given.

You can see little drops of blood dried rusty red.

And in the folds, always lost in the folds, the remote control for the TV nobody turned off. 2/

Trying to explain “Now That’s What I Call Music!” to my nephew, and I’m realizing it’s a more involved undertaking than I planned.

First I gotta explain physical media, then the idea of music charts.

He listens, eyes wide.

It is, weirdly, the coolest thing he’s ever heard. 1/ “That’s the coolest thing I’ve ever heard!”

I scratch my chin, “Uh, I guess. It w-“

“Why don’t they do that for OTHER stuff? Like put all the best movies on a thing. Now That’s What I Call Movies!”

“Ok-“

“And all the best toys! Now That’s What I Call Toys!”

“Hold up-“ 2/

25 years ago today, @MarySchmich wrote an article in the Chicago Tribune.

It was titled “Advice, like youth, probably just wasted on the young.”

It was a beautiful column, filled with real and valuable advice.

I’ll share most of it below (and link the article).

Here goes… 1/ “Wear sunscreen.

If I could offer you only one tip for the future, sunscreen would be it.

The long-term benefits of sunscreen have been proved by scientists, whereas the rest of my advice has no basis more reliable than my own meandering experience…” 2/

I think Elon Musk needs Twitter because of what it provides him in his quest for AI.

Each tweet is essentially a thought. There are half a billion per day, plus searches, likes, retweets, quotes.

Twitter isn’t giving him money, or a platform.

It’s a roadmap to the mind. 1/ This is partly why it’s so important for him to wage a war against bots. It isn’t just misinformation or bad actors.

The bots are messing up the data because their behavior is artificial by definition, inhuman. 2/

The time will come when you will do everything “right” and still have things fall apart on you when you least expect them to.

It is, perhaps, the most difficult lesson medicine has to teach its practitioners.

That in the end, there’s so much we don’t control, or understand. 1/ It hits you in different ways.

Sometimes it happens quickly, leaving you stunned.

They call them “crashing” patients for a reason. The smashing of one destiny into its end, with a sick whiplash you feel in your very soul.

And sometimes it’s slow.

A creeping realization. 2/

There is a small window of opportunity that occasionally opens when least expected.

A moment where clarity strikes, piercing as an arrow.

It comes as I leave a patient’s room.

Not always, but sometimes.

When they think I can’t hear them.

A parting shot. 1/ The days in the hospital stretch interminably, as they always seem to do these days.

Different things keep me going on different days.

Sometimes it’s the teamwork.

Sometimes it’s the mindset, one foot in front of the other, just keep swimming, whatever you want to call it. 2/

There’s a ghost on the corner of 3rd and Broadway

I noticed him the other day, as I made a left turn at the light.

He wasn’t there a week ago.

He must be new.

Nobody I recognize, but then again, his face is blurry and indistinct.

I look at him now, and I drive past. 1/ Arriving at the hospital, I park my car.

More ghosts here, even in the parking lot.

Some of them stand beside empty cars and look into them wistfully, as if wishing for keys to unlock their escape.

I recognize some of these ghosts.

I look at them now, and I walk past. 2/

There once was an oath that all doctors had to take. Something about doing the right thing, and trying not to hurt anyone.

That was long ago, in the 21st century, before the machines. My great-grandfather took that oath.

Machines don’t need oaths.

But I’m still human. 1/ The first thing that hits me is the smell. Coming to the Reach is always a stark reminder of just how impoverished some of us are.

Progress always leaves people behind. The question is who gets to choose who gets left behind and who rises.

I’m here to make a house call. 2/

“They just told me I have cancer. It’s everywhere in my body. And you say you’re a kidney doctor? What the hell are you doing here?”

His voice is gruff, and as he looks at me, I feel the weight of his gaze.

For a moment I hesitate, then ask.

“Mind if I sit down?” 1/ “What do I care, you’re gonna be gone in ten seconds anyways. Nobody sticks around, tell that chickenshit doctor who hasn’t seen me in three days that I know he’s gonna bill me anyways.”

I don’t speak. Not now.

He continues, “Sit down, tell me how bad my kidneys are.” 2/