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Original Text
I could check blood sugar when ten. I could give insulin injections when twelve. I could perform peritoneal dialysis exchanges when fifteen. My mother died at seventeen.
We did everything we could but it was not enough.
Her doctor did more than help her, he helped us all. Mom did well on peritoneal dialysis we could still go out, eat at restaurants, and, of course, shop just not as much as before. Dr. John Doe was a good man and a concerned doctor. During the last six months of my mom's time with us, Dr. Doe was her primary physician; he was her nephrologist. I learned from my step father that he was a physics and math major who decided to become a primary care physician and later a specialist. I never asked Dr. Doe why he became a physician. After knowing him, I think he just wanted to make a difference.
Revised Text
A career in medicine is not about money, fancy offices or cutting edge
technology. At the core, meaningful medicine is about compassion and a human touch.
The best and brightest care passionately about their patients, but also
for the families of those they treat.
I did not learn this truth by reading medical journals or by watching "ER."
Rather, I discovered the essence of medicine from observing the bedside
behavior of Dr. John Doe. He was the nephrologist that treated my mother's
kidney disease. He treated her failing organs as well as my wounded spirit.
He was there for her – and our entire family – when my mother was
diagnosed. He was there for her insulin injections and her dialysis. More
importantly, he was there at the end, not just for my mother, but for me, my sister and step-dad.
(Continue)
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