Which is the more exquisite sensation: revenge, relief, or vindication?
Doctors save lives. It's what we're paid to do.
What we're taught and trained, what we've practiced and memorized, how we work and life. To save lives and prevent the loss of them. We take an oath, a sworn promise, to never harm, only help, and that's the way we're supposed to act. Always in the best interest of the patient, of the charge in our care, we run tests and forgo sleep and relaxation to find the answer, figure out the cure, and fight the disease.
There's a moment in every case, when it all just clicks, like a lightbulb over a cartoon character's head in one of those old 2-D shows they play on Boomerang at three in the morning on Cartoon Network. Everything's simple and clear cut, even in that fuzzy little world. Look for an answer, find it, and everything's okay.
Medicine isn't fun and games. It's not easy, and there certainly is not a lightbulb floating over my head right now waiting to blink on. But there is that moment, the eureka moment when you realize that maybe, just maybe, there is hope for the person lying in that bed, begging for their life with that look in their eyes. Looking to you as God and Savior, and I will admit, it does feel very good to tell someone that you've found the answer. That relief in their face is echoed in my eyes when I give them the right drugs, the correct surgery to get rid of the tumor, the look that lets them know I've figured it out. It feels good.
Then there's knowing that you're right, when everybody else thought you were wrong. When everybody else told you that it couldn't be done, that there was no hope, no chance, no sliver of light at the end of the tunnel that you needed to walk towards. When they said you were wrong. Stupid. Daft. A moron for even considering it.
They said that about me and walking again. My therapist told me I was crazy. Stubborn, yeah I was stubborn. Determined, you bet your life. Probably a little bit crazy, but it was in a good way, because it lit a fire in my soul that wasn't just the need to heal myself for once, but to prove them all wrong. I'm a competitive guy. Sports, work, paper airplane contests, snowball fights, you name it, I'll win it if you give me a shot. It was like that with walking again. I was going to do it. There was no question.
Wheelchair was better for me. I was using the cane wrong. I needed to stop taking so many pills. I would be better off in physical therapy than trying to learn it on my own.
That's what they told me. I didn't listen. And you know what? Maybe if I used a wheelchair, I wouldn't hurt so much. Maybe if I used the cane in the other hand, my back wouldn't be so tense, I wouldn't need shoulder rubs as often as I do. Maybe if I stopped taking the drugs, my liver would dance for fucking joy inside my ribs and there would be rainbows and puppies over Princeton, but you know what? Sinatra was right. I did it my way.
But nothing beats the feeling in your soul when you know that you've beaten them. Then moment of victory when you finally own the people who have wronged you in life, the look on my father's face when I told him that I was not joining the military and was gonna go play guitar in a band instead, and then the day I told him I was graduating from Michigan with my damn doctorate, the moment he realized I was actually worth something to somebody. The moment that therapist got his car towed because I was sick and tired of his ass parking in my space. The moment I wiped the smug grin off of Tritter's face in that courtroom. [locked to Brittany, Emma] The moment I put that bullet in Vincent's skull and watched his head shatter into bits and pieces of flesh, blood, and bone. [/lock]
Nothing beats the feeling of revenge. Served cold.
Dr. Greg House
House
Word Count: 698
What we're taught and trained, what we've practiced and memorized, how we work and life. To save lives and prevent the loss of them. We take an oath, a sworn promise, to never harm, only help, and that's the way we're supposed to act. Always in the best interest of the patient, of the charge in our care, we run tests and forgo sleep and relaxation to find the answer, figure out the cure, and fight the disease.
There's a moment in every case, when it all just clicks, like a lightbulb over a cartoon character's head in one of those old 2-D shows they play on Boomerang at three in the morning on Cartoon Network. Everything's simple and clear cut, even in that fuzzy little world. Look for an answer, find it, and everything's okay.
Medicine isn't fun and games. It's not easy, and there certainly is not a lightbulb floating over my head right now waiting to blink on. But there is that moment, the eureka moment when you realize that maybe, just maybe, there is hope for the person lying in that bed, begging for their life with that look in their eyes. Looking to you as God and Savior, and I will admit, it does feel very good to tell someone that you've found the answer. That relief in their face is echoed in my eyes when I give them the right drugs, the correct surgery to get rid of the tumor, the look that lets them know I've figured it out. It feels good.
Then there's knowing that you're right, when everybody else thought you were wrong. When everybody else told you that it couldn't be done, that there was no hope, no chance, no sliver of light at the end of the tunnel that you needed to walk towards. When they said you were wrong. Stupid. Daft. A moron for even considering it.
They said that about me and walking again. My therapist told me I was crazy. Stubborn, yeah I was stubborn. Determined, you bet your life. Probably a little bit crazy, but it was in a good way, because it lit a fire in my soul that wasn't just the need to heal myself for once, but to prove them all wrong. I'm a competitive guy. Sports, work, paper airplane contests, snowball fights, you name it, I'll win it if you give me a shot. It was like that with walking again. I was going to do it. There was no question.
Wheelchair was better for me. I was using the cane wrong. I needed to stop taking so many pills. I would be better off in physical therapy than trying to learn it on my own.
That's what they told me. I didn't listen. And you know what? Maybe if I used a wheelchair, I wouldn't hurt so much. Maybe if I used the cane in the other hand, my back wouldn't be so tense, I wouldn't need shoulder rubs as often as I do. Maybe if I stopped taking the drugs, my liver would dance for fucking joy inside my ribs and there would be rainbows and puppies over Princeton, but you know what? Sinatra was right. I did it my way.
But nothing beats the feeling in your soul when you know that you've beaten them. Then moment of victory when you finally own the people who have wronged you in life, the look on my father's face when I told him that I was not joining the military and was gonna go play guitar in a band instead, and then the day I told him I was graduating from Michigan with my damn doctorate, the moment he realized I was actually worth something to somebody. The moment that therapist got his car towed because I was sick and tired of his ass parking in my space. The moment I wiped the smug grin off of Tritter's face in that courtroom. [locked to Brittany, Emma] The moment I put that bullet in Vincent's skull and watched his head shatter into bits and pieces of flesh, blood, and bone. [/lock]
Nothing beats the feeling of revenge. Served cold.
Dr. Greg House
House
Word Count: 698