I’m not sure what did it. But when he walked into a room, he owned the room. When he spoke, everyone quieted down.
Maybe it was the way he carried himself. A clean pressed gray or blue suit with a silver pen clipped to the breast pocket. Every morning, he walked into an arena. He was competing against nobody but himself, where excellence would only be tolerated. After all, everything was on the line.
My orthopedic surgeon walked into my life when I was an infant. He had dedicated his life to treating conditions like cerebral palsy, and had told my parents to wait until I was five to operate on my hips.
Underneath a tough yet refined exterior, which is demanded in his line of work, Doctor cares deeply for his patients, and I’d like to believe he cares deeply about me. And even though he is arrogant, he has to be. Even though he is tough on his residents, he has to be. Mistakes are not tolerated. Mediocrity is unacceptable.
On some days I say he is the man to which I owe it all. Though he would most likely say it was all you.
To me, he wasn’t just Doctor. He was a Hero. And instead of wearing a cape, he wore scrubs and a scrub cap.
1 thought on “The Diary of a Hero’s Admirer”
That's exactly how I feel about my neurosurgeon. You're gorgeous! 🙂
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