sometimes like those times when you sneak up to the christmas tree on christmas eve. All day you've been eye-ing off that huge present that sat wrapped beneath the tree like an elephant in the room - you just can't take your eyes off it.
Night rolls round and everyone's a sleep and so you sneak out to the christmas tree and open your gift, see what it is and then wrap it back up and go back to bed. The next morning you're sitting round the tree and your mother hands you the huge gift with a big grin on her face - sure that you'll be excited when you get past the wrapping. But the more paper you unwrap, the less a surprise it becomes and the less excited you are because you've ruined the surprise, you've ruined the adventure.
That's what medicine is like sometimes.
You want so desperately to learn about every thing in the body that there is to know. Every organ, every function, every tumor, every disease that can disturb that vital calm that regulates our health, but more we learn and the more we study the less exciting it all becomes, the less 'new' everything is and more it seems like we're unwrapping a gift that we've already caught a glimpse of.
Is it wrong to wish I still had rose-coloured glasses on?
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1 comment:
it's all like, "cor, lungs again, hey?"
nice analogy.
teaching's not really like that at all.
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