Abstract

When I pretended during my early youth what it might be like to practice medicine, I did not dream of the satiny images and pearly white smiles from the Marcus Welby reruns I faithfully watched on television, nor did I fantasize about getting behind the wheel of the gleaming cherry red Mercedes convertible my uncle the psychiatrist drove to my family's frequent gatherings. Money and medicine, though somehow clearly linked, were to me incalculably unrelated. The power of doctors rested in their ability to heal the human beings in whom they recognized themselves wherever they touched them. The legendary country doctor of bygone years who took care of anyone (rich or poor) in the neighborhood who fell ill, crossed with a daring and sweaty guerrilla resisting his corrupt government from the distant reaches of a Latin American Jungle: this chimera was the warrior-physician I secretly aspired to be.