Unit 6
Text
A famous surgeon tells about the importance of lf-confidence from his own experience.
The Making Of a Surgeon.
Dr. Nolen
How does a doctor recognize the point in time when he is finally a “surgeon”? As my year as chief resident drew to a clo I asked mylf this question on more than one occasion.
The answer, I concluded, was lf-confidence. When you can say to yourlf, “There is no surgical patient I cannot treat competently, treat just as well as or better than any other surgeon.” 谈话的力量Then, and not until then, you are indeed a surgeon. I was nearing that point.
Take, for example, the emergency situations that we encountered almost every night. T非同凡响什么意思he first few months of the year, I had dreaded the ringing of the telephone. I knew it meant
another critical decision to be made. Often, after I had told Walt or Larry what to do in a particular situation, I’d have trouble getting back to sleep. I’d review all the facts of the ca and, not infrequently, wonder if I hadn’t made a poor decision. More than once at two or three in the morning, after lying awake for an hour, I’d get out of bed, dress and drive to the hospital to e the patient mylf. It was the only way I could find the peace of mind I needed to relax.
Now, in the last month of my residency, sleeping was no longer a problem. There were still situations in which I couldn’t be certain my decision had been the right one, but I had learned to accept this as a constant problem for a surgeon. One that could never be completely resolved – and I could live with it. So, once I had made a considered decision, I no longer dwelt on it. Reviewing it wasn’t going to help and I knew that with my knowledge and experience, any decision I’d made was bound to be a sound one. It was a nice feeling.
In the operating room, I was equally confident. I knew I had the knowledge, the skill, th
梦到唱歌e experience to handle any surgical situation I’d ever encounter in practice. There were no more butterflies in my stomach when I opened up an abdomen or a chest. I knew that even if the ca was one in which it was impossible to anticipate problem in advance, I could handle whatever I found. I’d sweated through my share of stab wounds of the belly, of punctured lungs, of compound fractures. I had sweated over them for five years. I didn’t need to sweat any more.
Nor was I afraid of making mistakes. I knew that when I was out in practice I would inevitably err at one time or another and operate on someone who didn’t need surgery or sit on someone who did. Five years earlier – even one year earlier – I wouldn’t have been able to live with mylf if I had had to take sole responsibility for a mistake in judgment. Now I could. I still dreaded errors – would do my best to avoid them – but I knew they were part of a surgeon’s life. I could accept this fact with calmness becau I knew that if I wasn’t been able to avoid a mistake, chances were that no other surgeon could have, either.
This all sounds conceited and I guess it is – but a surgeon needs conceit, he needs it to encourage him in trying moments when he’s bothered by the doubts and uncertainties that are part of the practice of medicine. He has to feel that he’心有余悸s as good as and probably better than any other surgeon in the world. Call it conceit –短成语 call it lf-confidence; whatever it was, I had it.
Passage
A doctor on night-call
‘It’s a privilege to be a doctor…’ ‘How lucky you are to be a doctor…’ It’s a privilege to be a doctor, is it? Anyone who’s a doctor is right out of luck, I thought. Anyone who’s studying medicine should have his head examined.
You may think I want to change my job. Well, at the moment I do. As one of my friends says 小猫的作文– even doctors have a few friends 入职简历模板– it’s all experience. Experience! I don’t need such experience. I need a warm, comfortable, undisturbed bed all my own. I need it badly. I need all telephones to be thrown down the nearest well, that’s what I need.
All the thoughts fly round my head as I drive my Mini through the foggy streets of East London at 3. on a December morning. I am a ministering angel in a Mini with a heavy coat and a bag of medicines. As I speed down Lea Bridge in the dark at this horrible morning hour, the swish of the mud against the windows, the heater first blowing hot then cold, my back aching from the car-at made for misshapen camel, the fog swirling about the empty petrol stations, I do not feel like a ministering angel. I wish I were on the beach in southern France. Call me a bad doctor if you like. Call me what you will. B适合送闺蜜的花ut don’t call me at half past three on a December morning for an ear-ache that you have had for two weeks.
Of cour, being a doctor isn’t really all bad. We do have our moments. Occasionally people are ill, occasionally you can help, occasionally you get given a cup of tea and rock-hard cake at two o’clock in the morning – then you worry if you have done everything. But all too often ‘everything’ is a repetitious routine: look, listen, feel, tap, Tablets, injection, phone, ambulance, away to the next.
And then there is always the cool, warm voice of the girl on the switchboard of the emergency bed rvice who will get your patient into hospital for you – the pleasant voice that comes to you as you stand in the cool, dark, smelly, dirty telephone box somewhere in a dangerous ction of town. Oh, it has its moments, this life does.
