Hippocrates' Contemptuous Glance

I. The Grandmother

Grandma was frail and fought her illness for a long time. This simple woman looked at the doctors who eased her pain with admiration. She often told her grandson stories about her life and always ended with the same words:

"Study, my boy! Become a doctor so you can cure Grandma."

One day Grandma was admitted to hospital. "Lung cancer," the doctors said, and she was sent home unconscious—to die. When the little boy visited her at her deathbed and held her weak, emaciated hand, she felt him and opened her eyes. She looked at the boy with love and said:

"Become a doctor so you can heal me!"

That very night she died.

II. The Path

The boy was a good student. He was starting his final year of secondary school but still didn't know what he wanted to be. Actor, professional athlete, teacher, detective, biologist, veterinarian—the possibilities swirled in his head. In his dreams he again spoke with his grandmother on the porch of the old country house by the meadow. "Become a doctor, my boy!"—the loving, pleading words rang in his ears. He applied to medical school.

Near the end of summer the postman brought a letter. The boy took it and opened it. He ran into the house with an inarticulate scream. His mother ran to him pale as death.

– I got in, – the boy whispered, shaking with sobs.

They embraced and cried together.

* * *

The boy moved far from his parents' home. To ease his living expenses and not burden his parents, he worked alongside his studies. He mostly did loading and manual labor. He had excellent physical strength and earned several times what his parents could have provided him.

In his final year he looked for his future workplace. He could not get into the attractive positions at large city institutions. Those posts went to the sons and daughters of well-known chief physicians. This offended his sense of justice.

III. The Hospital

A friend told him about an internal medicine vacancy at a small-town hospital. The ward had 75 beds, the chief physician and six colleagues awaited. On his very first day he found himself in the outpatient clinic. He realized this was deep water. He threw himself into it. From colleagues and nurses he learned what the university had not taught him: the secrets of routine ward work.

In one examination room he found a computer covered with a sheet. It had been unused for years. The chief physician understood the call of the new age and, exploiting the young man's computer skills, acquired new instruments. He covered the costs. The young doctor examined, diagnosed, handled administration, and, when necessary, repaired computers and devices. With the new procedures he soon became the owner of a huge database of examinations and of considerable experience. He regularly reported results at various medical conferences.

* * *

A son was born to him. He wondered how he would support his family—in the mid-1990s he was bringing home 16,000 forints a month. He had an idea and, building on his computer skills, started a graphic studio. By day he worked at the hospital, then at night sat at his computer and worked until dawn on brochures and multimedia presentations.

* * *

He had worked at the hospital for years, yet since his arrival no medical staff meetings had been held. Expensive instruments stood in the examination rooms unused. Instead of performing procedures locally, patients were sent to other institutions. He initiated a "self-education circle" so that representatives of different specialties could inform one another about the available possibilities.

The hospital's scientific committee—despite having done nothing themselves for years—treated his attempt as a harsh attack. Standing before the chief physicians' board he realized: they fear independent thinking. The hierarchical order of the medical profession must not be disturbed.

He felt a strange emptiness and some invisible thread inside him snapped. But he did not give up yet.

IV. The Break

Sudden changes occurred on the ward. Several colleagues left; four remained: two chief physicians and two trainees. He was given half of the 70-bed ward (33 beds), including the intensive section; he ran the outpatient clinic, diagnostic examinations, and the medical administration. He had 10–12 on-call shifts per month. He spent 80–100 hours a week on the ward.

By then he was preparing for his specialty exam and was completing the required practical training.

* * *

One spring weekend he drove to his parents with his family. His four-year-old son watched the passing landscape and then said:

– Dad... I hate that you are a doctor!

He slowed down and turned back in astonishment.

– Why, my son?

"Because you are never at home with me in the evenings!"

– the child said, and went back to playing.

* * *

The words weighed on his chest like lead, thoughts raced through his mind.

He had been working continuously for years. At the end he took home 26,000 forints including on-call supplements (late 1990s), a few eggs, a chicken, and 30,000 from patients. He lived in a 48-square-meter service apartment; his car was 14 years old (a gift from his parents); he spent a hundred hours a week at the hospital and slept 2–3 hours a night.

He barely saw his son.

He would perhaps have his own flat only when he was 45–50 years old, a decent car after that. He wanted his children to attend quality schools. They had not been on holiday since he finished university.

He realized that without his graphic design work he could not afford his apartment, his old car, and would barely have enough for daily food.

Forgive me, Grandma!

– he said to himself. And he made a decision.

V. The Farewell

Late Friday afternoon. The chief physician sat in his office. He had finished his work and rubbed his tired face with both hands. They respected and liked each other mutually.

The young doctor searched for the words:

– Boss, I'd like to leave as of the first—, he finally blurted out, somewhat uncertainly.

– On leave? For how long?

The chief was surprised by the statement. Neither of them had been on vacation for months.

– For good. I'm leaving the medical profession.

The chief raised his head and refused to understand the matter.

– But you will soon take your specialty exam.

– I'm tired of it.

He suddenly felt pitiable because he remembered that his boss had worked on the ward for more than 30 years.

They still talked a little, looked each other in the eye, and then said farewell with their usual firm handshake. Since then the young man has not examined a single patient.

* * *

The former physician has since awaited confirmation. A sign to convince himself.

Statistics show that the number of patients is steadily increasing while resources for care are dwindling. Money is what "holds the system together." Ninety-five percent of the money ends up in the pockets of the doctors at the top of the hierarchy (who make up 2–3% of the total number of physicians); the rest goes to the others. While leaders could change the system, it is far from their interest. The medical system is feudal, where the chief physician is the almighty lord—and it seems likely to remain so for a long time.

The government calculates well: a doctor knows nothing but healing. So do not complain, but be glad you can do what you devoted your life to. The vast majority of doctors swallow it and work mechanically, but in reality they live at subsistence level. Those with language skills and without family ties that bind them long ago sought their livelihoods abroad.

Those who remained at home see the growing influx of patients, the deteriorating conditions, the decaying institutions—and that in the foreseeable future they will not receive wages that ensure a living for their superhuman work—with ever fewer numbers and ever more despair.

Silence before collapse.

* * *

From the vantage point of two decades away, the former physician feels he made the right decision for himself and his family.

But he feels Hippocrates' contemptuous glance at the nape of his neck.

This story led me to where I am today. Since then I have understood that healing is not about a single method—but a complex process. I wrote more about this art of healing here →

If you want to know more about who I am today and what I do, read my introduction →

Postscript: I wrote this story back in 2002, so some sentences are no longer accurate today (e.g., under-the-table payments, physicians' salaries, etc.). I do not intend to change these; I leave the piece in its original form, reflecting the circumstances of that time.