Sunday mornings
HAVEN'T SEEN my brother Ralph for more than a month now. My mother must have told him of my present state—exhausted and sleepless—when he called home. While I was looking after ward patients complaining of new onset chest pains, he texted me, "Let's get some wine when you're free"—his subtle way of finally admitting that Medicine is truly harder than Law. (Feel free to disagree, of course: that is one pointless debate that can never be resolved.)
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