A taste of my own medicine...

I'm in the city. I'm in a bussiness suite. My hair looks hotter than hell itself. My body is perfect. Thin and svelt, but with the muscle tone of a dancer and runner. And my face. I'm an angel. One of those faces that make you think, that make you wonder, that tell some story. Through gentel blue eyes. I'm away. I'm knew. This is my time now...

The past eight years have been filled with turmoil and stress. The past eight years have been the most worthwhile years of my life. I've cried, I've worried. I've dug myself out of the deepest holes. I've studied, I've partied, I've made mistakes. And I've learned. Not only about the human physcie, but about myself.

My residency is coming to an end. I see that patients. I know that look in there eyes. That fear that they can't admit. I want to tell them that I know. I want to reach out my hand and tell them that it will end someday. That they will live again. But I'm scared at times to admit that I've been there. That I was once in that gown. That I was once filled with nerves as my back faced a scale. As doctors prodded at my body. As the observations took place. I want them to know that you can come out from it. I want them to know that you can run marathons. That you can dance toward your dreams. I want these kids to know the beauty of Ireland, the contentment of center stage. The feeling of love, the feeling of heartbreak. I want them to know that it will come together. And that maybe, just maybe, someday they can help themselves. Then they can help others. I want to tell these poor, innocent children that they're beautiful. But I must see it in myself first...