Doctors White Coat Quotes

I don't know if you realize this, but there are some researchers - doctors - who are giving this kind of drug to volunteers, to see what the effects are, and they're doing it the proper scientific way, in clean white hospital rooms, away from trees and flowers and the wind, and they're surprised at how many of the experiments turn sour. They've never taken any sort of psychedelic themselves, needless to say. Their volunteers - they're called 'subjects,' of course - are given mescaline or LSD and they're all opened up to their surroundings, very sensitive to color and light and other people's emotions, and what are they given to react to? Metal bed-frames and plaster walls, and an occasional white coat carrying a clipboard. Sterility. Most of them say afterward that they'll never do it again.

I came here for the same reason doctors wear uniforms of long white coats...They don't do it for their benefit, but for yours.

There was something else that [Christopher] Reeve told me privately, off camera, and it made me grin. While he was lying in the hospital, just becoming conscious with tubes connected to all parts of his body, a doctor in a white coat came in and with a Russian accent, commanded: "Turn over!" Are you nuts? Reeve thought. I said: 'Turn over!'" the doctor repeated. As Reeve was about to answer "the imbecile", he realized there was something familiar about the man in the white coat. He wasn't a doctor at all. He was Reeve's old buddy from acting school at Julliard, Robin Williams. Reeve waited for a breath, and almost choked with laughter. He realized, he told me, "If I can laugh, I can live.

A lady doctor in the foreground, black horn-rims and white lab coat, suddenly cried, “You people ought to be ashamed of yourselves! Do you realize what you're doing to the reality concepts we're trying to instill in these people? How do you expect them to differentiate between illusion and reality when you do something like this?”

it was when Arthur Sackler said it. Doctors are human, and the notion that donning a white coat might somehow shield them from temptation is a fantasy.

A woman must have uncommon sweetness of disposition and manners to be forgiven for possessing superior talents.

Could it be that despite all the years I spent in medical school and residency training acquiring specialized knowledge and practical skills, that this expertise mattered little to my patients' overall health?

Let's look at this rationally...We've got a doctor who may kill him, an Attorney General who wants to declare him bananas, and a Defense Secretary who wants me to start World War III...First, we ruled out starting World War III. We were down to killing the President or having him carted off by the men in white coats...

Medical care is neither a right nor a privilege: it is a service provided by doctors and other to people who wish to purchase it.

By the late 1980s, blacks accounted for half of all HIV cases in women; most recent

As we strolled into the hospital, I couldn’t help thinking about Maroon 5’s “Harder to Breathe” because I was having a difficult time staying calm. I had been kidnapped and beaten senseless by an agent of Lucifer, and yet the white coats the doctors wore scared me just as badly. The men who had taken me from my mother wore those same damned lab coats. Every time I saw one, it awakened a dormant fear inside me—fear that I’d be dragged away from someone I loved again, fear that I’d be placed into the waiting hands of another horrible person. It would never truly go away. Michael’s shoulder bumped mine, which shook me out of my thoughts. I glanced at him. “What?” “You’re frowning.” “Am I supposed to be smiling right now?” He faced forward, looking at our reflection in the elevator doors. “No, but you look like you’re about to bolt at any second.” I watched the digital numbers change one by one as we rose up to the right floor, fiddling with the rosary in the pocket of my leather jacket. Somehow, the beads had a calming effect on me. “I’m fine.” “Hard ass.” A tiny smirk touched my lips. “Stop thinking about my butt. You’re an archangel.” He grinned, but didn’t reply.

Every improvement is a change, but not every change is an improvement. Every rationalist doubts, but not all doubts are rational. Wearing doubts doesn’t make you a rationalist any more than wearing a white medical lab coat makes you a doctor.

was severing the usual ties of life and preparing to act against my strongest inclinations,” Elizabeth opined. “But a force stronger than myself then and afterward seemed to lead me on; a purpose was before me which I must inevitably seek to accomplish.

A prominent israeli writer, Sami Michael, once told of a long car journey with a driver. At some point, the driver explained to Michael how important, indeed how urgent, it is for us Jews “to kill all the Arabs.” Sami Michael listened politely, and instead of reacting with horror, denunciation, or disgust, he asked the driver an innocent question: “And who, in your opinion, should kill all the Arabs?” “Us! The Jews! We have to! It’s either us or them! Can’t you see what they’re doing to us?” “But who, exactly, should actually kill all the Arabs? The army? The police? Firemen, perhaps? Or doctors in white coats, with syringes?” The driver scratched his head, pondered the question, and finally said, “We’ll have to divvy it up among us. Every Jewish man will have to kill a few Arabs.” Michael did not let up: “All right. Let’s say you, as a Haifa man, are in charge of one apartment building in Haifa. You go from door to door, ring the bells, and ask the residents politely, ‘Excuse me, would you happen to be Arabs?’ If the answer is yes, you shoot and kill them. When you’re done killing all the Arabs in the building, you go downstairs and head home, but before you get very far you hear a baby crying on the top floor. What do you do? Turn around? Go back? Go upstairs and shoot the baby? Yes or no?” A long silence. The driver considers. Finally he says, “Sir, you are a very cruel man!” This story exposes the confusion sometimes found in the fanatic’s mind: a mixture of intransigence with sentimentality and a lack of imagination.

I had, by then, done my share of reading on Philadelphia, so I knew that, in another time, when the Task was here in Philadelphia, the city had fallen victim to a fever. And among the men who combatted this fever was Benjamin Rush, a famous doctor, which is hard to countenance given the theory he put forth in defense of the city. Colored people were immune to the fever, he told Philadelphia, and more than immune, their very presence could alter the air itself, sucking up the scourge and holding it captive in our fetid black bodies. And so tasking men were brought in by the hundreds on the alleged black magic of our bodies. They all died. And when the city began to fill with their corpses, its masters searched for a space far from the whites who were felled by the disease. And they chose a patch of land where no one lived, and tossed us into pits. Years later, after the fever had been forgotten, after the war had birthed this new country, they built rows and rows of well-appointed houses right on top of those people, and and named a square for their liberating general. It struck me that even here, in the free North, the luxuries of this world were built right on top of us.

This is a tightrope that women must always walk on, to constantly have to consider: Am I being friendly enough? Am I being overly friendly? As women began entering previously men-only professions and educational spaces, these became near-constant calculations in careers and subjects across the board.

Uncle Doctor. He entered whistling with a sprightly step, smelling of peppermint and starch, the long white wings of his coat trailing against each surface he passed and erasing them. I'd come to learn that he considered himself an expert at whistling, just he considered himself an expert on hygiene and culture and art and writing. But while his whistle was errorless, there was no mistaking its robotic lean. Even as it leaped about the scale, it was monotone at the core, a hollowing thing that couldn't know a feeling.

Whether doctors and reps are all that different from each other is no longer clear. Doctors know a lot more about medicine, and drug reps dress a lot better, but these days both are Organization Men, small cogs in a vast health-care machine. They are just doing their jobs in a market driven health-care bureaucracy that Americans have deigned and that we define vigorously to critics elsewhere in the world. Like anyone else, doctors and reps are responding to the pressures and incentives of the system in which they work.

You only needed one yes to be happy—medical school was like love in that regard. Some days her chances seemed promising, and other days she hated herself for clinging to this ridiculous dream. Hadn't she muddled her way through chemistry? Struggled in biology? You needed more than a good GPA to get into medical school. You had to compete against students who'd grown up in rich families, attended private schools, hired personal tutors. People who had been dreaming since kindergarten of becoming doctors. Who had family photos of themselves in tiny white coats, holding plastic stethoscopes to teddy bear bellies. Not people who grew up in nowhere towns, where there was one doctor you only saw when you were puking sick. Not people who'd stumbled into the whole idea of medical school after dissecting a sheep's heart in an anatomy class.

For five years, I have been sick and I have been trying to will myself to be better. To think harder about being better, to improve more. To become a better breather, reactor, meditator, hoping that if I just try hard enough, the symptoms will go away and I’ll feel like myself again, like a self I remember as if out of a rearview mirror except with this one, the objects are smaller than they appear. I have tried to force myself to be more clearheaded, energetic, grounded. Tried yoga, acupuncture, cognitive behavioral therapy, talk therapy, and long walks in the woods. And every few months, when I finally felt I’d reached a zenith of my abilities with yoga, CBT, or talk therapy, I would give it another shot: go to another doctor, a Western doctor, one with an M.D. and a white coat, and I would tell him or her my symptoms (for the gender of the doctor does not matter only, it would seem, my gender), and hope that once again, the doctor would pay attention, would take my case, would try to help me so that I didn’t have to so deeply and fervently try to help myself.

Yet the homogeneity of contemporary humanity is most apparent when it comes to our view of the natural world and of the human body. If you fell sick a thousand years ago, it mattered a great deal where you lived. In Europe, the resident priest would probably tell you that you had made God angry and that in order to regain your health you should donate something to the church, make a pilgrimage to a sacred site, and pray fervently for God’s forgiveness. Alternatively, the village witch might explain that a demon had possessed you and that she could cast it out using song, dance, and the blood of a black cockerel. In the Middle East, doctors brought up on classical traditions might explain that your four bodily humors were out of balance and that you should harmonize them with a proper diet and foul-smelling potions. In India, Ayurvedic experts would offer their own theories concerning the balance between the three bodily elements known as doshas and recommend a treatment of herbs, massages, and yoga postures. Chinese physicians, Siberian shamans, African witch doctors, Amerindian medicine men—every empire, kingdom, and tribe had its own traditions and experts, each espousing different views about the human body and the nature of sickness, and each offering their own cornucopia of rituals, concoctions, and cures. Some of them worked surprisingly well, whereas others were little short of a death sentence. The only thing that united European, Chinese, African, and American medical practices was that everywhere at least a third of all children died before reaching adulthood, and average life expectancy was far below fifty.14 Today, if you happen to be sick, it makes much less difference where you live. In Toronto, Tokyo, Tehran, or Tel Aviv, you will be taken to similar-looking hospitals, where you will meet doctors in white coats who learned the same scientific theories in the same medical colleges. They will follow identical protocols and use identical tests to reach very similar diagnoses. They will then dispense the same medicines produced by the same international drug companies. There are still some minor cultural differences, but Canadian, Japanese, Iranian, and Israeli physicians hold much the same views about the human body and human diseases. After the Islamic State captured Raqqa and Mosul, it did not tear down the local hospitals. Rather, it launched an appeal to Muslim doctors and nurses throughout the world to volunteer their services there.15 Presumably even Islamist doctors and nurses believe that the body is made of cells, that diseases are caused by pathogens, and that antibiotics kill bacteria.

home of Elon Simpson. We were right off of Washington Square, a part of the city marked by well-appointed brownstones with shuttered windows and a park hailing back to this country’s birth. Here was the seat of this city’s Quality—and the seat of our dead. I had, by then, done my share of reading on Philadelphia, so I knew that, in another time, when the Task was here in Pennsylvania, the city had fallen victim to a wave of fever. And among the men who combatted this fever was Benjamin Rush, a famous doctor, which is hard to countenance given the theory he put forth in defense of the city. Colored people were immune to the fever, he told Philadelphia, and more than immune, their very presence could alter the air itself, sucking up the scourge and holding it captive in our fetid black bodies. And so tasking men were brought in by the hundreds on the alleged black magic of our bodies. They all died. And when the city began to fill with their corpses, its masters searched for a space far from the whites who were felled by the disease. And they chose a patch of land where no one lived, and tossed us into pits. Years later, after the fever had been forgotten, after the war had birthed this new country, they built rows and rows of well-appointed houses right on top of those people, and named a square for their liberating general. It struck me that even here, in the free North, the luxuries of this world were built right on top of us.

He ran long at the White House, and arrived late to his next meeting with Hillary Clinton, Jake Sullivan and Frank Ruggiero—their first major strategy session on Taliban talks after the secret meeting with A-Rod. She was waiting in her outer office, a spacious room paneled in white and gilt wood, with tasseled blue and pink curtains and an array of colorfully upholstered chairs and couches. In my time reporting to her later, I only ever saw Clinton take the couch, with guests of honor in the large chair kitty-corner to her. She’d left it open for him that day. “He came rushing in. . . . ” Clinton later said. “And, you know, he was saying ‘oh I’m so sorry, I’m so sorry.’ ” He sat down heavily and shrugged off his coat, rattling off a litany of his latest meetings, including his stop-in at the White House. “That was typical Richard. It was, like, ‘I’m doing a million things and I’m trying to keep all the balls in the air,’ ” she remembered. As he was talking, a “scarlet red” flush went up his face, according to Clinton. He pressed his hands over his eyes, his chest heaving. “Richard, what’s the matter?” Clinton asked. “Something horrible is happening,” he said. A few minutes later, Holbrooke was in an ambulance, strapped to a gurney, headed to nearby George Washington University Hospital, where Clinton had told her own internist to prepare the emergency room. In his typically brash style, he’d demanded that the ambulance take him to the more distant Sibley Memorial Hospital. Clinton overruled him. One of our deputies on the SRAP team, Dan Feldman, rode with him and held his hand. Feldman didn’t have his BlackBerry, so he scrawled notes on a State Department expense form for a dinner at Meiwah Restaurant as Holbrooke dictated messages and a doctor assessed him. The notes are a nonlinear stream of Holbrooke’s indomitable personality, slashed through with medical realities. “Call Eric in Axelrod’s office,” the first read. Nearby: “aortic dissection—type A . . . operation risk @ > 50 percent”—that would be chance of death. A series of messages for people in his life, again interrupted by his deteriorating condition: “S”—Secretary Clinton—“why always together for medical crises?” (The year before, he’d been with Clinton when she fell to the concrete floor of the State Department garage, fracturing her elbow.) “Kids—how much love them + stepkids” . . . “best staff ever” . . . “don’t let him die here” . . . “vascular surgery” . . . “no flow, no feeling legs” . . . “clot” . . . and then, again: “don’t let him die here want to die at home w/ his fam.” The seriousness of the situation fully dawning on him, Holbrooke turned to job succession: “Tell Frank”—Ruggiero—“he’s acting.” And finally: “I love so many people . . . I have a lot left to do . . . my career in public service is over.” Holbrooke cracked wise until they put him under for surgery. “Get me anything you need,” he demanded. “A pig’s heart. Dan’s heart.

Nobody just leaves medical school, especially given it's fiercely competitive to get in. But I had a sister who was a doctor, another who was a pharmacist, a brother who was an engineer. So my parents already had sensible children who would be able to make an actual living, and I think they felt comfortable sacrificing their one strange child.

As the figure of the traditional doctor fades away, it is being replaced by a figure to the drug rep, one whose responsibility is to compete as vigorously as possible in the medical marketplace. Patients are being replaced by health-care consumers, who shop for the best medical bargains they can find.

I was telling him that it was unlikely he would see any improvement in his mood for about a month when he interrupted me, raising his hand gently. I stopped midsentence, and Mr. F said, with sudden emotion in his voice, Doctor, I just want to tell you how proud I am to come here, and see a young black man like yourself in that white coat, because things haven't ever been easy for us, and no one has ever given us nothing without a struggle.

Celebrities Ain't Health Experts (The Sonnet) Celebrities and influencers are not health experts, Stop taking medical advice from halfwits of wellness. Stop being a two-bit doctor from ten minutes of googling, For Google is not a substitute for doctors and nurses. Compared to that of a trained and experienced doctor, Even as a neurobiologist my diagnosis skills are insignifant. Then why can't you accept that when it comes to medicine, Your opinion is worth no more than a counterfeit coin. One goes through years of training and many sleepless nights, Then they earn the right to wear the white coat of service. And yet upon spending an hour surfing on the internet, You put on the personality of a grey-haired neurologist! Lack of expertise is by no means the same as lack of dignity. But denial of expertise indicates a definite lack of senility.

Dad had always composed his daily look carefully: neatly combed hair, seasonal tie featuring pumpkins in October or flags in July, dark leather loafers buffed to a high shine, white doctor’s coat laundered in hot water and pressed crisp. True, he also mowed the lawn in black knee socks and khaki shorts. I’m not saying he always made good choices, just that the outfits, like other decisions, had always been his to make.

Epilogue: Changed the world, few knew." from Science, 2019

A doctor in a white lab coat got up and introduced herself. She said her name was Susan or Stacey or Samantha and she was a fellow in the Clinical Research program. She read all the usual disclaimers and warnings, and reminded us that compensation would be issued in the form of Amazon gift cards, not checks or cash. A couple people grumbled, but I didn’t care; I had a boyfriend who bought gift cards off me for eighty cents on the dollar, so I was all set.

The first is to never carry a mortgage larger than twice your gross income. The second is to spend less than 20% of your gross income on housing, including your mortgage payment, utilities, property taxes, insurance, and maintenance.

Doctors, like all other people, are subject to prejudice and discrimination. While bias can be a problem in any profession, in medicine, the stakes are much higher.

If I had a million dollars, we wouldn’t have to eat Kraft dinner. But we would eat Kraft dinner, of course, we would. We’d just eat more.” — The Barenaked Ladies

Zombie science is a science that is dead, but is artificially kept moving by a continual infusion of funding. From a distance Zombie science looks like the real thing, the surface features of a science are in place – white coats, laboratories, computer programming, PhDs, papers, conference, prizes, etc. But the Zombie is not interested in the pursuit of truth – its citations are externally-controlled and directed at non-scientific goals, and inside the Zombie everything is rotten…

It’s a common practice in the mental health world to treat substance abuse as a distinct entity from other mental illnesses, such as severe depression, bipolar disorder, or schizophrenia, although drug use frequently overlaps with these disorders. “So what about

If you are willing to live like no one else will early in life, then you can live like no one else can later in life.

I cannot agree with the gentleman in the magenta coat that Potter’s Pond is only a wretched little hamlet. But it is certainly a very remote and secluded village; so that it seems quite outlandish, like a village of a hundred years ago. The spinsters are really spinsters — damn it, you could almost imagine you saw them spin. The ladies are not just ladies. They are gentlewomen; and their chemist is not a chemist, but an apothecary; pronounced potecary. They do just admit the existence of an ordinary doctor like myself to assist the apothecary. But I am considered rather a juvenile innovation, because I am only fifty-seven years old and have only been in the county for twenty-eight years. The solicitor looks as if he had known it for twenty-eight thousand years. Then there is the old Admiral, who is just like a Dickens illustration; with a house full of cutlasses and cuttle-fish and equipped with a telescope.’ ‘I suppose,’ said Father Brown, ‘there are always a certain number of Admirals washed up on the shore. But I never understood why they get stranded so far inland.’ ‘Certainly no dead-alive place in the depths of the country is complete without one of these little creatures,’ said the doctor. ‘And then, of course, there is the proper sort of clergyman; Tory and High Church in a dusty fashion dating from Archbishop Laud; more of an old woman than any of the old women. He’s a white-haired studious old bird, more easily shocked than the spinsters. Indeed, the gentlewomen, though Puritan in their principles, are sometimes pretty plain in their speech; as the real Puritans were. Once or twice I have known old Miss Carstairs-Carew use expressions as lively as anything in the Bible. The dear old clergyman is assiduous in reading the Bible; but I almost fancy he shuts his eyes when he comes to those words.

From an early age, Elizabeth believed her intelligence and strength as equal to a man’s. Despite her slight, diminutive frame, she was surprisingly strong.

Lizzie recognized the England Blackwell described—one where society limited women to a mind-numbing existence as baby factories and household managers.

Both Fuller and Blackwell wanted to see women gain more opportunities and influence without taking any away from men.

The 1829 publication The young lady’s book: a manual of elegant recreations, exercises, and pursuits explained that “in whatever situation of life a woman is placed from her cradle to her grave, a spirit of obedience and submission, pliability of temper, and humility of mind are required of her.” A few decades later, little had changed.

In fact, Elizabeth didn’t blame men for women’s subordinate social position. She felt women could stand to express a deeper desire to broaden their own horizons and often found her female companions frustratingly interested only in idle gossip.

Do you think anything more is requisite to ensure success than moderate abilities and a good share of perseverance? I believe I may lay claim to these, together with a real love of the subjects of study, but as regards any thorough knowledge of these subjects at present, I fear I am deficient in most.' -Edith Pechey

And doctors could lose the respect of their patients if they didn’t act like authority figures. The young residents at MCMC did not enhance their status by their propensities for introducing themselves by their first names, wearing blue jeans under their white coats, carrying their medical charts in little backpacks, and drinking their coffee from Tommee Tippee cups. Doctors could get into trouble if they failed to take the Hmong’s religious beliefs into account. For example, it was important never to compliment a baby’s beauty out loud, lest a dab overhear and be unable to resist snatching its soul.

He stood there in his white coat with his pen, khakis, and gelled brown hair--and to think that he actually gelled his hair. To think people spent their whole lives at the morgue. People like this doctor got up every morning and showered and put on cologne and did their hair to be attractive at the morgue.

These are brainwashing exercises,” says former CIA officer and whistleblower Kevin Shipp. “Getting all of these thousands of public health and law enforcement officials to participate in blowing up the US Bill of Rights in these exercises, you basically have obtained their prior sign-off on torpedoing the Constitution to overthrow its democracy. They know that none of these participants are going to suddenly start soul-searching when the real thing happens. The CIA has spent decades studying exactly how to control large populations using these sorts of techniques.” Shipp adds: “We are all subjects now being manipulated in a vast population-wide Milgram experiment, with Dr. Fauci playing the doctor in the white lab coat instructing us to ignore our virtues and our conscience and obliterate the Constitution.

A few weeks after my injury, when I was in the rehab center, I found someone willing to travel to the center to give me a massage. Partway through, she suggested trying something called Reiki. This is where instead of touching you, the masseuse waves their hands through the air over you to “adjust your energy fields.” You can probably tell by the way that I describe this that I think this is a bunch of BS. Does it work for some people? Of course it does. The placebo effect can work with any type of treatment or medication by providing someone with an improvement if and when they expect to get one. The nice doctor in the white lab coat gives you some pills and says, “Take two of these each morning, and your pain should feel much better.” The medication that the doctor gives you could be nothing more than sugar pills. Still, if you really believe that you’ll benefit from it, your brain finds a way to make at least some improvement come true. In double-blind studies, it’s been proven that the placebo effect can provide as much as a 32 percent improvement. Because of this, for new drugs to be approved in the US, they need to test at a level that’s higher than the 32 percent placebo level of improvement. So, if I’d believed in Reiki, then I may have experienced some benefit from it, but I don’t, so I didn’t get anything out of the treatment. That said, I think it’s interesting that when dealing with chronic pain, the temptation is to try almost anything, no matter how crazy it sounds. The hope is that maybe, just maybe, you’ll be able to get some relief from your ongoing pain.

They want tall doctors with long, white coats.” He was rejected from every single school.

Respect all those in white coats who save our lives- The Healthcare professionals

Nail Fungus Nail fungus is typically characterized by thickening and yellowing, and usually begins as a single spot of white or yellow under a fingernail or toenail. As the fungus spreads, your nails may begin to crumble, and pain may develop. Treat nail fungus as soon as you notice it to prevent it from becoming a serious problem. See your doctor if essential oils fail to relieve symptoms. TEA TREE TREATMENT Tea tree essential oil is a powerful antifungal agent that has the ability to kill nail fungus rapidly. Apply 1 or 2 drops of tea tree essential oil to the affected area, making sure you coat the entire nail, the surrounding skin, and the area beneath the nail’s edge. Allow the tea tree oil to penetrate, then cover it with a few drops of a carrier oil. Repeat this treatment up to 3 times a day until symptoms subside. CLOVE TREATMENT Clove essential oil is an exceptional antifungal agent. It also stops itching associated with nail fungus. Apply 1 or 2 drops of clove essential oil to the affected area, making sure that you coat the entire nail, the surrounding skin, and the area beneath the nail’s edge. Allow the essential oil to penetrate, then cover it with a few drops of carrier oil. Repeat this treatment up to 3 times a day until symptoms subside.

Of all the forms of inequality,” Martin Luther King Jr. told a gathering of the Medical Committee for Human Rights in 1966, “injustice in health is the most shocking and the most inhumane.

Johns Hopkins graduated its first black medical students in 1967. The University of Chicago had just one black student in its Class of 1968. Harvard enrolled just two black students that same year.

The power of energy fields, superdiluted water, stainless steel needles, and the doctor in the white lab coat is real. We’ve seen it heal. We’ve seen it change lives and bring loved ones back from the edge of despair and death.

soft-spoken, understated style—she didn’t wear heels, makeup, or tight-fitting clothes.

figuring little good could come from fanning racial flames.

You know at some point, we’ve got to stop blaming white folks for all of our problems,” Dr. Mason said. “We’re our own worst enemy.

gimpy

Eventually, science finds a cure: polio, smallpox, measels, whooping cough, rinderpest (look it up), all gone. Eventually, those ladies and gents in the white lab coats wielding pipettes will get around to the debilitating condition known as Writer's Block. Imagine if Big Pharma spent $1 Billion and 14 years of R&D effort, just like they do on allergy medicine and mood lifters: "Ask your doctor if Narrativa is right for you. Narrativa is a fast-flow, editor-inhibitor (FFEI) that works in your bloodstream to initiate poetry, prose, and young adult fiction. Side effects of Narrativa include job loss, missed meals, laptop battery wear, comma splices, and of course, death. For impoverished literary journal writers and creative writing program faculty adjuncts, Pfizer may be willing to subsidize the cost of your Narrativa dosing.

doctor’s white coat. Ripped from the victim no doubt. Gus hoped the person was dead at the time, and he hoped he wouldn’t remember any unpleasant sights yet to be discovered. He suffered during the nights when he was home, trying to sleep. Booze helped when he had it, and drank heavily when he did. It would knock him out and keep the nightmares at bay. Nightmares that brought their own private movies, with mouths full of rotting teeth. Gus took a breath and became still, listening for anything beyond the room. He moved to the doorway and glanced about. All clear. He possessed

By the late 1980s, blacks accounted for half of all HIV cases in women; most recent estimates place that number at more than 60 percent.

The stereotype of black intellectual inferiority was so ingrained that for a black person to do as well, or better, than whites and Asians, they had to be “exceptionally bright”—earnest admiration and condescension wrapped in the same package.

When you're ready to give up. Just remember how look you'll in that white coat.

Until the beginning of 2003, Italians smoked everywhere and considered it quite normal; they lit up inside stores, including those which sell fabric or paper goods, in the airport, ignoring repeated loudspeaker announcements that no smoking was allowed, at the greengrocers where cigarette ash dangled perilously over the zucchini and the cherry tomatoes, and even in hospitals, although from time to time crack Italian Carabinieri units called the NAS, set up to enforce health standards, would appear, unannounced, and hand out hefty fines to all the doctors and nurses they found in flagrante. Once I even had blood taken by two white-coated doctors who took my vital fluid with cigarettes dangling from their lips, an open window their only concession to my passive smoke concerns.

If I wear a white coat and a stethoscope, and "identify" as a Doctor... does it make me a doctor? No! It makes me a liar and a criminal who's misleading people to gain economically and socially while causing harm to others. So, what's the difference with men who identify as women to get their jobs, their sports achievements, and to take away their privacy? Female's rights are under attack.

I’m no plumber!' This sentence and so many other ones that punctuated this part of my life - ordinary sentences by people who uttered them without thinking - still resonate inside my brain. I wasn't 'expecting' it and nothing can deaden its impact, neither familiarity nor sociopolitical analysis. Fleetingly, I glimpse a man in a white coat with rubber gloves, beating me black and blue, yelling, I'm no plumber! In my mind, this sentence continues to split the world in two, ramming home the distinction between, on the one hand, doctors, on the other, workers or women who abort, between those who rule and those who are ruled.

The more papers a physician authors, the higher he or she elevates in the academic hierarchy. And if an academic physician is not actually doing the work behind the papers but is simply signing articles written by agency-employed medical writers, that physician’s taking credit for the paper seems scandalous, like a student who buys a paper on the Internet. “I don’t feel really good about ghostwriting an article that is going to appear under the name of a doctor at Brown University who is going to get twenty-five hundred dollars to do nothing more than review it,” says Susan Gilbert, a writer who worked briefly for a medical communications agency before going into bioethics. “The whole structure of the business was wrong to me.

Over the past twenty years, the evidence that gifts and payments have a profound influence on doctors has become virtually indisputable. Doctors who are paid by a company are more likely to write prescriptions for that company’s drugs, more likely to give talks that are favorable to the company, and more likely to produce research that benefits the company.

More important, prescription tracking helped reps figure out which doctors to target. They no longer had to waste time and money on doctors with conservative prescribing habits; they could head straight to the high prescribers, or high writers.