Registered Doctor Quotes

Ethan sidled next to me, a hand propped on the shelf. “Come here often?” he said. “Excuse me?” “I see you’re here in this”—he gestured at the shelves—“library all alone. You must be a student here?” He traced a fingertip down the hollow of my throat, lifting goose bumps on my arms. Since my mind hardly worked when he did things like that, it took a moment for his words to register. Was he initiating a bout of role-playing … about a library? “Ethan Sullivan,” I marveled. “You have a library fantasy.” He smiled slyly. “I have a doctoral-student-turned-vampire fantasy.

Despite how lost I feel, this situation is familiar. That someone is asking my consent as if I have a choice. Pay to see a doctor or suffer. Register with the ODR or go to debtors' prison. Go down on Dutch or be humiliated - punished. Impossible choices I've made, if you can call it that. I know when I say, "Yes," it's the same, here.

Yes. You see, the whole nature, shape and even the modern blue pigment of the TARDIS is so deeply unfamiliar to the primitive mind that, although the optic nerve registers its presence, the brain cannot decode what it is seeing. The primitive visual cortex is unable to relay information about it consciously to the viewer. In effect, even though her chameleon circuit is still damaged, she’s as good as invisible. She’ll be just fine.

We could go into the hotel and register as Doctor and Mrs. Livingstone I presume, he thought.

I wiped my eyes on my sleeve and jumped when I turned and found Ren’s brother standing behind me as a man. Ren got up, alert, and watched him carefully, suspicious of Kishan’s every move. Ren’s tail twitched back and forth, and a deep grumble issued from his chest. Kishan look down at Ren, who had crept even closer to keep an eye on him, and then looked back at me. He reached out his hand, and when I placed mine in it, he lifted it to his lips and kissed it, then bowed deeply with great aplomb. “May I ask your name?” “My name is Kelsey. Kelsey hayes.” “Kelsey. Well, I, for one, appreciate all the efforts you have made on our behalf. I apologize if I frightened you earlier. I am,” he smiled, “out of practice in conversing with young ladies. These gifts you will be offering to Durga. Would you kindly tell me more about them?” Ren growled unhappily. I nodded. “Is Kishan your given name?” “My full name is actually Sohan Kishan Rajaram, but you can call me Kishan if you like.” He smiled a dazzling white smile, which was even more brilliant due to the contrast with his dark skin. He offered an arm. “Would you please sit and talk with me, Kelsey?” There was something very charming about Kishan. I surprised myself by finding I immediately trusted and liked him. He had a quality similar to his brother. Like Ren, he had the ability to set a person completely at ease. Maybe it was their diplomatic training. Maybe it was how their mother raised them. Whatever it was made me respond positively. I smiled at him. “I’d love to.” He tucked my arm under his and walked with me over to the fire. Ren growled again, and Kishan shot a smirk in his direction. I noticed him wince when he sat, so I offered him some aspirin. “Shouldn’t we be getting you two to a doctor? I really think you might need stitches and Ren-“ “Thank you, but no. You don’t need to worry about our minor pains.” “I wouldn’t exactly call your wounds minor, Kishan.” “The curse helps us to heal quickly. You’ll see. We’ll both recover swiftly enough on our own. Still, it was nice to have such a lovely young woman tending to my injuries.” Ren stood in front of us and looked like he was a tiger suffering from apoplexy. I admonished, “Ren, be civil.” Kishan smiled widely and waited for me to get comfortable. Then he scooted closer to me and rested his arm on the log behind my shoulders. Ren stepped right between us, nudged his brother roughly aside with his furry head, creating a wider space, and maneuvered his body into the middle. He dropped heavily to the ground and rested his head in my lap. Kishan frowned, but I started talking, sharing the story of what Ren and I had been through. I told him about meeting Ren at the circus and about how he tricked me to get me to India. I talked about Phet, the Cave of Kanheri, and finding the prophecy, and I told him that we were on our way to Hampi. As I lost myself in our story, I stroked Ren’s head. He shut his eyes and purred, and then he fell asleep. I talked for almost an hour, barely registering Kishan’s raised eyebrow and thoughtful expression as he watched the two of us together. I didn’t even notice when he’d changed back into a tiger.

Her attention had drifted a little and, by the time she realized what he had said, the words had passed on to the crew. She registered suddenly a murmur of concerned messages between them, and even simple spoken words whispered between those closest to her. Doctor Mercian meanwhile sent her an alert on another channel: ‘Why is Sering in the engine core?

When there is no way of knowing exactly how long our skeins will run--and when we imagine ourselves to have much more time than we do--our every impulse is to fight, to die with chemo in our veins or a tube in our throats or fresh sutures in our flesh. The fact that we may be shortening or worsening the time we have left hardly seems to register. We imagine that we can wait until the doctors tell us that there is nothing more they can do. But rarely is there nothing more that doctors can do. They can give toxic drugs of unknown efficacy, operate to try to remove part of the tumor, put in a feeding tube if a person can't eat: there's always something. We want these choices. But that doesn't mean we are eager to make the choices ourselves. Instead, most often, we make no choice at all. We fall back on the default, and the default is: Do Something. Fix Something. Is there any way out of this?

He found Whitebread curled up in the chair like a cat, her hand touching Blake’s. She was sleeping, and Beckett had almost turned tail to leave her in peace when Blake’s eyes snapped open. “The fuck!?” Beckett ran to Blake’s side as his brother’s face registered the room in panic. Whitebread popped up and was almost nose-to-nose with Blake immediately. Beckett leaned around her and held his brother’s flailing arms. Livia spoke in a soft, urgent voice. “Blake? They have you on a ventilator; this thing in your mouth needs to be removed by the doctor. Just calm down. Look, I’m here. I’m here. See? It’s okay. Just try to be calm.” Whitebread stroked Blake’s cheek.

They did not speak of this together. At night he worked downstairs while she slept, and during the morning she managed the restaurant alone. When they worked together he stayed behind the cash register and looked after the kitchen and the tables, as was their custom. They did not talk except on matters of business, but Biff would stand watching her with his face puzzled. Then in the afternoon of the eighth of October there was a sudden cry of pain from the room where they slept. Biff hurried upstairs. Within an hour they had taken Alice to the hospital and the doctor had removed from her a tumor almost the size of a new-born child. And then within another hour Alice was dead. Biff sat by her bed at the hospital in stunned reflection. He had been present when she died. Her eyes had been drugged and misty from the ether and then they hardened like glass. The nurse and the doctor withdrew from the room. He continued to look into her face. Except for the bluish pallor there was little difference. He noted each detail about her as though he had not watched her every day for twenty-one years. Then gradually as he sat there his thoughts turned to a picture that had long been stored inside him.

Well before the end of the 20th century however print had lost its former dominance. This resulted in, among other things, a different kind of person getting elected as leader. One who can present himself and his programs in a polished way, as Lee Quan Yu you observed in 2000, adding, “Satellite television has allowed me to follow the American presidential campaign. I am amazed at the way media professionals can give a candidate a new image and transform him, at least superficially, into a different personality. Winning an election becomes, in large measure, a contest in packaging and advertising. Just as the benefits of the printed era were inextricable from its costs, so it is with the visual age. With screens in every home entertainment is omnipresent and boredom a rarity. More substantively, injustice visualized is more visceral than injustice described. Television played a crucial role in the American Civil rights movement, yet the costs of television are substantial, privileging emotional display over self-command, changing the kinds of people and arguments that are taken seriously in public life. The shift from print to visual culture continues with the contemporary entrenchment of the Internet and social media, which bring with them four biases that make it more difficult for leaders to develop their capabilities than in the age of print. These are immediacy, intensity, polarity, and conformity. Although the Internet makes news and data more immediately accessible than ever, this surfeit of information has hardly made us individually more knowledgeable, let alone wiser, as the cost of accessing information becomes negligible, as with the Internet, the incentives to remember it seem to weaken. While forgetting anyone fact may not matter, the systematic failure to internalize information brings about a change in perception, and a weakening of analytical ability. Facts are rarely self-explanatory; their significance and interpretation depend on context and relevance. For information to be transmuted into something approaching wisdom it must be placed within a broader context of history and experience. As a general rule, images speak at a more emotional register of intensity than do words. Television and social media rely on images that inflamed the passions, threatening to overwhelm leadership with the combination of personal and mass emotion. Social media, in particular, have encouraged users to become image conscious spin doctors. All this engenders a more populist politics that celebrates utterances perceived to be authentic over the polished sound bites of the television era, not to mention the more analytical output of print. The architects of the Internet thought of their invention as an ingenious means of connecting the world. In reality, it has also yielded a new way to divide humanity into warring tribes. Polarity and conformity rely upon, and reinforce, each other. One is shunted into a group, and then the group polices once thinking. Small wonder that on many contemporary social media platforms, users are divided into followers and influencers. There are no leaders. What are the consequences for leadership? In our present circumstances, Lee's gloomy assessment of visual media's effects is relevant. From such a process, I doubt if a Churchill or Roosevelt or a de Gaulle can emerge. It is not that changes in communications technology have made inspired leadership and deep thinking about world order impossible, but that in an age dominated by television and the Internet, thoughtful leaders must struggle against the tide.

Months beforehand I started focusing my Manhattanite efficiency on getting registered in Italy, Andrea leading me by the hand through the wilderness of Old World red tape. The first step was “getting my documents together,” an Italian ritual repeated before every encounter with officialdom. Sticking to a list kindly provided by the Italian Consulate, I collected my birth certificate, passport, high school diploma, college diploma, college transcript, medical school diploma, medical school transcript, certificates of internship and residency, National Board Examination certificates, American Board of Internal Medicine test results, and specialization diploma. Then I got them transfigured into Italian by the one person in New York authorized by the Italian Consulate to crown his translation with an imprimatur. We judiciously gave him a set of our own translations as crib notes, tailored by my husband to match the Rome medical school curriculum. I wrote a cover letter from Andrea’s dictation. It had to be in my own hand, on a folded sheet of double-sized pale yellow ruled Italian paper embossed with a State seal, and had to be addressed “To the Magnificent Rector of the University of Rome.” You have to live in Italy a while to appreciate the theatrical elegance of making every fiddler a Maestro and every teacher a Professoressa; even the most corrupt member of the Italian parliament is by definition Honorable, and every client of a parking lot is by default, for lack of any higher title, a Doctor (“Back up, Dotto’, turn the wheel hard to the left, Dotto’”). There came the proud day in June when I got to deposit the stack of documents in front of a smiling consular official in red nail polish and Armani. After expressing puzzlement that an American doctor would want to move to her country (“You medical people have it so good here”), she Xeroxed my certificates, transcripts, and diplomas, made squiggles on the back to certify the Xeroxes were “authentic copies,” gave me back the originals, and assured me that she’d get things processed zip zip in Italy so that by the time I left for Rome three months later I’d have my Italian license and be ready to get a job. Don’t call me, I’ll call you. When we were about to fly in September and I still hadn’t heard from her, I went to check. Found the Xeroxes piled up on Signora X’s desk right where I’d left them, and the Signora gone for a month’s vacation. Slightly put out, I snatched up the stack to hand-carry over (re-inventing a common expatriate method for avoiding challenges to the efficiency of the Italian mails), prepared to do battle with the system on its own territory.

One of the crucial documents for the Ordine dei Medici, it turned out, was an Italian passport. Until then nobody had bothered to mention this potentially insurmountable obstacle. It happened I did have a right to citizenship, but since it would be bestowed on me automatically by my Italian husband (Italian husbands are less powerful nowadays), the passport logically hung on Italian recognition of our American marriage, which was in turn predicated on Italian recognition of my husband’s American divorce from a prior marriage. The divorce certification, based on various Byzantine legal fictions, was a long time coming. One time there was a false sighting of his Italian divorce, and I optimistically went down to the Anagrafe or Central Registry to see whether I could get my citizenship papers. At the end of the forty-five-minute line a small man with slicked-down hair took my documents with a yawn and disappeared into the dark forest of files. When the clerk emerged, the bored look was gone from his face. He invited me to follow him along the long bank of teller windows, he on his side me on mine, and then pass through a little gate to the employee side. He sat me down, then paced between piled-up dossiers for a minute, no grille window to screen him off, before speaking. “Ms. Levenstein,” he said kindly, “You have applied for Italian citizenship on the grounds of being married to a certain Andrea Di Vecchia.” I admitted that was true. He paced a little more, lit a cigarette. “Ms. Levenstein,” he said again, even more gently, and I should have caught on from the way he repeated it. “I must tell you something. This Mr. Di Vecchia—he is already married to another woman!” His hand was already out to give a comforting squeeze to my shoulder, but it dropped when I laughed and explained that the problem was red tape, not bigamy. I thought later, high drama must be rare behind the certificate window, and he had risen to its call. How many American file clerks would have been so ready for their unexpected moment of glory? Another problem involved my residence papers, a crucial component in any pile of documents. All residents in Italy must communicate changes of address to the State within three months, and when we left my mother-in-law’s for our own place eight months earlier we had duly registered the move. But when I went to pick up an identity document I was told it couldn’t be issued because I was still listed at my old address. I slyly told the clerk in the cage to hold on, scurried over from his Identity Card window to the Certificate window three paces away, had the printer spit out a Residence Certificate bearing my name and the new address, and carried it back in triumph. He wasn’t impressed. “Oh, that certificate. That’s from the computer, it’s not worth anything. Your address has been changed in the computer, but the computerized part of the system doesn’t count.

Chiltern Medical Clinic is run by Dr Niall Munnelly and his supportive team consisting of highly experienced medical aesthetic doctors, surgeons, nurses and laser therapists. We have two clinics, located in Goring-on-Thames and Reading that are both modern and friendly aesthetics clinics and regulated by the Care Quality Commission. They deliver a number of cutting-edge treatments that can only be offered by a registered doctor. All of our treatments are suitable for both men and women alike.

Immediately he tested me with his magic machine. Within two minutes he had touched my heart meridian with the probe and the machine registered very low energy. The doctor looked at me, slightly concerned, and said, “Son you have a heart problem.” I was shocked at how quickly the diagnosis came. Just as quickly he stated, “Let me find out where it is.

I seriously wish that he had spent his entire childhood being serially arse-raped by teachers, scoutmasters, members of the clergy, relatives, policemen, doctors, door-to-door salesmen and all registered sex offenders within a 500-mile radius of his unprotected bedroom.

Shimba Technologies, developed a mobile medical directory and “knowledge app,” MedAfrica, to address the health challenges in its home country, where there are only 7,000 registered doctors in a country of 40 million people. The World Bank puts the doctor per 1,000 person ratio of Kenya at 0.2; in the United States, that number is more than ten times larger—2.4 as of 2010. To

SPEND A DAY in an emergency room, and chances are you’ll be struck by two things: the organizational chaos and the emotional detachment as nurses, doctors, and administrators bustle in and out, barely registering the human distress it is their job to address.

The “thing” in their hands not only kept them in touch, but it directed the lives of Eighth Cycle citizens. They would just swipe their hands past an “eye” at the “storehouses” where they would get their food and supplies. A device not only registered but controlled what they obtained. It also reminded them when to go in to see a doctor, which Joseph had mentioned to Sinclair was designated by the Athabaskan word for shaman. Within this part of the information was a great deal of detail about medicines, ceremonies and other archaic notions of medicine. Sinclair suspected the Athabaskan words concealed something sinister with regard to the constant monitoring of every citizen’s health.

Bernie and Connie were preparing to move to Florida; Eli was making preparations to buy a house in Brooklyn, for himself and for us. All three sisters were residing there and it was natural to be moving to that borough. Eli got a low mortgage as a veteran of World War II and some help from Mother's brother Morris. Thus, Bernie spent a few weeks with us, before leaving New York, in the fall of 1947. He took Father to the doctors, helped me register in Queens College, for the remainder of the semester, since I had missed the start of the term at Columbia.

Chapter 11 The Vital Force Let’s pretend we are in a make-believe world and that there are 2 people in a room. One is a doctor, the other is a patient. The doctor is color blind but doesn’t know it. The doctor can’t see the color yellow at all. The patient is suffering from a rare disease that has given him chronic headaches, anemia, and has turned his skin completely yellow from head to foot. When the doctor tries to figure out what is going on with the patient, he will completely miss the fact that the patient is yellow. It won’t even register to him. Because of his color blindness that he is completely unaware of, the diagnosis that he makes will be flawed and incomplete, no matter how skilled he is, or how many lab tests he does, Now – in the above pretend scenario, it is possible that the illness that has turned the patient’s skin yellow will have other signs and symptoms that the doctor will discover (like the headaches and anemia), and it is possible that if the doctor treats those symptoms with a medicine that is strong enough, it will impact the patient’s system, and create some result. But because of the doctor’s inherent color blindness, he will be initiating a lopsided treatment, and if anything gets cured, it will be by chance

Noise pollution activates the fight-or-flight nervous system. Since healing requires people to be in the rest-and-digest state, noise pollution can impede healing. And being stuck in fight-or-flight is, in fact, a cause of immune dysfunction and inflammation. Even noise that isn’t consciously registered, like traffic sounds in the background or dogs barking while people slept, can cause stress responses to rise, and hence, inflammation to rise.

Even though we know that artificial sweeteners actually cause type 2 diabetes22 and weight gain, slow metabolism, increase hunger,23 and alter gut flora or bacteria to promote obesity and type 2 diabetes,24 they are still recommended by the ADA, diabetes doctors, and registered dietitians. That’s right. Artificial sweeteners make you fat and diabetic!

We are overeducated pharmacy clerks (with doctorate degrees) answering the phone, running the cash register, ringing up donuts and dish soap while juggling 10 or more drug related issues per minute with our one technician yelling “Override!

DOCTOR: Mr. Jones, I’ve got your cholesterol levels here. (beat) Okay, you are aware your blood is not moving? GRAVY DRINKER: (nods) DOCTOR: This is kind of a strange question. Um. You haven’t been drinking gravy, have ya? Because based on the test results you’re, like, 90 percent meat by-product. GRAVY DRINKER: (nods) DOCTOR: We’re going to have to register you with the government.

The simplest kind of control that is afforded by this feedback loop is the so-called stretch reflex, which is illustrated by the knee-jerk test which most of us have experienced in the doctor’s office. The common tendon of the quadriceps is tapped with a rubber mallet just below the knee-cap, and this tap has the effect of a sharp tug on the muscle fibers of the thigh. This sudden change in length of the thigh muscles is registered by the anulospiral receptors, which in turn stimulate in the spinal cord the motor neurons which power the thigh, causing a brief contraction of the thigh muscles which makes the foot jerk forward in a healthy reflex. This automatic contraction has the effect of keeping the thigh muscles at a constant length regardless of outside forces acting upon it, and makes it possible to maintain erect posture in spite of external disturbances. The components of this arc are like a miniature or primitive nervous system, a microcosm of our nervous system as a whole, a system which “in its simplest form is merely a mechanism by which a muscular movement can be initiated by some change in peri-ipheral sensation.” My spindles and their reflex arcs are tiny neural units that monitor and influence motor events that are so continuous and so numerous that they would totally overwhelm my conscious mind. Even if I could keep track of the changing lengths of every one of my millions of muscle cells, I certainly would have no room left to think about anything else.

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Bohbeh’s eyes gradually registered something. “I’m not a doctor, but I think you might be pregnant.” “What?!” Miyoko’s eyes blinked in slow motion, like she was coming out of a dream. “I haven’t seen Hojoon in almost three months.