Amazing things happen, but I am having trouble tell you about them.
I walk into rooms where strangers are waiting, which is a feat for me. Not a miracle, just a feat, like a diver diving: she does it frequently, but to do it well takes focus on technique in the beginning, and every time takes a leap.
The strangers tell me about problems they have, which astonishes me. I know I am becoming a doctor so that people can do just that, but I am still occasionally astonished along this protracted transition that I could ever be the receiver of so many personal things.
The list of amazing things goes on and on, and I won't have a paragraph for each one of them because that would tire out the parallelism, the author, and the reader. But I ask questions and examine people's bodies. I connect with some people, not with others. I figure out some problems, I hugely miss others. I watch people leave with feeling lighter, or more frustrated, or very heavy. And (right now at least) I watch the person's doctor as a third person and see how they tick: their choices, their omissions, their wisdom.
And I'm having trouble writing all these things down. They're too delicate and too powerful for written prose meant for the internet. A kingfisher can't dive through a train tunnel.
These stories can come out in speech to people close by, like my roommates. And maybe poetry or song would help (I don't know and neither will you, because all I am only a chorus voice who follows poetry haltingly.)
I'll keep trying, because I have seen beauty that would shake the earth. Bear with me while I try.