My buddies and I started medical school like children. We studied human body like it was the world, and we stayed up late nights drinking beer and studying physiology by our campfire. After two years of this we were let loose around the hospital. We worked hard and we took care of patients. We slept very little, but we were good at what we do. When it came time for us to choose our specialty, I went into general surgery at the best residency program in the US thinking I would go to Africa after my training. My friends went into various specialties and we all went separate ways.

Intern year was no sleep, much soda pops and crying alone each time a patient died. I learned so much and became that much harder inside. By the time residency was over, I was able to sleep 5 hours a day on average and still do emergency surgery without batting an eyelash. In fact, my patients liked me so much that I had to borrow a friend's SUV to bring home all the Christmas presents of my last residency year. My attendings loved me and the Chief of the hospital begged me to stay promising me that I would be able to practice and help people as much as I want to. He even told me that I could take 6 months out of the year to go to Africa, so I stayed and became an young assistant professor of surgery at the world renowned hospital.

I worked for the next five years and made a lot of money, and I even received a full professorship through the university to which my hospital belonged. I was working more than ever and never once was allowed to go to Africa because the hospital was always short on hands. One morning I woke up to a rising sun in my 20th story condo and I realized that I was fucking dead inside. My childhoodish dream was still waiting for me to catch up. I drove my Porsche to the hospital that morning and told the Chief, "I am going to Africa. Here's my resignation letter. Sorry." I walked out while the Chief was still in denial of what was happening. I didn't return his calls; the letter was enough.

I liquidated all my assets in 2 months into a Swiss account and joined Doctors Without Borders to learn the ropes. I worked in a post-conflict region in an unnamed country in Africa where I developed even connections. I worked 14 hours every day and studied French 2 hours each night with a nurse. After my contract with Doctors Without Borders, I stayed in town and helped develop the community with the money I had saved up - eventually building a hospital and a medical school. In my spare time, I built myself a small house with two bedrooms, a bathroom, and a kitchen and living area next to the beach. I liked how things were turning around in town. That nurse ended up moving in with me.

By this time, I started calling my old friends from medical school. They were making a ton of money but were just as dead in their heart. I asked many friends to join me and a few of them did come visit me to volunteer and also to relax. One friend who is a radiologist even decided to quit fucking everything back in the States and start anew at the town where I lived. I was really glad because we were paying a lot to have our xrays read by outside agencies.

Next ten years, we woke up every morning to help people without worries about money or politics. The hospital by this time was pretty much self running through government insurance program and by the doctors from the medical school. On the tenth anniversary of the hospital opening, that radiologist friend and I sat down by the beach drinking local beer and listening to Bob Marley and watched healthy children play in the water. My friend asked me, "Wilbur, do you know what day it is?" I replied "no, I don't know... Is it Saturday?" without much thought. He said, "I don't know, either, bro." We both smiled into the sunset. My hair was now turning white but I was still very young in my heart.

I was a child again.