I was raised in a family of medical people: father, brother, son, to name a few. Where other kids in our neighborhood might have had a Cross or a Star of David hanging over their beds, I had a caduceus. Thus, you must immediately ask, why am I writing columns such as this? Well, the answer is relatively simple. To repeat the famous cliche, I really couldn't stand the sight of blood, especially my own.

In fact, on weekends, as a kid, I used to drive with my father and make rounds at various hospitals after, of course, we had a gigantic bacon and egg breakfast at a diner where the truckers stopped. Entering a hospital and seeing what was there didn't rest too well with those bacon and eggs. I needed a safer, more digestible profession.

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