Money, awards, recognition, promotions — those don’t mean a thing to me.
The real reward for me comes when patients cook.
This lasagna that Francesco’s just brought me: He made it without ricotta cheese, because he remembered that I don’t like it.
As he steps in, I barely have time to register the delicious smell before I hear him exclaim: “Dottoré, I’ve made you something!”
This fills my heart with joy — before it fills my belly. That’s when I realize that, as a psychiatrist, I must be doing something right.
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