It was like torture was what it was.
'What kind of man are you?' Such bitter words. He liked to think of himself as what he professed himself to be - a Doctor, a man who helped others, who fixed things, who made life better for the rest. He had not thought, that day, when he'd chosen his own name, of the consequences and occupational hazards that came with the medical professional he was aligning himself with.
Doctors did help people, yes. But it was only by fixing the broken. There were births, but there was also labor. There were miracle healings, but only where there was sickness, brokenness, and the looming promise of Death. There was salvation, but only where there was someone who needed to be saved. The fire could only be quenched where it burned, and the Doctor was only of use where there was unwholeness. But a Doctor was not a fighting man, he didn't desire to kill, and he had an oath taken that swore he would try to save as many as he could. He gave even the lowest, cheapest lowlife the opportunity for life, even if he didn't deserve it, but only because it was not within his powers to decide who would live and die. Death did that, he merely tried to prolong life, and to protect, and to heal and help and fix and mend.
But he'd been broken himself.
One of the ways a Doctor was always needed was in the battleground. A medic. A man who could move amongst the soldiers, anticipate the dangers they were putting themselves in, be able to repair them, make them new, and protect them from future risks, be it a virus, the flu, or a species of alien bent on the destruction of all of Creation. But as a medic, he was only there to help. He was not there to order genocide, or to kill, or to even maim. He was there to solve the puzzles that needed to be solved and to mend what needed to be mended. But he also had to know when there was nothing that could be done to save someone. Sometimes, an amputation was the best course. Sometimes, a Doctor had to remove a viral hand to prevent it from infecting the whole system.
Like in the question of "Earth or the whole universe?" "Pompeii or all of Earth?" "Rose or the universe?" Not all of them were easy to answer, but as a Doctor, he was left with that burden, that unfortunate weight, and that responsibility. Like a surgeon had to decide how much of a leg needed to be lost for the patient to survive the gangrene, and how much could be spared to give him a chance at an uninhibited life, he had to make these choices.
It was hard to make those choices, but it came with the job. It was all in a day's work for the Doctor.
'What kind of man are you?' Such bitter words. He liked to think of himself as what he professed himself to be - a Doctor, a man who helped others, who fixed things, who made life better for the rest. He had not thought, that day, when he'd chosen his own name, of the consequences and occupational hazards that came with the medical professional he was aligning himself with.
Doctors did help people, yes. But it was only by fixing the broken. There were births, but there was also labor. There were miracle healings, but only where there was sickness, brokenness, and the looming promise of Death. There was salvation, but only where there was someone who needed to be saved. The fire could only be quenched where it burned, and the Doctor was only of use where there was unwholeness. But a Doctor was not a fighting man, he didn't desire to kill, and he had an oath taken that swore he would try to save as many as he could. He gave even the lowest, cheapest lowlife the opportunity for life, even if he didn't deserve it, but only because it was not within his powers to decide who would live and die. Death did that, he merely tried to prolong life, and to protect, and to heal and help and fix and mend.
But he'd been broken himself.
One of the ways a Doctor was always needed was in the battleground. A medic. A man who could move amongst the soldiers, anticipate the dangers they were putting themselves in, be able to repair them, make them new, and protect them from future risks, be it a virus, the flu, or a species of alien bent on the destruction of all of Creation. But as a medic, he was only there to help. He was not there to order genocide, or to kill, or to even maim. He was there to solve the puzzles that needed to be solved and to mend what needed to be mended. But he also had to know when there was nothing that could be done to save someone. Sometimes, an amputation was the best course. Sometimes, a Doctor had to remove a viral hand to prevent it from infecting the whole system.
Like in the question of "Earth or the whole universe?" "Pompeii or all of Earth?" "Rose or the universe?" Not all of them were easy to answer, but as a Doctor, he was left with that burden, that unfortunate weight, and that responsibility. Like a surgeon had to decide how much of a leg needed to be lost for the patient to survive the gangrene, and how much could be spared to give him a chance at an uninhibited life, he had to make these choices.
It was hard to make those choices, but it came with the job. It was all in a day's work for the Doctor.