One day many years ago, my brother Mark, then doing his residency in Philadelphia, called me at work, very excited. One of his patients, who suffered from Graves’ Disease, was not managing his illness properly, continuing to smoke and so forth, and his circulation had deteriorated to the point that one of his fingers had to be amputated, and Mark had performed the procedure, the first surgery he had ever done himself. I congratulated him on the milestone and hung up, just as my office-mate Jim was walking in. “What’s up,” Jim asked.
“My brother just cut off a finger!”
“Oh no,” Jim sympathized. “That’s terrible.”
“He’s a doctor,” I explained.
“Wow. Will he still be able to work, without the finger?”
Some things are just easier to roll with. “Yeah, he’ll be okay.”