Flashback four days before. I stepped into an operating theatre for the first time. My first instinct was to ask for blankets as I lay on the table waiting for the anesthetist. It wasn't particularly something I would define as an operation, since it only involved an innocuous part of my foot - a toe. Still, it was an intriguing place to be in, at least that's what I thought. My first observation was that doctors appeared in blue, female nurses in pink and male nurses in yellow. I tried to find a reflecting spot on their gigantic operating table lamps above to witness the operation process but failed terribly. In between shivers, I couldn't help but smile when nurses just poured attentively over me, bringing blankets (even more of them) and asking me if I were feeling okay every 5 minutes. Strangely, all the nurses seem to remember my name. I glanced at the tools they used, the attention they paid, the concentration they had, and the electricity to run this entire sacred room - all for but a single toe. 

Fast forward four days - back to the camp's medical centre. Medics seen running errands everywhere, albeit in a more chaotic manner. There were no female nurses, and there were seldom smiles, if any. Orders were shouted across the centre, and patient forms get mixed up or go missing ever too often. A stark difference for two groups of people working in the same industry isn't it?

In the midst of my three and a half hour long wait, I wanted many of times to ask what was going on, but decided against it since my case was just simply a submission of documentation which will be obviously placed in lower priority compared to those with an on-site condition. Then the worst happened. I was the second last patient left in the medical centre and they declared they lost my form. I took a glance at the clock and it was already six-fifteen. Then everything started happening as though someone pushed a button. Every medic began searching for the lost form, and a few decided to accelerate things by requesting I fill up another while they inquire about my medical history. There was it - scenes of medics running around chaotically again, but this time it hit me.

No doubt it was chaotic, they did it for me, for them, for every single patient. They are at hard work because of them. This puts them at no difference with the staff at the hospital four days back. They were attentive when they needed to be, and concentrated when it was time. They apologized for their mistake but I was more than ready to forgive them. Perhaps a reasonable person they see today might make up for an impatient patient the next. I got to see the MO shortly and left the centre at six-thirty.

Now I see why they call it a calling. Whether or not those medics did the rushing so they could book out early, it still shows they care, and care is the most important attribute in this health care industry isn't it? While men who stay out books out at five-thirty or even earlier, the MO I last saw was still in the midst of busy work at six-thirty. He had no airs, no signs of impatience, just care, concern and professionalism. Ultimately, there is no comparison here, as both parties deserve the utmost honour and appreciation. It is no wonder why they choose the best to receive this sacred calling.