Looking back, I suspect that throughout my childhood and adolescence my father waged a covert campaign to ensure I would not want to become a physician through over-exposure. When I was young he'd take me with him to the hospital on the weekends when he got called in to do an emergency CAT scan, and subsequently film and video game gore seems poorly contrived. Too gushy. Instead of having water guns, I had 500ml syringes to play with and I'm still not convinced that a Super Soaker is any better, and syringes don't have to be pressurized to work. I grew up with scrubs for pajamas. He took the X-rays whenever I broke a bone, and he always assumed it was a sprain unless my joints were visibly distorted. And he fixed everything, and I mean everything, with hemostats. Cars, lamps, light sockets, locks, fans, clothes. I had to turn a pair of hemostats to turn on the lights in my room.
Well, his campaign worked. Although I can still carve poetry with a scalpel when needed, I was one of maybe 7 students in my molecular biology program that weren't pre-med. Instead I am a scientist, and my father is just glad that I'm not trying to pay rent by playing bass guitar. Because if I'd managed to succeed already at the latter he'd have to admit that he was wrong to groan each time I happily hauled a new bass guitar, effects pedal, or amp into the house. This way he can just be confused about what I do and that's easier.
Hyvä Isänpäivä, Isä!
Happy Father's Day, Dad!
Two interviews and a podcast
1 week ago