I have a lot of strangers to thank today.

I don’t know how the bloody hell people who work in hospitals handle literal life and death in their care every day. I wish I did. I wish I had that kind of strength. Maybe it’s the joy of helping people get better, the sense of self-worth and just basic human goddam love that gets people through the pressure and the secret fears of failure and the occasional horror of seeing those fears come true.

And I don’t know where scientists find the persistence and cleverness to contrive remedies that not only attack but fight off counterattacks from hostile beings in a literally molecule-by-molecule theater of war. They don’t get thanked nearly enough, but they save lives every day.

But I do know this: somewhere out there, right this minute, are some labcoated people whom I will never meet, and in this moment, I actually love them. I swear to God that I do. I am grateful. I want to take them out for a beer and hear their stories and help them move heavy stuff and look the other way when they’re jerks because I know they’re really not.

Those of you who’ve read Prisoner of Trebekistan know that we’ve had some hairy moments in the family back in Ohio. I’ve been a little worried lately about the most recent one. Actually, a lot worried. I think the only real reason I distracted myself with The Sopranos for a day or two there, even though (as long-term readers here know full well) I usually don’t even care much about that kind of pop culture thing, has been so I had something else I could think about. Besides what I was thinking about. Which I really didn’t want to think about.

But I think now everything might be OK. I think.

In any case, I only regret that the people who invent and engage these magnificent molecular contraptions we call modern medicines will probably never hear how grateful I am for their work.

But I am. I truly am.

I complain like hell about the American health care system here sometimes, and rightly so. Whether you’d prefer a Canadian system or a French system or such, or even if you think the whole everything-for-profit model is the reason we have these medicines, whatever, you wouldn’t disagree that we really could do things here even better, and probably a lot better. I wish it could be the sort of national crusade and discussion too often reserved for whether to blow something up.

But this post isn’t about economics or a political debate. This isn’t about people with M.B.A.s and J.D.s. This is about M.D.s and Ph.D.s. And R.N.s and M.S.N.s.

If you read this, and you know a doctor or a molecular biologist or a caregiving nurse or someone young who really wants to be one, please hug the holy crap out of them today. I mean it. Tell them someone they don’t even know is grateful.

Thanks.

I have a lot of strangers to thank today.

I don’t know how the bloody hell people who work in hospitals handle literal life and death in their care every day. I wish I did. I wish I had that kind of strength. Maybe it’s the joy of helping people get better, the sense of self-worth and just basic human goddam love that gets people through the pressure and the secret fears of failure and the occasional horror of seeing those fears come true.

And I don’t know where scientists find the persistence and cleverness to contrive remedies that not only attack but fight off counterattacks from hostile beings in a literally molecule-by-molecule theater of war. They don’t get thanked nearly enough, but they save lives every day.

But I do know this: somewhere out there, right this minute, are some labcoated people whom I will never meet, and in this moment, I actually love them. I swear to God that I do. I am grateful. I want to take them out for a beer and hear their stories and help them move heavy stuff and look the other way when they’re jerks because I know they’re really not.

Those of you who’ve read Prisoner of Trebekistan know that we’ve had some hairy moments in the family back in Ohio. I’ve been a little worried lately about the most recent one. Actually, a lot worried. I think the only real reason I distracted myself with The Sopranos for a day or two there, even though (as long-term readers here know full well) I usually don’t even care much about that kind of pop culture thing, has been so I had something else I could think about. Besides what I was thinking about. Which I really didn’t want to think about.

But I think now everything might be OK. I think.

In any case, I only regret that the people who invent and engage these magnificent molecular contraptions we call modern medicines will probably never hear how grateful I am for their work.

But I am. I truly am.

I complain like hell about the American health care system here sometimes, and rightly so. Whether you’d prefer a Canadian system or a French system or such, or even if you think the whole everything-for-profit model is the reason we have these medicines, whatever, you wouldn’t disagree that we really could do things here even better, and probably a lot better. I wish it could be the sort of national crusade and discussion too often reserved for whether to blow something up.

But this post isn’t about economics or a political debate. This isn’t about people with M.B.A.s and J.D.s. This is about M.D.s and Ph.D.s. And R.N.s and M.S.N.s.

If you read this, and you know a doctor or a molecular biologist or a caregiving nurse or someone young who really wants to be one, please hug the holy crap out of them today. I mean it. Tell them someone they don’t even know is grateful.

Thanks.

The Dramatic Chipmunk!

Damn fine acting, if you ask me.

Man, there’s a lot of bad news, all in this one story.

Btw, while we’re on it: the Pakistan government cut a deal last September granting autonomy to North Waziristan, a remote section along the imaginary Afghan border. (I say "imaginary" here, despite rivers and whatnot, because the British drew it for their own purposes through the heart of Pashtun land — a bit like, I dunno, Germany drawing a big diagonal line through France from the Loire to the Rhone, then declaring the two sides separate countries. The locals weren’t exactly on board, so historically, it makes the US/Mexico border look like a thick brick wall. It’s really not useful to think of Afghanistan and Pakistan as all that separate.)

What that deal seems to have meant, in simple terms: the Taliban (who are Pashtun; Al-Qaeda, such as it is, is a bunch of foreigners, Arab and Uzbek and whatnot), who were supported by the Pakistani government for years in the first place, got control of the Pakistan side of the border, in exchange for promising, basically, to make sure everyone there plays nice. This is reportedly working out about as well as you’d guess.

The deal may soon collapse in any case, but here’s the even worse news: it basically reflected existing reality anyway; the central government has very little authority in the border regions. And Pakistan’s government looks out, curiously enough, for its own interests and stability, so there’s a limited amount they’ll eagerly take on to change the situation.

Meanwhile, the US and NATO are downstairs on the other side of the line, with little choice but to play off the back foot. Since the Taliban got its butt kicked after 9-11, most Americans I talk to seem to think that the deal is mostly closed. Nothing like it.

My next book is all about this sort of stuff, btw. More about that here soon.

Man, there’s a lot of bad news, all in this one story.

Btw, while we’re on it: the Pakistan government cut a deal last September granting autonomy to North Waziristan, a remote section along the imaginary Afghan border. (I say "imaginary" here, despite rivers and whatnot, because the British drew it for their own purposes through the heart of Pashtun land — a bit like, I dunno, Germany drawing a big diagonal line through France from the Loire to the Rhone, then declaring the two sides separate countries. The locals weren’t exactly on board, so historically, it makes the US/Mexico border look like a thick brick wall. It’s really not useful to think of Afghanistan and Pakistan as all that separate.)

What that deal seems to have meant, in simple terms: the Taliban (who are Pashtun; Al-Qaeda, such as it is, is a bunch of foreigners, Arab and Uzbek and whatnot), who were supported by the Pakistani government for years in the first place, got control of the Pakistan side of the border, in exchange for promising, basically, to make sure everyone there plays nice. This is reportedly working out about as well as you’d guess.

The deal may soon collapse in any case, but here’s the even worse news: it basically reflected existing reality anyway; the central government has very little authority in the border regions. And Pakistan’s government looks out, curiously enough, for its own interests and stability, so there’s a limited amount they’ll eagerly take on to change the situation.

Meanwhile, the US and NATO are downstairs on the other side of the line, with little choice but to play off the back foot. Since the Taliban got its butt kicked after 9-11, most Americans I talk to seem to think that the deal is mostly closed. Nothing like it.

My next book is all about this sort of stuff, btw. More about that here soon.