I think, in picking a doctor, you should focus less on the degree

Host: The evening clinic sat at the edge of the city, where the noise of the streets softened into tired hums. Inside, the waiting room was half-lit, the air heavy with the smell of disinfectant and coffee gone cold. A few magazines lay scattered on a scratched wooden table — covers of smiling doctors and polished promises. But the hour was late now; the crowd had thinned.

Through the frosted glass, the neon sign outside blinked DOCTOR ON DUTY, though only two figures remained: Jack and Jeeny.

Jack sat behind the desk — his white coat unbuttoned, his tie loose, his eyes sharp and restless beneath the dull light. Across from him, Jeeny perched on the examination bed, her hands folded in her lap, her expression thoughtful and warm.

Jeeny: “You know what Dr. Mikhail Varshavski said? ‘In picking a doctor, you should focus less on the degree and more on their knowledge, bedside manner, communication, and patients’ experiences.’”

Jack: “Of course he said that. He’s ‘Doctor Mike,’ the Instagram physician — charming smile, flawless lighting. Easy to talk about bedside manner when your patients are online.”

Host: Jeeny smiled, but her eyes stayed serious. The light above them buzzed faintly, like a tired thought refusing to fade.

Jeeny: “That’s unfair, Jack. He’s right — credentials don’t always make a healer. You can have a Harvard degree and still treat patients like numbers. Medicine isn’t just science; it’s empathy with structure.”

Jack: “Empathy doesn’t stop internal bleeding. A degree means you’ve been tested — that you know the difference between compassion and malpractice.”

Jeeny: “No. A degree means you’ve studied. It doesn’t mean you’ve listened. That’s what Varshavski meant. The best doctors aren’t the ones with the most plaques on the wall — they’re the ones who make patients feel seen.”

Host: Jack leaned back, the chair creaking under him. The sound echoed faintly down the corridor. He rubbed his eyes with a tired hand.

Jack: “I’ve seen what happens when ‘feeling seen’ becomes more important than skill. Patients die because they trusted charisma over competence. You want a friend, talk to a therapist. You want a doctor, pick the one who’s cold enough to focus.”

Jeeny: “No, Jack. Coldness isn’t focus. It’s fear — fear of getting close. The best doctors balance both. They cut precisely because they care. You think Dr. Sydenham or Osler separated science from soul? Even they called medicine an art.”

Jack: “Art doesn’t save lives. Knowledge does.”

Jeeny: “But without humanity, knowledge becomes cruelty.”

Host: The air conditioner hummed, blowing a faint chill. A loose chart on the desk fluttered, a patient’s name half-visible before it stilled.

Jeeny: “You know what happened last week in the children’s ward? That intern from State — brilliant, top of his class — but every time he spoke to parents, they left crying. Not because he was wrong, but because he didn’t know how to speak to pain. I had to go in afterward and translate his diagnosis into compassion.”

Jack: “And what did that accomplish? The kid still needed surgery.”

Jeeny: “It accomplished understanding. It gave them dignity. You don’t cure people by fixing organs — you cure them by reminding them they’re more than their illness.”

Host: Jack’s fingers drummed against the table, slow and deliberate, like a heart counting its own defiance.

Jack: “You sound like a poet, not a physician. When you’re in an ER and someone’s coding, bedside manner doesn’t save them. Skill does. Discipline does.”

Jeeny: “And yet after they’re gone, who stays with the family? Who holds their hands? Who explains that you did everything you could? That part’s not in the textbooks, Jack. That’s the bedside.”

Jack: “You think patients care about bedside manner when they’re bleeding out?”

Jeeny: “They care before they bleed out. They care after they wake up. They care when you treat them like people instead of puzzles. Haven’t you noticed how the patients who trust you heal faster?”

Host: The fluorescent light above flickered once — twice — before steadying. Jeeny’s face softened. She wasn’t arguing anymore; she was pleading.

Jeeny: “Jack, I’ve seen you when the nurses cry. You stay late, even when your shift’s done. You hold hands too — you just pretend not to. That’s the doctor Varshavski was talking about.”

Jack: “That’s not compassion, Jeeny. That’s guilt.”

Jeeny: “No, Jack. That’s humanity trying to hide behind reason.”

Host: The clock ticked faintly in the background — an old, reliable sound, marking the time that neither of them seemed willing to keep.

Jack: “You know why I stopped introducing myself as ‘Doctor Jack’ outside this clinic? Because people look at you differently — they think you’re noble, infallible. But most of the time, I don’t feel noble. I feel scared. You make one mistake, and someone loses a life. There’s no Instagram filter for that.”

Jeeny: “That’s exactly why patients need your honesty. The ones who hide behind degrees forget that fear is part of caring. Dr. Varshavski wasn’t rejecting knowledge — he was reminding us that medicine is shared between bodies and hearts. Between the one who hurts and the one who helps.”

Jack: “Then what happens when the helper breaks?”

Jeeny: “Then they become human again.”

Host: The wind outside howled briefly, brushing against the windows like a ghost testing the glass. Inside, the world felt smaller — the kind of quiet that follows long nights of reflection and the steady drip of truth.

Jeeny: “You know the patient in room 304? The older woman with lung cancer? She told me you made her feel safe. Said you looked her in the eye and didn’t rush out of the room.”

Jack: “She’s dying.”

Jeeny: “Yes. And she said she’d rather die with a doctor who listened than live another month with one who didn’t.”

Host: Jack’s shoulders slumped. He looked down at his hands — strong, skilled, calloused — the tools of a healer and the weapons of a realist.

Jack: “You really think compassion is a substitute for competence?”

Jeeny: “No. I think compassion is competence — when it guides knowledge instead of replacing it. A surgeon without empathy is a machine. A healer without discipline is a risk. The art is balance.”

Jack: “You make it sound simple.”

Jeeny: “It’s not simple. It’s sacred.”

Host: The light dimmed slightly, softening the edges of the room. For the first time, Jack didn’t argue. He stared at the stethoscope on the desk — coiled, waiting — like a quiet symbol of the weight they both carried.

Jack: “When I was a med student, my professor told me, ‘If you can’t detach, you’ll burn out. If you can’t connect, you’ll harm.’ I never found the middle ground.”

Jeeny: “Maybe that’s because the middle ground isn’t a place — it’s a choice. You make it every time you walk into a room.”

Host: The clock ticked louder now — 11:57 p.m. — time bending toward another morning. Jack reached for his coat. Jeeny stood too, her notebook slipping shut.

Jack: “So, less on the degree, more on the person?”

Jeeny: “Always. A diploma can hang on a wall. Trust has to live in a voice.”

Jack: “You think patients can tell the difference?”

Jeeny: “They always do. You can’t fake kindness — not under pain.”

Host: They stood in silence. The light buzzed one last time, then fell still. Outside, the city pulsed faintly — ambulances, sirens, lives unfolding, breaking, healing.

Jack walked toward the door, then stopped, turning back.

Jack: “You know… maybe that’s what being a doctor really means. Knowing anatomy, but understanding sorrow.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. Medicine starts in the brain — but it ends in the heart.”

Host: They left the clinic, the hallway stretching before them like a thin artery of light. Their footsteps echoed softly — two rhythms in quiet agreement.

Behind them, the neon sign outside flickered once more:
DOCTOR ON DUTY.

This time, it didn’t feel like a warning — it felt like a promise.