If you look at American medical fiction written by doctors, like

The words of Jed Mercurio pierce through the glittering veil of entertainment and speak directly to the heart of truth: “If you look at American medical fiction written by doctors, like ‘The House of God’ by Samuel Shem and ‘The Blood of Strangers’ by Frank Huyler, both have themes of cynicism and dysfunction running through them that you won't find in ‘ER.’ You find it in ‘Scrubs,’ but because that's a comedy, it gets away with it.” Though they speak of stories and shows, his words echo the eternal struggle between appearance and reality, between the shining surface of art and the dark truths it seeks to hide—or reveal.

In the realm of the ancients, the poets and philosophers knew well that stories were mirrors for the soul of a people. What they chose to reflect—and what they chose to conceal—revealed the state of their hearts. Mercurio’s reflection on medical fiction unveils a deeper truth: that beneath the noble robes of medicine lies not only compassion and genius but also exhaustion, despair, and imperfection. The doctor-writers like Shem and Huyler wrote not as entertainers but as witnesses. They saw the fractures within the temple of healing—the cynicism, the dysfunction, the quiet erosion of humanity that comes when those who heal others are themselves wounded by the weight of their duty.

“The House of God”, born in the 1970s, was more than a novel—it was a cry from the heart of medicine itself. Samuel Shem, once a physician, dared to reveal the shadow behind the white coat. His story, bitterly satirical, spoke of interns crushed beneath inhuman schedules, of compassion twisted into survival instinct, of laughter used as a shield against despair. It was truth told in disguise, for only through cynicism could he bear to tell it. And though readers laughed, they also wept, for they recognized in his words the quiet suffering of those sworn to heal.

Frank Huyler, in “The Blood of Strangers,” followed the same sacred path, writing not fiction alone but fragments of lived experience. His prose dripped with the loneliness of the emergency room, the fragile line between detachment and compassion, and the moral storms faced by every healer. These works, as Mercurio reminds us, were born from within the fire—they did not invent the dysfunction, they revealed it. In their pages, medicine was not an immaculate art, but a human struggle: noble, flawed, and painfully real.

Yet in the glossy world of television drama, the truth is often softened for the eye of the viewer. Shows like “ER” presented medicine as heroic, polished, and grand—a theater of life and death, but cleansed of its inner turmoil. It comforted, it inspired, but it did not disturb. Mercurio’s observation is thus a lament for truth lost to spectacle. For when truth is too raw, the world wraps it in glamour or disguises it in laughter. Hence, in “Scrubs”, comedy becomes the vessel of truth. Wrapped in humor, the pain of doctors, their doubts and absurdities, finds a way to speak freely. The jester, as the ancients taught, may tell truths that the wise dare not speak.

In these words lies a wisdom far beyond storytelling. They remind us that every profession, every soul, bears both light and shadow. When we show only the light, we dishonor the struggle; when we hide the shadow, we lose the depth of what it means to be human. The cynicism Mercurio speaks of is not bitterness—it is the scar left by compassion repeatedly wounded. To acknowledge it is not to glorify despair, but to bring healing to the healers themselves. For only in facing the truth of one’s weariness can the heart find renewal.

Consider the parable of Aesculapius, the ancient god of medicine. It was said that his power grew so great that he could raise the dead, and for this hubris, he was struck down by Zeus. Yet from his ashes rose the healing art we know today. The story reminds us that even in the realm of healing, there is imperfection, tragedy, and the risk of forgetting one’s own humanity. The greatest healers are not those who hide from dysfunction, but those who confront it with humility and grace.

So, my child of reflection, take this teaching to heart: wherever truth is softened, seek its rough edge. Whatever world you inhabit—be it medicine, art, or life—dare to look beyond the polished surface. Read not only the stories that comfort, but those that challenge and wound, for in them lies the pulse of reality. Learn from the laughter of “Scrubs,” but also from the lament of “The House of God.” Honor those who tell truth even when it trembles.

For in every age, there must be voices brave enough to show the world as it is—not to mock it, but to mend it. And that, as Jed Mercurio reminds us, is the highest duty of both the storyteller and the healer: to reveal the truth in all its pain, so that healing—of body, of heart, and of society—may truly begin.