Depression

I have very little recollection of what happened for the rest of that afternoon. My master did rush back to the ward and made several phone called, and the woman was transferred to a tertiary heart surgery center before sun set. I never saw her afterwards - my master and I were soon attracted by other patients and the membership papers.

But I do remember very well the happy footstep of my master when he was rushing back to the ward. (In fact the next time I found him walking in the same joyful manner was nearly two years later - when he knew he passed the Royal College examination.) Yes, it was the kind of footsteps that come with a combination of relief, self satisfaction, and return of confidence.

And I remember after my master secured the woman in the ambulance and saw her departure, Dr. Lai tapped on his shoulder and said, "Well, after all, your stethoscope did not let you down, and it was most probable that there was really no murmur on the night of admission. Atrial myxoma classically has rapidly changing murmur because ..." For a moment I was just too happy to listen any more.

When I cooled down at night, however, I became less sure whether I should really be satisfied. Yes, I did provide correct information to my master - but what did I actually contribute ? The disease was confirmed by the expensive creature with a digital screen downstairs rather than some humble rubber tubing with a metallic bell like myself. Worse still, the noble was operated by his master who did not (have to) complete five years of medical school - my master used to call him some "technician". Alas, if I had never met my master, he would have make the diagnosis by simply asking an expensive creature to visit that woman.