Back in the day, I was an inexperienced and naïve child. Pursue your aspiration of becoming a physician by running towards a different city in a foreign land. In our generation, many children and students aspired to become doctors because they were inspired by the wealth and prestige associated with established physicians in our community. It was only upon entering Gadjah Mada Medical School, my alma mater, that I came to the realization that being a physician in this era does not necessarily mean being wealthy or esteemed.
In the grand hall of ambition, gilded with promises of wealth and power, there stands a doorway veiled in a paradox. It whispers, “Enter not, physician, for fortune eludes your grasp.” Yet, from within, a faint waltz emanates, a melody woven of dreams and compassion. This, the enigma of the healer’s path.
To chase riches within this hallowed chamber is akin to chasing dust motes in a moonbeam. For the doctor’s currency is not of clinking coins or sprawling estates, but of sighs of relief etched on pale faces, of trembling hands steadied, of whispered thanks echoing in sterile air.
The doctor’s wealth lies not in the marble halls of private practice, but in the flickering lanterns of rural clinics, where the night hums with mosquitoes and whispered pleas. It resides not in the sleek chrome of cutting-edge technology, but in the calloused hands that cradle newborns and mend shattered bones.
And yet, within this paradoxical poverty, a magnificent dance unfolds. For intertwined with the doctor’s sacrifice is the fulfillment of a dream, not of diamond-encrusted crowns, but of mending broken vessels of life, of alleviating the symphony of suffering. This is the waltz of humanity, a pirouette of empathy and skill, where compassion fuels the scalpel and understanding guides the stethoscope.
To choose this path is to embrace a love story with mortality, a tango with uncertainty. It is to stare into the abyss of pain and whisper solace, to hold death at bay with trembling hands and unwavering resolve. It is to be a witness to the tapestry of human frailty, woven with threads of hope and despair, laughter and tears.
And in this crucible of vulnerability, a profound wealth emerges. Not the wealth of materialism, but the riches of the soul, a currency minted in the sweat of toil, the quiet triumphs, the whispered gratitude. It is the wealth of a life lived on the precipice of existence, where every sunrise is a victory, every breath a blessing.
So, let the world chase its gilded dreams, its hollow echoes of prosperity. The doctor dances to a different tune, a waltz composed of whispers and stethoscopes, of sleepless nights and quiet miracles. For in the embrace of this paradox, where dreams and humanity tango, lies a wealth beyond measure, a treasure woven from the very fabric of life itself.
Choose this path, and you may not build empires of gold, but you will leave behind a legacy etched in tear-stained cheeks and grateful hearts. You will be the weaver of hope in the tapestry of despair, the conductor of the orchestra of healing, the artist whose brushstrokes paint a symphony of resilience on the canvas of human fragility.
This is the wealth of the physician, a treasure not for the counting, but for the living. For within the paradox of poverty lies a riches beyond comprehension, a wealth measured not in coin, but in the quiet dance of dreams and humanity.
Bhyllabus l'énigme 
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