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Harold W. Horowitz, MD
Valhalla, NY

JAMA. 2002;288:1327.

	Since this article does not have an abstract, we have provided the first 150 words of the full text and any section headings.

It's cold in here. Dark too. The dust is accumulating on my arms. I dread the day I become hoar-frosted like that desk over there behind the bookshelves. It's hard for me to believe that only six months ago I occupied the most luxurious office in the hospital. Carpeting, wonderful prints of some of the finest art hanging on freshly painted walls, windows facing the river and the palisades on its western shore, and beautiful Mission furniture from Larsen were just part of my intimate surroundings. Now I sit, several boxes boring into my back, propped on a footstool, tilted back, two legs in the air, balanced precariously on the third. Sure I complained some back then. After all, who doesn't? Like my ex-boss, I never fully appreciated what I had as we pressed to get so much into each day.

Now he's out and so . . . [Full Text of this Article]