My favorite word is miracle. It is a word of impossible possibilities. I know this is a paradox, but it's accurate. Recently I imagined what it would be like to witness a miracle first hand.
             I am a young medical student with clearance to observe a master surgeon at work. I stared through the glass into a sterile environment free of virulence yet clouded by fears and apprehension. A man's life hangs in the balance. After years of his gluttony, the plaque has closed up his tunneling arteries. Now, his life rests in the hands of a masked surgeon. Armored in sturdy, sterile scrubs, I take my first step onto a medical battlefield. Something is in the air: maybe it is the stifling nervousness; maybe a hint of sweat; or maybe the epinephrine. But, it is there and it is overwhelming.
             Standing there next to the operating table, I witness a surgery which is a purely amazing, awe-inspiring event. I watch the physician perform as heavenly a miracle as mere mortals will ever dare. A man's life, on the cusp of death, is saved that day, right before my eyes. Previously, my view of medicine was that it was practiced by apathetic automatons, worried only about insurance rather than disease. I wasn't sure such a career would be right for me. And so, this day, as my eyes focus on the robotic figure working feverishly before me, I study his technique, stature and composure. I meticulously search for signs of humanity, slight and subtle irregularities. Perhaps a waver in his speech or maybe a gaze of vulnerability would be indicative of his humanity. And the signs are there--the sweat sliding down his temple and the quiver in his hand, evidence of his own mortality. The doctor, working wonders before my eyes, is a mere human, just like I am.
             The look on my face defines astonishment. The nervousness that surrounds me and seeps into my skin is not only my discomfort. The swelling anxiety has affected the doctor as well. ...