I stood at the reception of Gleneagles hospital, looking out for my father-in-law's car which would soon make its way up the small hill and unto the roundabout in front of the hospital. He was picking us up. Us – Faith, myself and newborn Caleb.
It occurred to me that the going-ons at hospitals were very similar to that of airports. I don't mean to trivialise anything, but the hospital is a place of arrivals and departures. In the elevator you would likely face the wide grin of a new father, while in the corner two women are huddled, sobbing in reaction to news they had just received. The emotions are intense as the destinations here are more permanent and life-changing, for both the people involved as well as the family that surround them.
Gleneagles seems to handle all this with a cavalier Melrose Place, Beverly Hills feel. A ring of exotic sports cars and extremely expensive saloons greet you as you come to the entrance of the hospital. Most of these are owned by the doctors who work in the hospital. Whilst waiting for my father-in-law to pull up, I notice how doctors would drive right up and leave their cars at the door, grab their briefcase and toss their keys to the valet.
"Rockstar", I whisper to myself, the word that first comes to mind.
My thoughts drift. Why do doctors make so much money? Should health, a commodity that hardly counts itself as a luxury good, cost so much? A man who suffers from cancer shouldn't have to pay so much more than a man who caught a cold – none of them chose their respective illnesses. I don't know how difficult becoming a doctor is, but in this age of information sharing, shouldn't medical expertise be more accessible?
A doctor gets into his Maserati and pulls out of his parking lot. A family sits in front of the cashier, wondering.

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