This is a true story.
The man was elderly. Elderly, yet physically able. But on this day his strength was depleted by stroke. He could walk with a limp but could not speak. You thought he might suddenly utter a single word because he looked at you with the expression of preparing to say what was on his mind. His mind was compromised, but functioning. He could hear with some level of understanding. His eyes said, “I’m afraid.” He sat on the edge of the hospital bed, eyes fixed on the neurosurgeon who explained what was wrong, what needed to be done and the less than 50-50 chance of success. A leaking vessel created a large pocket of blood pressing against the brain. Immediate action was imperative. The procedure would involve drills and remedial measures to dispose of the blood and stop the seepage. No one could predict this old man could survive the surgical trauma or its aftermath. The surgeon explained all of this detachedly, as cold as the room’s polished tile floor. He was tall, fit and military straight. Imperious. Immaculate gray hair, navy suit, starched white shirt and striped tie. With clipped indifference, he spelled it out. The old man might as well have been an engine with a blown piston. Left alone for a moment, the terrified patient dressed and attempted to leave the hospital. Even with his diminished acuity, he despised the neurosurgeon for what he perceived as snooty insolence — just plain rudeness. Two days later, the old man was in ICU, two weeks later he was home and two months later he was fully recovered — no sign of stroke related fallout. The bastard surgeon was God.
Style vs. Substance
And there you have brief insight into the complicated nature of human beings. The old man hated the neurosurgeon (who by the way was Chief of Staff) for his offensive bedside manner, for his arrogant, dictatorial personality — yet this individual was also supremely dedicated to his profession — accomplished, talented and effective in his ability to enrich and save lives. You will find this same type of unlikable individual at the top of other professions — many of them insulting, if not militant — while accomplishing great things that save the day for others.
The President
You ran across one of these individuals three years ago. Donald J. Trump never will win the Nobel “Turn The Other Cheek” Prize. Donald is many things, but one thing he’s not — is “phony.” And that “un-phoniness” is precisely what elected him the 45th President of the United States. Not his money, not his big-wheel friends, not The Apprentice, not his Tower, not his wives and definitely not his big hair. Straight off the dog eat dog streets of Manhattan, by way of Jamaica, Queens, Trump put himself squarely in Big Media crosshairs and shouted, “Up yours; I’ll see your 2 Smears and raise you 4 Stupids.” From the beginning, no one, not supporters or enemies, ever accused The President of having a world-class bedside manner. Real people didn’t care. Real people flocked to the polls to elect one of their own, meaning an American who was as far removed from politics as Hillary was removed from the Truth. Every Trump incivility — every taunt, slap or slur — rallies his disciples and inflames his highbrow adversaries. And while this particular surgeon slices and dices left wing eggheads, his policies uplift real people and strengthen a nation. But this bastard is no God.
Stark Comparison
Weeks, months and years after his surgery, the old man lived to praise the man who restored his life. He had no room for judging things like ego, style or insolence. Far from it. Routinely, he used the term “great man.” He put ability light years ahead of affability. He valued competence over courtesy. Conversely, fifty years later in America, Trump haters can’t bring themselves to put aside their hostility and offer begrudging credit. You hear nothing — not a peep — from GW and other pillars of the Republican Party. Putting aside its historic purpose, Big Media puts its animosity ahead of Trump’s achievement by burying it or lying about it. Big Education, always envious of earned wealth, has never been impressed by individual doers who pay the tab. Eminent professors would rather write revisionist histories than thank the hand that feeds them. Unlike the old man, there’s no praise for Donald from the blue blood political class. He doesn’t care. And neither do real people.
The Rest Of The Story.
The old man died of pneumonia at 95 years of age. His magnificent bastard surgeon died of a heart attack at age 54.
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