No one gets up one day and says, “I want to be an anesthesiologist when I grow up.” I wanted to be a ballerina, or a bookstore-café owner, or an artist of some kind – someone who was required to play close attention to the world, take real notice of it, and take creative and compassionate action. But I am neither a ballerina nor a bookseller. I am an anesthesiologist. Frequently people ask me a version of “What on earth made you choose that?” I try to explain that I love the way anatomy and physiology come alive moment-to-moment in daily practice. Or I try the concrete approach and admit that I actually enjoy placing intravenous lines and breathing tubes. The response I get is usually a glassy-eyed “Uh-huh” or, occasionally, a nose-wrinkling “Eew.” If the conversation progresses beyond “eew,” the more people talk to me about what they think I do – that is, if they think I actually do anything in the first place – the more bewildered I get over how difficult it is to convey to others an