Subscribe to RSS
DOI: 10.1055/s-0039-1694065
Warning
Publication History
Publication Date:
19 August 2019 (online)
![](https://www.thieme-connect.de/media/sir/201903/lookinside/thumbnails/10-1055-s-0039-1694065_001162-1.jpg)
WARNING—I believe this editorial will have nothing to do with interventional radiology.
I am sitting at my computer, thinking about what to write with this editorial space. I probably—undoubtedly—shouldn't write anything since I know that these editorials count toward the impact factor, since I have nothing brilliant to write, and since nobody reads these damn things anyway. But I am neither dissuaded nor distracted, and will deliver to you my readers—reader—my innermost thoughts on whatever topic enters my mind first. Well, second since the first would be inappropriate.
Third, I have been cogitating on what a lucky sap I've been with my own career. It's far too easy to bitch about the deadlines (including this one, due tonight, thank you very much), about the lectures that need to be tuned up, the manuscripts that need to be written, and about the mundane and exciting on a daily basis. And, frankly, my friends and I like to complain about the same things, which simply grows on itself. In that spirit, and realizing that I can be an ungrateful sot, I bought myself a wall map. On that map, I drew a spot everywhere in the world I've been able to lecture. When I start to feel sorry for myself (poor chuck), I pull out that map and remember what a fortunate career I've had. I've been able to go worldwide, often with friends or spouses, to experience varying cultures and people, and personally grow from such incredible experiences. So, when I start to feel those pitiful feelings, I remind myself that for an underprivileged kid from rural Ohio I've got it pretty good. (Actually, I grew up pretty privileged in the Chicago suburbs, but anyway you get my point.)
There are times, of course, when my lot in life gets to me. The travel really can be pretty overwhelming at times, and there is no joy in traveling to the ends of the earth to spend your time in a conference room that could be anywhere. And there is the overwhelming sense that I'm going to die in some damn hotel room somewhere. But that is just flat morbid. I have really tried to scale back on the travel. I even have a bet with Bob Lewandowski—deputy editor of this journal, accomplished IR physician, and general good guy despite his predilection for Detroit sports teams—that whoever logs more air miles this year owes the other one a night of Manhattans.