My classmate—after graduation, he got into the best nursing home in the city.

Not a doctor. He was a caregiver. He specifically helped disabled elderly people with turning in bed, wiping their bodies, and changing their urine bags.
After working for a year, he went home for the New Year. His mother set a whole table of dishes, but told him to carry the bowl out to the balcony to eat. She said, “You’ve got an old-person smell on you. You can’t wash it off.”
He didn’t get angry. He put the bowl on the balcony railing and said, “Mom, you’ll have to go there too someday. I’ll treat you a bit better now, so you won’t have to suffer later.”
His mother paused with her chopsticks.
He added, “Whether you get turned over or how often you get turned, and how badly the bedsores rot down to what degree—they’ll all be handled by me.”
His mother’s face turned white. His dad, sitting beside her, picked up a piece of braised pork, chewed twice, and said, “What he said is the truth—why are you crying?”
When he left, his mother brought that bowl back in from the balcony. She washed it three times. Then she put it in the very innermost part of the cupboard, with a layer of plastic wrap separating it from the other bowls.
He saw it. He didn’t say anything.
Last month, his dad secretly called and said, “Your mom’s been having nightmares lately. She dreams that she’s lying on a bed, and there’s no nurse call button at the head of the bed.” He held the phone in silence for a long time, and then said, “Tell her: the nurse call button is in my hands.”