The slow and painful death of Hand-Writing

It was a particularly busy day at work. I was moving between patients really quick making sure that I was not appearing rushed and was trying to give each patient the time and attention that they deserved. The email inbox was overflowing and the phone calls were relentlessly interrupting. The secretary reluctantly walked in to my office perhaps worrying that I might snap at her if she piled up another task on my desk. She waited until I got off the phone and said, “Here are some disability forms. I have already filled them out. You just need to sign and date at the bottom.” That was easy enough form me so a brief sense of relief came over me reflected by my facial expressions. The next moment something happened that felt like my life had changed in a way that I had never expected it to be. My hands went to the front pocket of my shirt and then to the inside pocket of my jacket and I could not find a pen. I quickly turned to the corner of my desk where all the stationery was supposed to be and I realized that there was no pen there either. A strange sense of sadness and embarrassment overcame me for the fact that I was neck deep in the middle of a busy work day and I did not have a pen. A similar feeling that a warrior would have thousands of years ago stranded in the middle of a battle ground and not being able to find his sword. I asked the secretary if she had a pen and she rushed to her desk and brought me a Ball Pen with which I signed the document and moved on to dictate my next patient note. For many, this may not be a big deal at all but for me, this…