The sun rose over West Meridian Medical Center, golden rays spilling across the parking lot where a billboard proudly declared:
“Compassion. Integrity. Excellence.”
Inside, however, something foul was brewing on the 8th floor, where the clinical operations team had convened an emergency meeting.
“Dr. Voss, would you care to explain this statement you made to the press?” asked Dr. Cassie Corbin, chief of staff, holding up a newspaper with the headline:
‘Doctor Declares: “I Don’t Know If I’m Bound by the Hippocratic Oath”’
Dr. Leon Voss leaned back in his chair, unbothered, sipping from his cold can of Diet Coke. “Listen, I’m not a philosopher. I’m not a medical historian. I’m a doctor. I treat diseases. The Oath? That’s just symbolic, right?”
Cassie’s eyes widened. “You recited it. At your graduation.”
“I also sang ‘Closing Time’ by Semisonic that night. Doesn’t mean I’m required to shut the clinic down at last call.”
A hush fell over the room. Dr. Daniel Chen coughed. “Leon, are you seriously saying you don’t believe in primum non nocere? First, do no harm?”
“I mean…” Voss gestured vaguely. “Depends on how you define harm. That’s subjective. I’ve got great malpractice coverage. Besides, that phrase isn’t even in the Hippocratic Oath”
The following week, chaos.
In the ER, Dr. Voss ordered a placebo for a patient with a migraine. When the nurse protested, citing evidence-based guidelines, Voss shrugged. “Not in the mood for meds today.”
But he did prescribe amphetamines for a toddler with “low energy.” When the pharmacist refused to comply with the order, he scrawled a note: “See attached energy levels. Trust me.”
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He told a woman seeking an abortion for a nonviable pregnancy that he didn’t “believe in it” and instead handed her a prayer card and a book of baby names. She sued.
He live-streamed a colonoscopy on TikTok, narrating with a British accent. The caption read: “Behind the scenes with Dr. Voss. #PoopPatrol #ConsentOptional”
By weeks’ end, the hospital smelled like panic and litigation.
“I can’t do this anymore,” muttered Dr. Janine Dugger, head of the ethics committee. “He’s become…a constitutional crisis in a white coat.”
“It’s like watching a president say he’s not sure if he has to follow the Constitution,” added Nurse Greg, scrolling through his phone. “Oh wait—look at this clip of Trump: ‘I don’t know… I have lawyers for that.’ Sound familiar?”
“God help us,” whispered Janine.
Cassie called for a formal review. Voss arrived wearing a custom lab coat embroidered with the words “Guidelines are Suggestions.”
“Leon,” Cassie began gently, “you’ve violated at least eight parts of the Hippocratic Oath. You used a chainsaw in the OR, filmed a patient’s post-op morphine ramble for your podcast, and told a trauma victim to ‘walk it off.’ What exactly do you believe in?”
Voss chuckled. “I believe in freedom. Autonomy. Market-driven medicine. And above all, I believe in the right to redefine professionalism. Plus, I never liked that Oath. Too many verbs.”
“You swore it,” Cassie said. “Like a president swears to uphold the Constitution.”
“Well,” Voss grinned, “I don’t remember signing anything. And if I did—prove it.”
Janine slammed down a printed copy of the Oath. “Here. Framed. On your med school’s wall. Right next to your graduation selfie with Dean McCarthy and a man in a toga.”
“Objection,” Voss said. “Hearsay. I need my lawyers.”
“Too late,” Cassie said. “We’re suspending your privileges pending a psychiatric evaluation.”
“Psychiatric?” Voss stood. “I’m not crazy. I’m just…innovative.”
Later that afternoon, Dr. Leon Voss was escorted—voluntarily but under heavy side-eye—to a sunlit office on the top floor of the East Wing. The nameplate on the door read: Raymond Durbin, MD, Psychiatry.
Dr. Durbin, a mild-mannered man in his sixties who wore corduroy blazers and collected antique stethoscopes, greeted him with a warm, measured tone. “Dr. Voss. Thanks for coming in. I just want to have a conversation. Nothing invasive.”
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“Oh good,” Voss said, sprawling across the leather armchair like it was a beach lounger. “Because I didn’t bring my tinfoil hat or golf clubs.”
Durbin gave a small smile. “Let’s start with what brought you here. Do you feel your recent clinical choices align with standard medical ethics?”
“Let me stop you right there, Ray,” Voss interrupted, lacing his fingers behind his head. “You know when Donald Trump was asked if he had to uphold the Constitution, he said—and I quote—‘I don’t know.’” Voss wagged a finger. “That’s presidential. That’s leadership. I’m just following in the footsteps of the Commander-in-Chief. Executive uncertainty is the new gold standard.”
Durbin was incredulous. “You believe modeling yourself after a controversial interpretation of constitutional duty absolves you of professional responsibility?”
“I believe,” Voss declared, “that the Hippocratic Oath is interpretive dance at this point. You’re talking about ancient Greek prose and pretending it’s binding legal doctrine. I mean, who wrote it? Hippocrates? Probably never even had to chart a SOAP note!”
Durbin jotted a few notes, nodding slowly.
Voss leaned forward with a smirk. “And you, Doc—I use the term loosely—you’re a shrink. Let’s be honest. You’re not a real doctor. No scalpels. No adrenaline rush. Just vibes and prescription pads.”
Durbin’s pen paused mid-sentence.
“You people,” Voss continued, “talk about trauma and boundaries and emotional landscapes. I talk about action. You’re a philosopher with a license. I’m out there in the trenches.”
Dr. Durbin tilted his head. “And how do you see your role in the broader medical community?”
Voss lit up. “I’m a symbol, Ray. I’m medicine’s disruptor-in-chief. I bring clarity, authority, and spectacle. You know, my birthday happens to fall on National Doctor Appreciation Week. Someone looked it up. But I don’t see it as my birthday. I see it as a day to celebrate medicine’s victory. Over red tape. Over regulation. Over common sense.”
Durbin raised an eyebrow.
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“In fact,” Voss went on, “I’ve proposed a parade. Right down the hospital corridor. Gurney drills, IV pole relay races. Full dress uniforms for the residents. Might cost a few million in hospital funds—sure—but it’d be worth it. Sometimes morale needs a marching band.”
Durbin looked Voss squarely in the eye. “So this is your modus operandi—to vault yourself over others, mock me, and reject psychiatry as a valid branch of medicine?”
“Absolutely not,” Voss said, reclining again. “You’ve misjudged my modus. It’s never been brighter. And your field… it’s a fabulous tool—for other people. Broken ones. People who, say, think the Hippocratic Oath is anything more than graduation theater.”
Durbin closed his notepad and looked up calmly. “Dr. Voss, we’ll be conducting a full neuropsychological evaluation and a review of your patients’ files. A summary of our findings and recent incidents will be sent to the state medical board. Most likely they will view your behavior as unbecoming of a doctor.”
Voss stood, adjusting his lab coat like a cape. “Of course you will. That’s what shrinks do. You reduce greatness to diagnoses. You don’t understand pioneers.”
“Actually,” Durbin said, walking him to the door, “I understand them perfectly. They usually end up in history books—or court transcripts.”
In the days that followed, Voss went viral for all the wrong reasons. His podcast “Doc and Roll” was removed from all platforms. TikTok labeled his account “medically inaccurate and potentially harmful.” The American Medical Association released a statement titled:
“Oaths Matter. Especially When People’s Lives Are at Stake.”
Undeterred, Leon tried to name the hospital “The Voss Institute for Freethinking Medicine.” His campaign was quashed, and that’s when West Meridian decided to install a new mural in the lobby, a depiction of the Hippocratic Oath, etched in stone.
Voss skipped the dedication. Rumor was that he had lost his license and relocated. Cassie addressed the crowd. “In an age when truth is bent, laws ignored, and sacred vows treated like suggestions, we reaffirm what anchors us. An oath—be it medical or constitutional—isn’t optional. It’s the spine of civilization. Without it, people entrusted to heal no longer feel bound to do no harm. It’s not just medicine that begins to die—it’s trust itself.”
In the back, a med student whispered, “I heard that Voss opened a juice bar in Palm Beach.”
“Let’s hope it’s juice and not insulin shots,” another replied, shaking her head.
“Last thing we need is a mango-pineapple combo that comes with a subcutaneous surprise.”
They laughed.
But only a little.
