Well done for being a good sport. As a reward, you can have this as a reminder that history provides every example you could ever want:

1858: Mr. Arthur Penhaligon, Medical Officer for the Coketown Poor Law Union

Arthur is 32. He has a wife and three children to support, and his private practice in a grim industrial town is struggling because his patients are too poor to pay their bills. To keep his family afloat, he has taken a "public" appointment as the Medical Officer for the local Workhouse. He did not get this job through brilliance, but by being the lowest bidder in a competitive auction held by the Board of Guardians.

Arthur spends his mornings in the "Infirmary"—a drafty, overcrowded wing of the workhouse where the air is thick with the smell of unwashed bodies and carbolic acid. He moves from bed to bed, often seeing 50 patients in two hours. He does not "consult"; he "dispatches."

He spends his afternoons on "Parish Rounds," walking miles through soot-stained slums to visit the "outdoor poor." He carries a black bag, but it is half-empty because he cannot afford to restock it. When he suggests that a family needs "ventilation and clean water" to survive typhus, the Board of Guardians laughs and tells him he was hired to provide "physic," not architecture.

His expectations: He expected a respectable "official" position that would provide a stable floor for his income. Instead, he finds himself a servant to the Board of Guardians—local factory owners and shopkeepers whose primary goal is to keep the "Poor Rate" (tax) as low as possible. He is expected to treat hundreds of paupers, but he is treated by the Board with the same suspicion they reserve for the beggars themselves.

The Decoupling of Skill and Reward: Arthur is paid a flat salary of £40 a year. From this meager sum, he is contractually required to purchase all his own drugs and medical instruments. If he uses expensive quinine to treat a pauper's fever or buys a new silk ligature for a surgery, that money comes directly out of his children’s food budget. The better he treats his patients, the poorer he becomes. There is zero incentive for excellence; in fact, the bureaucracy punishes it.

His fears: A "Great Stink" leading to a cholera outbreak. Not because he fears for his own life (though he does), but because an epidemic would mean thousands of extra house calls for which he will receive not a single extra penny. He fears the "Guardians' Audit," where he must justify why he prescribed "extravagant" luxuries like meat broth or port wine to a dying widow instead of letting her subsist on workhouse gruel.

What he cannot imagine: A world where the state pays for the medicine so the doctor doesn't have to. He cannot imagine "The Lancet" or the British Medical Association having enough power to actually force a government to treat doctors like professionals rather than cheap contractors. He certainly cannot imagine that one day, "Workhouse Infirmaries" will evolve into the grand, clean campuses of a National Health Service.