A Letter To My Father On HisRetirement
Dear Dad-
As I write this letter, you are in the final days of a 50+ year medicalpractice. I have been fortunate to have viewed your career througha very interesting lens. I have been able to see it as a son, a patient,a medical student, and finally a colleague. It is this latter view thathas allowed me to fully realize what a phenomenal career you havehad.
As your son, I saw a very busy father and husband. Working mostdays of the week, you were constantly bombarded with incompletecharts and insurance forms brought home to our kitchen table. Thelast thing you wanted to do after a busy day of work was MOREmedicine. With tiny slips of paper holding the phone numbers ofpatients who had left messages, you would systematically call eachone and spend as much time as needed to answer any and allquestions.
When all you wanted to do was watch the evening news, you werealways available to examine your children's friends, even when youwere not their doctor. From your Laz-E-Boy you would dashchildren's hopes for a day off of school with nothing more than aflashlight, a spoon, and a peek at their throat. You never grumbledabout needing to make phone calls to worried patients even whenthey interrupted our baseball games or birthday parties. We weren'tupset. We knew that was just part of who you were and what yourjob demanded. We didn't have full ownership of our father, evenwhen we should have.
I never really appreciated the fact that I didn't see a pediatriciangrowing up. You were the one to decide whether I had to go toschool and more times than not I was on the bus whether I felt like itor not. I can remember only a handful of times I was ever onantibiotics because you knew that medicine usage was to bereserved for only serious cases of infections.
Of course, then there were the catastrophes. You were there for mewhen I cut open my leg in a baseball dug out requiring minorsurgery (stitching up muscle and skin after a metal bar had sliced mythigh to the bone). You did that in your office...your office! As aphysician, I can appreciate that what you did then was somethingthat wouldn't happen in this day and age. You knew you could dothe job as well as the ER and without the hassles of filling out insurance forms or sitting with a hysterical 7 year old for hours on end.
Dear Dad-
As I write this letter, you are in the final days of a 50+ year medicalpractice. I have been fortunate to have viewed your career througha very interesting lens. I have been able to see it as a son, a patient,a medical student, and finally a colleague. It is this latter view thathas allowed me to fully realize what a phenomenal career you havehad.
As your son, I saw a very busy father and husband. Working mostdays of the week, you were constantly bombarded with incompletecharts and insurance forms brought home to our kitchen table. Thelast thing you wanted to do after a busy day of work was MOREmedicine. With tiny slips of paper holding the phone numbers ofpatients who had left messages, you would systematically call eachone and spend as much time as needed to answer any and allquestions.
When all you wanted to do was watch the evening news, you werealways available to examine your children's friends, even when youwere not their doctor. From your Laz-E-Boy you would dashchildren's hopes for a day off of school with nothing more than aflashlight, a spoon, and a peek at their throat. You never grumbledabout needing to make phone calls to worried patients even whenthey interrupted our baseball games or birthday parties. We weren'tupset. We knew that was just part of who you were and what yourjob demanded. We didn't have full ownership of our father, evenwhen we should have.
I never really appreciated the fact that I didn't see a pediatriciangrowing up. You were the one to decide whether I had to go toschool and more times than not I was on the bus whether I felt like itor not. I can remember only a handful of times I was ever onantibiotics because you knew that medicine usage was to bereserved for only serious cases of infections.
Of course, then there were the catastrophes. You were there for mewhen I cut open my leg in a baseball dug out requiring minorsurgery (stitching up muscle and skin after a metal bar had sliced mythigh to the bone). You did that in your office...your office! As aphysician, I can appreciate that what you did then was somethingthat wouldn't happen in this day and age. You knew you could dothe job as well as the ER and without the hassles of filling out insurance forms or sitting with a hysterical 7 year old for hours on end.
Through the years, I was spared the late night visits to the ER andthe long doctor's office waits. I never developed the fear of goingto see the doctor because I knew that the very important man in thewhite jacket would be tucking me in my bed that night. Safe andsound.
When I told you that I wanted to go to medical school during myfreshman year of college, you appreciated the gravity of thisdecision even when I did not. You knew that I had the intelligencefor medical school but you wanted to make sure that I had the otherintangible qualities that make a proper physician, ones that wouldearn the respect and love of peers and patients alike. Patience,dedication, and above all, compassion for others were keys to asuccessful career in medicine, ones that you had cultivated so well.So what you did was unconventional but highly effective. Youarranged for me to be a nurse's aide at the local hospital whereempathy and compassion was all I could offer. I knew nothing aboutmedicine so my experience was to be of pure service to others.Bathing the patient who had just had a stroke, cleaning up after thepatient who had stooled in his diaper, sitting with the dementedpatient who was too scared to be alone. It was a stroke of genius. IfI sank, you saved me years of struggle and potential discontent withmy job. If I couldn't enjoy what I was doing when I had noknowledge, how could I enjoy it years later when I had theeducation but potentially lacked the desire to continue to care? Butif I swam....yes, if I swam, well, then you knew I was doing it for allthe right reasons and I was well on my way to not just a profession,but a life of genuine altruism.
Once I completed medical school and residency, I came to rely onyour counsel for “the learning years” of my private practice. How doI deal with a family after the death of a patient? How do I balancehome life with the ongoing pressures with my time at work? How doI remain compassionate to those patients that drive me absolutelycrazy? You have helped me through every step of my life and havebeen the consummate role model for all of my life's endeavors. Youradvice has been invaluable to me and has shaped the doctor andperson I am today.
I now want to offer you some advice. As the sun sets on your career,I want you to realize how important YOU are. Not just as aphysician, which has been your persona for so long that you may notfeel as if you can separate it from who YOU truly are. YOU are awarm, caring, sensitive person who has been freed from the bondsof servitude. Go gently into retirement and start the rediscovery ofYOU. Rediscover dreams long since put on hold. Rediscoverrelationships neglected. Rediscover life and everything in it that has passed you by these 50 years.
Congratulations, Dad. You deserve every bit of relaxation coming toyou.
I love you.
Chris
Beautiful heartfelt words to a wonderful, compassionate man who I have always seen as the consummate doctor!
ReplyDeletePatsy Campbell
thank you.
DeleteThis father is my physician and my friend and truly has given all his patients more attention than you can imagine.
ReplyDeleteEnjoy your retirement,you truly deserve it.
With much Love
Tony
thank you.
Delete