I came home from work on a Monday night in September and pulled the car into my usual parking spot. The headlights lit up a blue dumpster that had been delivered earlier that day, announcing the start of our renovations. On the front of the dumpster was a white sign that read: “Doctor Disposal”, in big blue letters. The T was replaced by a caduceus, the outline of a staff with 2 serpents that symbolizes the medical profession. The sign sent a chill down my spine. I know the owner was trying to be clever, but to me, a physician in the last months of a career that had defined me for almost four decades, it read more like a tombstone. Instead of a “Garbage Disposal”, this was a Doctor Disposal. A place to dispose of used-up doctors. The coffin-like container sat beneath my bedroom window for months, ready to welcome me whenever I chose to jump in.
When I started out in medicine, I thought I’d practice well into my seventies. I’ve always loved caring for patients, and couldn’t imagine doing anything else. But over the years, medical care has changed. The work has always been hard and my days have been long, but now, more of my time was spent with my computer than with my patients. I felt rushed in the exam room, and I never had enough time at home to do what I wanted to do. Last year I surprised myself and started to talk about retirement.
One day, a patient asked me, “Will people still call you doctor after you retire?” I thought it was an odd question, until I realized I didn’t know the answer.
I thought of the retired doctors who came to the clinic and how the staff addressed them. Mr. Wall practiced optometry in Sandwich for fifty years. Mr. Willenborg taught dentistry at Tufts and Mr. Lefemine was performing coronary artery bypass surgery when I was a resident at St. Elizabeth’s. I’d tried to remind our staff to address these patients as Doctor, but they seldom did.
I’ve never much cared what my patients have called me. What’s mattered is that they knew I was their doctor, and they always did, in or out of the office. When they saw me at the Stop and Shop they’d come over to tell me how nice it was to see me, and sometimes slip in a word about their headaches or their heartburn. I occasionally avoided going to places where I might bump into patients because seeing them reminded me that there was no break from my work. When I wasn’t there, patients still got sick, and I could never stop caring for them. How would that change once I retired?
At home, I got used to the dumpster and came to like having it at my doorstep. Each time I walked by, it beckoned me to rid myself of something old, something I didn’t need any more. Clearing old clothes out of the closet, I found my violin I haven’t had time to play. Clearing my bookshelves of out-dated medical texts, I’ve found the novels I’ve always wanted to read. Tossing out the tennis racquet I’d never use, and the chair I never cared to refinish, I was reminded of what my years of practicing medicine had taught me: we can create more space by throwing out old unwanted stuff but we can never create more time.
When I finally did retire a few months ago, it was easier than I thought it would be. Now, when I see my former patients in the market, I’m happy to see them. Like old friends, we hug and tell each other “I’ve missed you.” We take time to chat and catch up with one another. They walk away smiling, telling me I’ve made their day, and I tell them they’ve made mine. I’ll never stop caring about the people who were once my patients, even if another doctor is caring for them.
At last, the renovations in our house are complete. The dumpster is gone. In its place, I’ve planted parsley, rosemary and basil. I’ve always wanted to cook with fresh herbs I’ve picked from my garden, and now I have the time.
This piece was edited by Viki Merrick of Atlantic Public Media
