There are a million terrific reasons people go into medicine. Sometimes it’s to follow in the footsteps of a parent or cherished uncle. Sometimes it’s to harness your gifts with people to a higher purpose. Sometimes it’s to build on a budding career in science or community engagement. Sometimes it’s a passion to be in the ER or OR, in the thick of things to save a life, sleep be damned.
And then there are those of us in medicine for the wrong reasons.
I’ve identified five of them: ego; greed; spite; cultural conditioning; and a phenomenon I’m sure I’ll come with a catchy term for someday – the societal understanding that medicine is what smart, accomplished kids are supposed to strive for.
There’s naturally all sorts of overlap here, and I’ll admit to at least three.
Realizing that your place in life is to serve as a poster child for bad career counseling is disheartening to say the least, but it’s also somewhat liberating. I’m free to describe the realities of life as a doctor free from any sales pitch or sugar-coating.
Yes it’s a great career, but it’s not the be-all and end-all, even when you’re a smart and compassionate do-gooder.
So why did I go into medicine? I’m still not entirely sure. In hindsight, my calling might very well have been a wrong number.
(the following is an excerpt from my memoir, The Flame Broiled Doctor: From Boyhood to Burnout in Medicine)
LIKE ANY BRAINY big-city secular Jewish boy, I grew up with an impressive but limited menu of career options. At the top of the list, naturally, was Doctor. If I couldn’t hack organic chemistry, second choice was Dentist. If I couldn’t handle blood, Lawyer. If I wasn’t good with people, Accountant. Family Business was a fallback #5, but nobody in the family had built any kind of “empire”, and I had neither any passion for business nor a head for making deals. I seem to remember Pharmacist somewhere in the mix of recommended careers – “How hard is it to count pills?” my irascible Nana oft inquired – but that one was only pushed on the girls for some reason.
But bright and brainy I was, standing out even amongst the crowd I went to school with, the children of lawyers, psychiatrists, and professors. Granted, my grades couldn’t reach the rarefied heights of those on the Asian kids’ report cards. Too many hours of Nintendo games and reruns of Three’s Company saw to that. But I could walk into a two-hour calculus exam with nothing but a pen – I would never sully myself with something erasable – and stroll out forty minutes later having answered every question and double-checked my work. My aptitude for science didn’t fall far behind my gift for math, and my essay writing was never less than solid.
Coming into university, I was the Total Academic Package, maybe the best from either side of the family.
I was destined to be the family’s first doctor. As far as I knew, or at least convinced myself, that was the endpoint.
Get into med school, game over. You win. That part I understood. Medicine was as close as you could get to lifelong job security, if not always in the city of your choice. Your income ranged from respectable to stratospheric, depending on the specialty, although it honestly wasn’t about the money in my eyes.
And therein lay the problem. Why was I pursuing medicine? I craved the degree, to prove myself to family, friends, and the doubters from times I wasn’t on my game at school. A chip on the shoulder and a little ambition can take you pretty far if you have the right skills.
I just never put much thought into whether I wanted the job.
Follow Dr. Frank Warsh at http://drwarsh.blogspot.com