Good morning Dr. Fightmaster. My name is XXXXX, the provider recruiter for Napa County. I wanted to connect to see if you’d be interested in a position. Please give me a call/text back to discuss.
One week ago, I reflexively snoozed my alarm but before my pillow fused back to my head, this message snared me. I opened the text and scanned with interest. Unlike previous headhunter inquires—customarily deleted on receipt—a small, definitely still there, part of me perked at permanent employment’s salvation. The text registered with my complacent—willing to settle and sell out—part that aches for easy. The text was a piping cup of tea after six months in the wilderness. The text was an urgent call from comfort.
My mind gushed a convincing, fifteen-second elevator pitch:
I could do it.
It would solve a lot of problems.
It’s not like I’d have to practice every day.
I could work one, two days a week max.
Those student loans do need paid.
And… it was kinda nice to be called doctor, again.
The text found leverage in my circumstance.
In the past 30 days, my wife and I packed our California existence into boxes, Uhauled it to Oklahoma, lived for two weeks with my parents (at 34 years old), and have since been in Georgia (my wife’s home country) for the past two weeks, where we were wed (again) by the Georgian Orthodox Church. We’ll complete our move to North Carolina upon return stateside.
Within the upheaval, joy, and ensuing exhaustion, resistance mounted its steed, gathered a calvary of doubting comrades, and charged with conviction at my soul, chanting, “You’re not really a writer. What’ve you really done in the past six months anyway? It’s time to just get a job and get on with it. Grow up man.” The first of these arguments, aligning with our initial weeks of travel, were met with immediate dismissals by my own battle-tested battalions, trained by eight years in the medicine desert. But the latter assaults made hay in real doubts; I watched my mind question my soul, “What am I really doing this for? What’s the point? Can I figure it out?”
Now near dusk of the headhunter-message day, I distracted myself from anything worthwhile on Instagram, when a post caught my eye. Here it reads:
If I wanted to own a life I loved, I had to take responsibility for it. My job sure as hell wasn’t going to give it to me.
The post was mine, scheduled two months ago in anticipation of this busier life stretch. After reading with genuine intrigue, having forgotten my point, I thought, “Why the hell am I considering this message? Wake up man!!!”
Surprisingly, a pen appeared in my hand and scrawled. I watched something original emerge. It expanded, soon devouring a piece of paper. My wife was ready five minutes later, so I wrapped and went to dinner with my in-laws. That dinner tasted better than any during my time in Georgia. That evening, I felt more myself than any period in the past month. All because I put pen to paper for five minutes. (I’m reading what I scribbled and most of it’s shit, though the act of doing something, anything, was gold.)
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I never replied to the text. I found a toehold that night and have since grappled my way onto a stable plateau, where I can see my future: living a life I love, doing things I enjoy, and helping as many people as I can. And inspired by explorations of a new country, a couple of fresh ideas for meaningful work have appeared and seem promising. I’m excited.
Converting the last month of life into wisdom is my goal. I’ve deepened my belief in consistent writing or creation, if for no other reason than wellbeing. It’s also clever, in the face of future doubts, to look back at things I’ve written in the past, as the present fools me good sometimes. Having perspectives handy from all parts, not just the fear or fatigue dominated present, unlocks the terminal certainty I feel during stress.
And as much as I’d love to block all future calls from comfort and chicken exits for the soul, that ain’t happening. As I build a life I love, my recent experience should continue happening. If resistance wasn’t teeming forth, I’d likely end up back where I was, doing something that distanced me from me (in Napa County or something).
I gotta earn my peace. And remember, I’m not here for a convenient, comfortable life.
(Photo Caption: Up in the Georgian Caucuses, a day before the headhunter’s offer, gazing at ominous storms and hoping for safety below the treeline, in multiple worlds.)
Do you think if the us medical system were different, you’d still be a doctor today?
In all honesty, no. Medical system aside (it does have many flaws), it still wouldn’t have mattered. I didn’t want to practice medicine and needed to go figure out what I wanted to do with my life. The system could’ve been physician-centered and patient-centered, and I still would’ve left. The situations I was in (medical school, residency, and private practice) were all doable and enjoyable. I saw plenty of colleagues love what they did.
Thank you for the response. I left my medical career dreams early on in my career and have been intrigued by your story. I know I made the right decision for me, but some days the what ifs creep in. Regardless of us having totally different situations, I have lots of respect for you and your story. All the best
Thanks Brad, good to know other folks have taken similar paths. The “what ifs” after leaving something we invested so much into, seem inevitable. It wasn’t all bad for me either, meaning there were plenty of beautiful aspects of practicing medicine, might explain the “what if”s too. All the best to you too. – Ryan