Doctor?

Every once in a while, back in my working days, I would help out at various military screening events. These are massive, multi-disciplinary, health and wellness screenings that soldiers must submit to prior to deployment.

They are usually held in a hangar or a warehouse, someplace that can fit thousands of people for hearing tests, psych evaluations, and, of course dental exams. The dentists had a treatment trailer, full of outdated equipment and a bare minimum of supplies.

They way it worked was like this, the screening dentists in the big warehouse would get x-rays and read them, then do exams. If they found an issue that was likely to cause a problem in the next 13 months, the soldier would get sent to the trailer to get it fixed.

Well, that was what was supposed to happen.

Since the trailer was owned by a penny-pinching contract company, there was usually not enough supplies to do anything. So, we would then give prescriptions and referrals to area dentists willing to take military insurance.

What I noticed after doing a few of these events, was that I was the youngest dentist there. I was, after all, trying to side-hustle my way to financial freedom, and sometimes the events paid $1000+ per day plus a hotel and per diem. So, what were the older guys here for?

After talking to a few of them, I realized that it absolutely wasn’t about the money. In fact, all of them were already retired.

It was deeper than that.

It was about identity.

These guys showed up to dental screening events because they got to hear people call them doctor again.

As this dawned on me, I thought smugly to myself that there was absolutely no way that I was someone who identified so strongly with my fancy job title that I wouldn’t know what to do if I were a regular shmo. Besides, women don’t usually identify as strongly with their jobs as men.

Plus, I was here actively working on trying to get out of my career as fast as I could.

I wasn’t hooked on the egoic need to be called doctor.

Or so I thought.

The year after I early retired, I went though various health challenges and family tragedies. This meant that I spent a great deal of time in doctor’s offices and in post-funeral brunches catching people up on the latest news in my life.

After enough people questioned my decision to early retire, I did have to admit that I had a pang of wonder…of what it might be like to be in my old role.

After all, I did get phone calls or emails from recruiters every day.

It’s always nice to have a little extra unplanned money.

And, it is nice to be in a position of knowledge and authority.

There it was.

I realized, to my utter surprise, that I too missed being referred to by my title. After all, it represented the work required to earn the degree, the expertise, and the privileges conferred upon me. And, truth be told, it represented a big part of who I thought I was.

I hadn’t mentally shifted out of the role. I had simply put it in a type of suspended animation. And, feeling self-conscious about quitting, having people question my decision, and the drive to feel special again, I got talked into working for a practice part-time.

For the first month, I felt great. It was great to help people, to use my skills and my knowledge. It was great to hear the magical sonorous quality of the word “doctor” in reference to my last name.

But then, it all came back. 

Each and every reason why I had left a career that wasn’t fulfilling. My ego had landed me right back where I didn’t want to be. Why, so I could feel special? So I could feel important? So that I could get cozy with an identity that no longer truly fit?

When I finally snapped out of it, I realized that I too had become one of those retired doctors. And I knew I had to change it. Maybe I couldn’t completely sublimate my ego and morph into the Budda, but I could work on cultivating who I really was.

I left the position as soon as they could let me go.

I had other work to do, after all. I had to figure out who I was without a title, without a specific skill set, without the position that society hoisted upon me.

And that is the most difficult and greatest work that anyone might do.