Instead of hanging out my shingle, the last day of December I retired after forty-plus years in the practice of family medicine. And just when I’d almost gotten that “practice” thing down pat!
The decision to retire was one of those “no-brainers”, the process, bittersweet.
I’ve witnessed physicians who, for whatever reason, refused to acknowledge that it was time to bow out gracefully. I’m reminded of the numerous times through the years I was asked by their offspring to tell “Mama” or “Daddy” that they could no longer drive. Invariably, “Mama/Daddy” would shoot back, “Oh, trust me – I’ll know when it’s time to stop driving!”
It was always my plan to go out on top of my game, so to speak, and not when my partners had met in secret and then informed my wife and daughters that I had outlived my usefulness to the practice. That would definitely have been a blow to my doctor ego, but demented me might not have even grasped the implications!
As it is, I feel that I’m leaving when the decision is mine – with the blessings of my wife and children. I’m leaving when my physical and mental health (“for my age”) still allow me the promise of a full, rich retirement. I’m leaving when a new, young, competent family doctor has been recruited “to take my place”. I’m leaving with a sense of personal satisfaction that I’ve been able to give back to a community which has been so good to my family and me.
Saying goodbye to my patients was another story. Sentimental words often punctuated by warm hugs and an occasional kiss seemed inadequate gestures to close the book on countless intergenerational relationships which I consider the gem of family medicine. Diagnoses made – lives spared – babies delivered – deaths pronounced – how does one walk away?
Two things that I learned during my medical school days (neither of which came from my erudite textbook or journal) have stood me in good stead throughout my career: “Touch where it hurts” and “if you listen long enough, the patient will tell what the problem is.”
As I was winding down my last few hours, a patient approached me in the hallway with what turned out to be a rhetorical question. “Hey, Doc, do you know what retirement means?” After giving me only a few seconds to contemplate, he replied, “I’ll tell you what it means: twice as much wife and half as much money!” Needless to say, when I shared this with my wife, she was not amused and offered that it works both ways.
Stanley Hartness, a newly retired physician, is a guest columnist of The Star-Herald.
