My Ex Just Retired From Medicine

I went to a party this weekend, one that I pictured more than 30 years ago. I visualized being there, but not quite like this.

After more than three decades as a neurologist, my former husband just retired from a storied career. I was honored to not only be a guest at the party, but be a keynote speaker. This was a moment to celebrate in itself; to stand there as my former husband's best friend and speak honestly to the price he paid for being a great doctor was a unique opportunity. And something that perhaps only an ex-wife of a physician can really speak to. When we first met, he didn't even know if he wanted to be a doctor. He was seriously considering culinary arts school. But once he headed for medical school, that was it. He did not look back -- well, he did still dream of being a chef when he'd occasionally stay up late cooking a gourmet meal from a fancy cookbook. I would love to tell that I didn't care if he was a chef or a doctor — and I used to say that — but that’s a lie.

I was enormously proud of his medical journey and I naively believed that being a "doctor's wife" would grant me a special place in society that would make up for my deep loneliness. That belief included a vision of this moment at his retirement party, with us still married. While there are many reasons why we divorced more than a decade ago, one thing is for sure: our marriage suffered heavily under the weight of medicine. Medicine, after all, is the mistress, the second family. And I might argue that breakups with one's medical career are far less common than the marriages that live beneath the pressures of a medical career. As I stood there, microphone in hand, I felt as though I was not only speaking to my former spouse, but to my coaching clients who have given their blood, sweat and tears to a career that's actually much more than a career. The commitment demanded by medicine of it's fellows is much closer to the bond that soldiers feel to their battalions.

This man, formerly my husband, paid a huge personal price to be the doctor he was -- regular sleep for one, his family for two. But he sat with his patients for whatever amount of time they needed, even if it made him late, which it always did -- late to his next patient, late home to dinner. His patients mostly forgave him, because what he did was priceless. He believed, at the end of the day, in absence of a fix, all that's left is healing. His patients got the very best of him. The rest of us got what was left of him. And he got what was left of himself.

We were all there to celebrate what this man gave to medicine -- and in that way to the world. There we were, the fast-pitch softball guys, his childhood friends, the nurses and doctors, his family (two beautiful children and three grandchildren), and me -- the ex-wife, best friend. We all showed up for "doc" not just to celebrate him, but also to invite him to remember that he is so much more than his medical career. Now it's his turn. Life awaits him, calls him forth, into a new chapter of experimentation, discovery and spontaneity. It's his turn if not to heal, at least to rest; to nurture himself; to refill his cup and live life fully beyond the hospital walls. There's a whole world waiting for him. I, for one, can't wait to see what's next. Perhaps it is not too late for culinary arts school…