A retiring doctor’s honest confession — for anyone who’s ever felt replaced, unseen, or just plain tired.
I almost didn’t show up today.
Not because I didn’t care. Not because I forgot. But because I wasn’t sure if anyone would notice I was gone.
Forty-two years. That’s how long I’ve worn this white coat. Not always the same one, of course — they’ve gotten shorter, tighter, looser, yellower over the years — but always the same role: the listener, the fixer, the quiet rock people leaned on.
And now? Today was my last day.
Not a soul in the waiting room knew.
No sign on the door. No cake. No nurse leaning in with a teary “thank you.” Just another Thursday. Another long hallway. Another screen flashing numbers instead of names. Another clipboard filled with codes, billing terms, pharmaceutical reminders.
It wasn’t always like this.
Back then, we knew our patients by name. Heck, I could tell you the name of their dog, their grandson, even the pie they liked best at Maureen’s Diner. We made house calls in the snow, took blood pressure by hand, and trusted our instincts more than lab results.
We weren’t perfect. But we cared.
I remember the first baby I ever delivered. 1983. A stormy night. The power went out halfway through and we finished with a flashlight and a prayer. I cried more than the mother did. That boy’s name was Elijah. He’s probably pushing 40 now.
I wonder if he ever knew my name.
These days, I’m “the provider.”
Not “Doctor,” not “Dr. Smith,” not “the woman who helped my mother through chemo.”
Just “provider.”
A billing unit. A prescription machine. A line item on a spreadsheet.
And let me tell you, that wears you down. It doesn’t happen all at once. It’s slow. Like a drip in the ceiling you don’t hear until the whole roof caves in.
The computer replaced my handwriting.
The tablet replaced my conversations.
The pharmacy app replaced my advice.
And the insurance company? Well… they replaced my judgment.
More than once, I’ve sat across from someone who needed help — a simple scan, a new medication, a few extra therapy sessions — and had to say, “I’m sorry. They won’t cover that.”
Not I won’t.
They.
Who are they, anyway?
People think doctors are rich.
Some are. But many of us are just… stuck.
We went into this with loans the size of mortgages, trained for over a decade, skipped weddings, holidays, sleep — and now, in our sixties and seventies, we’re still paying off debts.
Not always student loans. Sometimes it’s a second mortgage to help a child. Sometimes it’s the cost of malpractice insurance, which keeps climbing no matter how clean your record is.
Sometimes it’s the cost of staying human in a system that wants us to be machines.
I’m not bitter.
But I am tired.
Tired of rushing.
Tired of apologizing for late appointments and short visits when all I want is to sit, breathe, and see someone.
Tired of explaining why the medication they saw on TV isn’t actually right for them.
Tired of watching Big Pharma wine and dine younger doctors, offering perks I never dreamed….
