We have a word for somebody who goes to Medical school, becomes a Doctor, and then goes on to establish a career as a specialist.
In fact, we have lots of words for each stage of this journey.
Pre-med, Undergraduate, Post-graduate, Intern, Resident, SHO, FY1, Registrar, Consultant, Professor…
But what if you choose to follow a non-traditional Medicine-related path?
What if you choose not to practise Cynical Clinical Medicine?
If you dare to do anything than the “normal path”, then Medicine had no words for you.
Actually, that’s not true. Medicine has plenty of words for you.
Words like:
- Shame…
- What a waste…
- Failure…
- Drop-out…
- Weak…
- Uncommitted…
- Had such potential…
But the truth of the matter is that there are many ways to play the game of Medicine (yes, it’s a game)…more ways than the gatekeepers would have you believe.
There are many different experiences and expressions of Medicine that have nothing to do with working in a hospital or even having a medical degree.
You can meet some of these expressions of Medicine at these brilliant podcasts and websites:
Because of this diversity, we need a bigger, more useful vocabulary to describe all the various options and possibilities when it comes to Medicine.
There are Medics who have dropped out of Medical School completely in order to practice helping people in other arenas. (Explorers)
There are Medics who leave Medicine without a degree because of an adverse reaction to their specific learning and working environment. (Houdinis)
There are Medics who have completed their degrees and leveraged the current prestige and esteem of their title to open doors in Hollywood, Silicon Valley and government. (Docpreneurs)
There are Medics who go to school to make their parents happy and fulfil their family obligation. (Obligates)
These aren’t necessarily the best names, and this isn’t a comprehensive list of all the different permutations in Medicine.
But one word/label that I hope we can embrace, regardless of our specific Medical journey, is this:
Medic.
And the definition for Medic is one that I’ve stolen borrowed and remixed from Seth Godin’s important book Linchpin.
Medic – an individual who can walk into chaos and create order, someone who can invent, connect, create, heal and make things happen.”
Whether you graduated from Medical school or not, you’re a Medic.
If you grew up under the expectations of family and friends who always wanted you to be a Doctor, you’re a Medic.
Whether you’ve been labelled a Doctor, Nurse, Dentist, Lab technician, Hospital janitor, records administrator…
You are a Medic,
an individual who can walk into chaos and create order, someone who can invent, connect, create, heal and make things happen.”
You are a Medic, a linchpin, a vital member of our community with gifts and ideas that the world needs to experience.
No matter what your experience, and regardless of how much shame and guilt has been heaped on you…you are part of a family of Medics.
We love you and believe in you.
Welcome to the family…now go and be a Medic.
Image: Gapingvoid
I am a medic.
A medic. Not necessarily a doctor.
“Someone who can walk into chaos and create order.
Someone who can invent, connect, create, heal and make things happen.”
This definition resonates with me so much more than the normal idea of ‘doctor’.
For years, I concealed my professional title.
I didn’t call myself a doctor, I didn’t state my job.
When asked, I tiptoed around the topic and provided vagaries as answers:
“I work at a hospital”, “I work in healthcare”.
If people assumed I was a nurse, physiotherapist, medical research or start-ups, or any other such connected thing I was fine to leave them uncorrected. I hoped they didn’t ask more questions.
I was never proud to be a doctor.
It wasn’t my identity. It wasn’t anything I’d ever wanted to be.
The day I started work as a medical intern I was completely stripped of all the things that had made me who I was, and who I was proud to be. I was ripped from my circle of friends, my community, my chosen family of like-minded souls, from my tribe.
I was separated completely from my identity, isolated in the most complete sense, and left a shell of myself. My soul fading away and splintering a million-ways.
I hated every moment of my intern year.
They made me keep going: “It get’s better”, they all said.
I hated every moment of my second and third years of work.
I cried on my way to or from work. I was often late because I simply did want to be there. I hid in the toilets alone just to fight back the tears and try to slow my heart rate. Desperate to create sentences that wouldn’t break and reveal my constant fear of everything and everyone, mostly fear of myself.
“Don’t take time off yet, you’re not ready, you should complete at least two full years of work. Then you can take time off, then you can locum. It get’s better” they all said.