I'm Dr. Rock and Roll: Believe!

            If you ever want to guarantee my success, tell me I can’t do something. “You’re going to eat those words!” will be my reply before you even finish the sentence. My German heritage has made me stubborn; and telling me I’m not going to make it indirectly kicks in my other psychological trigger: being told what to do (or not to do). I was an obstinate child, and my teachers had their hands full with me. I was voted Class Revolutionary (still trying to decide if that was a compliment), and I’ve had former bosses tell prospective employers to earn my respect if they expect me to follow them.

            In 1998, I was at a bit of a crossroads. I was a third-year medical student, and the grind was starting to get to me. I even entertained the idea of quitting, but I knew I was trapped. Saddled with enormous debt, the only way out was forward. It was during this time that I was on a rotation where the preceptor gave me little to no feedback. He gave me a book to read but never assigned readings for me. I spent the month observing, feeling I was ill-equipped to do much more. Imagine my surprise when the dean of clinical medicine requested a meeting, where he reviewed the scathing evaluation that this wonderful doctor had given me. He marked me as poor in nearly all areas and made the comment that I “lacked the motivation to be a serious doctor.” This guy was supposed to be a mentor, someone to show me the way, but instead he sold me out to the dean, where I couldn’t face my accuser. Was he more correct than he realized? Yes. But this was humiliating, and if I may say so, a major dick move. The dean looks at me and asks, “Do you have anything to say about this?” My response was simple; I determine my future, not a passive-aggressive asshole who wasn’t professional enough to review this with me, or offer any guidance at any point, when I was clearly struggling. I doubled down at that point, and I bet big on me. I remember that jerk’s words every time I falter. I suppose I should thank him, but after twenty-seven years, I’d still rather kick him in the groin. Maybe I’ll get a chance to do either, or both, at some point.

            Was there ever a bigger flash in the pan, speaking of the 90s, than The Presidents of the United States of America? The quirky group had hits with songs like “Lump” and “Peaches,” but they also had a tune called “We’re Not Gonna Make It.” It was a thumb to every critic’s nose. “We don’t have the talent, and we don’t have the time,” they proclaim, stating there are a million better bands, with a million better songs. Record executives were so convinced that Poison was a waste of time, they only spent $23,000 dollars recording the band's debut album. When Bret Michaels, the lead singer, asked if they could retain publishing rights to the songs, he was met with a “yeah sure, whatever.” Their debut album went on to sell 6 million copies. Decca Records passed on the Beatles. The Grand Ole Opry told Elvis to go back to driving a truck. There are as many stories of beating the odds in rock and roll as there are anywhere else. It’s human nature to cheer for an underdog, largely because most of us have been underdogs at some point in our lives.

            The phrase takes on a different tune when it comes to facing our own mortality. I’ve been asked so many times, “Doc, am I going to make it?” It’s ironic, we only appreciate the value of living when we realize that we’ve only been existing, and there’s danger ahead. I’ve never been one to give out a prognosis because I don’t plant seeds that grow into self-fulfilling prophecies. We are our own worst critics already, so I have no interest in fanning the flames of doubt.

            Belief is so lacking these days. With everything going on in the world, everyone wonders if we’re going to make it, in an existential sense. I think about all the end-of-life discussions I’ve had with patients, and one truth holds strong – at some point, we don’t make it. But isn’t that what makes it beautiful? Our days are limited, which is why we must celebrate the good ones. I refuse to pick through society’s garbage, replete with its bad news and muck-raking journalism. In the immortal words of Mr. Rogers, look for the people who are helping. You want to talk politics? Unless you can speak rationally without name calling, get out of here. As I said in a previous post, when the world seems big, make it small. I’m going to continue being a good father to my kids, a good friend to my friends, a good husband to my spouse. Not to mention, I took an oath to be a good doctor to my patients. And rather than focus on MORE, I’m perfectly fine with ENOUGH. In my opinion, if you can get to that point, you’ve already made it.

            No doubt about it. I hope you believe enough to make it to where you’re headed. Belief is in short supply, both in ourselves and others. Be good to yourself.