Through a physician's eyes: Living twice as long as your parent

Do you remember the exact moment in your life when you had that knowing feeling inside that drew you to your chosen career? My usual answer to that question occurred in October of 1973, at 7 years old in 3rd grade, when my teacher rolled out a life-size skeleton. I was mesmerized, hungry to learn much more about the human body. But if I am being honest with you, and honest with myself, this was actually my second reason why I chose to become a physician. There is a much deeper, earlier reason that lives beneath this.

What truly propelled me forward into medicine happened on one cold, blustery winter day in January 1973, nine months before that skeleton moment, when my life forever changed. It was the day that my father, who suffered from manic depression, tragically died from suicide at the young age of 29. From this devastation grew my burning desire to understand the human mind and prevent this from happening to anyone else who I loved, as well as to anyone in the whole wide world (dreaming big at 7 years old). So my deeper reason why I became a physician was driven by a strong calling for service—”a fixer” at the young age of 7.

My child brain, beyond its inquisitiveness for learning, unfortunately became bombarded with many years of intrusively painful and at times paralyzing thoughts, including:

If you really were a good girl, he wouldn’t have died. (enoughness)
If he really loved you, he wouldn’t have left you. (unlovable)
This is all your fault. (blame)

That’s quite a heavy load for a child to carry around, creating frequent nightmares, flashbacks, and fear, as well as confidence issues, particularly in interpersonal relationships.

In college, I majored in psychology to begin to dive into understanding the complexities of the human brain. In medical school, to my dismay, I found anything related to the real-life practice of psychiatry quite activating. I also learned that I was an extreme empath to a fault, bringing my patients’ issues home with me, unable to properly detach. I believed I had found a better fit in diagnostic radiology where I could be “the doctor’s doctor,” helping physicians identify the etiologies of their patients’ illnesses, and have just enough patient contact to not tip me over the edge.

But, several years into medical practice, I did tip over. I felt like I was barely treading water and at times drowning. I found myself suffering from multiple symptoms and sought treatment from medical specialists with no resolution. The most frightening symptom of all actually came from my own brain—the thought that it would be better if I just wasn’t here anymore. And the deep concern that this was related to my father’s illness surfaced.

Layered on top of the loss of my father, I had three physician friends die from suicide. I remember looking into my young children’s eyes, wanting desperately for them never to experience what had happened to me as a child. I needed to protect them. So in came “the fixer.” I prioritized fixing myself by learning and implementing several tools that reversed all of my symptoms. It was as if a giant weight had been lifted. I felt more happiness and fulfillment in both my personal and professional lives than ever before.

What I came to understand is that I had been suffering from a severe case of chronic stress, not an organic mental illness. I found effective tools to regulate my dysregulated nervous system and manage my mind. I learned the impact that food has on mood and the importance of sleep, exercise, and connection through my board certification studies in lifestyle medicine. Grounded in service, I pivoted my career to become “the doctor’s doctor” in a different way, filling in the enormous physician education gap so they, too, could take control of their own health, well-being, and happiness. My wonderful husband and I together were able to nurture our two incredible, now young adult children whose thirst and joy for life are contagious.

Upon reflecting on my 59 years of life, I realized that I have lived over twice as long as my father who died at age 29. I now understand that I did not cause my father’s mental illness or death. I was enough, he loved me, and I was not to blame.

I now realize that suicidal ideation is not one size fits all. My father suffered from an intrinsic neurochemical imbalance for which he underwent unsuccessful medical treatment. I suffered from extrinsic life situations causing extreme burnout, which was reversed after implementing the correct set of tools. This second etiology can be cured by oneself. I did it, and if needed, know that you absolutely can too.

I’ve learned that semantics is key. The way we think about mental illness affects the way we speak about mental illness. The way we speak about mental illness affects the way we think about mental illness. Notice I said that my father and physician friends died from suicide—not committed, completed, or by suicide. Just like individuals may die from a heart attack or from a stroke, so may they die from suicide. There is no intended action or fault in any of these illnesses, just an organ malfunction. It is freeing when changing your semantics.

I perceive advancing age not as a punishment but a privilege. I don’t lie about my age or get depressed on my birthdays. Each day on this earth is a gift to enjoy, serve, and love.

I don’t feel the need to wait for the special occasion. Right now is the special occasion. Life itself is the special occasion. Each day is in itself a celebration.