I'm out of here

Today something big happened. In view of just how big it was I am more than a little surprised by how good I feel about it at this moment: I decided to quit my job.

As observant followers of my blog may know, I took my retirement from the NHS in 2011 when I turned sixty. However, although I sold my practice and was no longer the senior partner, I continued to work on as a part-timer. I worked two sessions a week at my old surgery, and also extra sessions when other partners were away on leave. Looking back, I think I was fearful of stopping work altogether at that stage because I realised how much it meant to me. And indeed in theory I could keep going like this indefinitely. Amongst my GP peers it is common practice to go on until they "die in harness" as the phrase goes, literally going sparko with a massive coronary right in the middle of a surgery, aged ninety-seven or whatever. But I didn't see it like that when I was in my late twenties. The idea of a well funded early retirement sounded like paradise, and I grabbed it with both hands.

 Back in the late seventies the NHS opened up a brief window (they withdrew it seven years later) which enabled GPs to "buy extra years", by paying increased superannuation fee which then, if you so chose, enabled you to retire at 60 while retaining the same pension you would have accrued had you worked all the way through until sixty-five. In other words, you could pay extra in advance to retire early and not lose out financially.
However, despite the culmination of my financially shrewd move, ingeniously planned all those years ago, when it actually happened I was reluctant to give up the role that meant so much to me.

 But then my son died in 2006 and that changed everything. Medicine has always been a huge part of my life, but after my son died, I guess it assumed an even greater significance. And I never calculated for that, now did I? Saying goodbye to a world that has brought so much over nearly forty years of doctoring proved harder than I thought.

Problem is, humans aren't very good at letting go. If they were, half of the world's worst problems would disappear overnight. However, the Buddhists and sage counsel from across the spiritual divide seems to agree on this constituting an all-pervading neurosis in our species. And that to succeed in your letting-go process is the essence of spiritual wisdom; possibly even something towards enlightenment. They also acknowledge how difficult it is in practice. Personally, I would characterise it as being hard-wired into our screwed up mental genetics, like anger and grief. Perhaps there's even a survival factor going on there.

Is letting go a superhuman task, beyond the scope of  us fucked-up normal types? And should we even try? I say no, it can be done. It will be hard work, but then great achievements are not won without great effort. And if it worked, the payoff would be huge. We'd be happier.

 Going back to my little exercise in letting go,  I have now had nearly three years of this half-way house situation; just hanging on to a little bit of what was my former life was about, but not feeling strong enough to quit it for good. And in fact it may actually have been therapeutic for me to do it in this way, tailing off my "addiction to work", you could say. However, at a deeper level I have known for a while what needs to be done. I must finally cast off my medical mantle and move on into a truly retired life, but one that with any luck could still hold a lot of opportunities for me to continue becoming myself. And do you know what? Having made the fateful decision this morning and given in my letter of resignation, it doesn't feel too bad. It's still a novelty right now, naturally, and I know my feelings may change as time passes. They usually do. But I'm looking forward to seeing what happens.

Wish me luck.