It felt so cool getting my full GMC registration. In a weird, geeky way it felt like the James Bond part of a medical degree – a Licence to Practice! I was strangely proud and excited.
But today I gave it up.
It was so easy to do – just a simple form to fill on the GMC website, and that’s it. It takes seven years to get that license, and seven seconds to let it go.
I’m still keeping my registration, because for some reason I still feel the need to have a connection with my old profession. I considered renewing my license for another year ‘just in case’, but I can’t really justify the expense as I’m not working clinically and have absolutely no intention of doing so any time soon.
I know it’s reversible. I know it doesn’t make any difference to what I’m doing now, and that it doesn’t take away anything I’ve achieved.
And yet, it still hurts.
It feels like signing the final paperwork in a complicated divorce. I hated Medicine, but I loved it too. As much as we didn’t suit each other, we were together long enough for it to become a huge part of my identity, and I certainly wouldn’t be where I am today without it.
This week, the new F1s take their first fledgling steps in their new jobs, and junior doctors all over the country rotate into new specialties. The turmoil of the last year seems to have had no effect on the numbers of people applying for F1 training – which doesn’t surprise me really. For many it’s their first ever job, and it’s a chance to explore the profession and get a full registration.
I’m floating away from that world. I feel the bonds breaking and the distance widening. I sometimes look back in nostalgia, with that uncomfortable feeling that you were never really right together, but at the same time, you found a way to shift along well enough, and you did have some good moments.
There are times when I catch myself missing it terribly, particularly when I think about how great it was to communicate with patients. I was good at that, and it was the best part of the job. I recently comforted a friend of mine after a scan showed an unwelcome diagnosis, and in her gratitude for explaining things more fully, she lamented my leaving the medical profession, and wished that her doctors were more like me.
It was kind of her to say so, but in reality, when I was working as a doctor I never felt I had enough time to spend with patients to explain, to comfort and to guide, and I was often so exhausted that I could barely muster the energy to care very much. I can only smile at the idea of being a better doctor now that I’m out of the profession, and it makes me ashamed to think of what I was.
I think, having been a doctor, it never truly leaves you. There are some things that, once learned, can never be unlearned. Medicine is strangely addictive in that way.
But I can’t deny that I’m much happier where I am. Looking back and romanticizing my former life simply isn’t sensible, and I am in danger of seeing things through the rose-coloured glasses of hindsight.
It’s time to hang up my stethoscope and move on.