Last January I retired from practice as a clinical geneticist. Almost immediately after the papers had been drawn up, I was approached by several middle men, though in this case they were middle women, to consider the opportunity to temporarily un-retire and see patients for short stints – intermittently, for a few weeks or months at a time. This is common. The short-term, itinerant practice of medicine is known in the profession as locum tenens, a reassuringly Latin phrase that translates as place-holder. Like a substitute teacher but for a doctor’s practice, invaluable to beleaguered docs who need 6 weeks in Tahiti or knee surgery and rehab, or for the interlude between one doc sailing on and another full-timer arriving at the dock. Rumor has it that locums pay well. I have been tempted, but even now I can see my clinical acumen is not what it was. Sleeping in I can get used to. The absence of pre-authorizations and coding struggles and writing clinic notes at 10:30 PM equals sanity and blessings. Consequently I’m 93% sure I won’t throw my hat in the ring for one of the many locum tenens opportunities, even without call, even without coverage for metabolic patients, whom I love but dang-it-all are often sick and tough for an old-timer like me to manage.
On the other hand, I’m 100% sure I will write. My confidence about getting published is somewhat less than that figure, but one step at a time. The step that has occurred this last week is that I have heard now from all of the low-residency MFA programs to which I applied. I didn’t get in everywhere, but I have a few options from which to choose and plan to make a selection this week.
Choosing a school, be it undergraduate or graduate, means allowing yourself to take a risk. Is this going to work out? Will I like the teachers, will I make friends? Can I do the work? Will I pass? Will I love it or hate it or pretend that I love it? After I finish, what then? Do I really want to do this? Couldn’t I just doom scroll for a few years and call it a day?
Screw the comfort zone. Even though it sounds like an epitaph, that’s got to be your mission statement. Don’t know exactly what’s going to happen? Good. A little scared? Good. Does the possibility of failure exceed single digits? Even better.
In the meantime, we’re going skiing this winter. In Milton. Rockies in the US and Canada. RoamLink and Starlink, electric blanket, hot toddies. Moguls, on the slopes and off, look like they are going to be everyone’s best friends.
Reading this week: The Madstone, by Elizabeth Crook. Finished it in a day. Loved it. Those who sent me recommendations for new books to read, thank you.
More about my choice of an MFA next time.
In the meantime, check this out: A Marine Corps veteran expresses concerns for the military in a 2nd Trump presidency.
Scott D. McLean, MD 