- © 2005 Canadian Medical Association or its licensors
Are doctors charter members of the cult of consumption? I ask this because of a revelation I had last night when attending a journal club meeting at a colleague's home. Judging from the line of cars parked on the street, I figured I had the right address and parked my circa 1990 Mazda MPV behind a pristine Jaguar XK. Then I walked to the door, travelling past a new Porsche, a monster Olds Bravada, a couple of pert BMWs, a Mercedes SLK, a Lincoln LS and a Lexus GS. A lot of cars, a lot of initials, a long walk.
The home was gargantuan, far from the modest starter my wife and I had just bought at the other end of town. This was a finisher: marble pillars fronting an enclosed verandah, an immense front lawn with statuary and topiary, cobblestone walkways, a detached three-car garage.
I was awed. How could this be the right place? My colleague had only a few additional years of practice under his belt. Could those years have purchased this? I knocked on the front door. It opened into a sumptuous interior: hardwood floors alternated with ceramic tile; a spiral staircase wound up to the third story; each room had its own decor. The kitchen was open-concept; there my coworkers — all family doctors — gathered. Each of them owned one of the fine automobiles lined up outside. Amid all this opulence, I expected the host's kids (a boy of 10 and a girl of 14 — the entryway had portraits) to appear in polo gear, ready to be whisked to the green. But when the girl emerged from her bedroom, she was chewing gum and talking staccato on a cellphone. The boy slunk about with an MP3 player, checking in on us at five-minute intervals to see if the food had arrived.
I was half-expecting a five-course meal in this château until I heard the doorbell ring, followed by footsteps pounding down the stairs and rowdy shouts of “Food's here!” The kids reappeared. The host brought into the kitchen five large rectangular boxes: pizza.
The scene was like an all-doctor episode of the Beverly Hillbillies: substitute Granny's grits for a Domino's all-dressed and it'd be a perfect fit. The nouveau riche — expensive cars, well-appointed homes, family portraits — engorging themselves on déclassé pizza. I poke fun, but I must confess that as the evening wore on it was I who felt like the real hillbilly: I didn't drive the kind of car my peers did or live in a house like the one I was standing in. (Although I could identify with the pizza. In my house, pizza is a special treat.) I felt like a poor hick, a second-rate doctor who couldn't afford the trappings of the profession.
I thought about my nice small house near the train tracks in a quiet neighbourhood, and about how a Porsche has probably never been driven down my street. And I told myself: But I'm happy with that; I don't like ostentation. Yet why did I excuse myself early in the evening so that none of my colleagues would see my ugly MPV against the elegant fleet outside? Why was I embarrassed by my beat-up van, even though I drive it to the hospital every weekday and park it in one of the spots reserved for doctors? The fact that I drive an old car is no secret.
I guess the difference is that before last night I had never noticed theirs.
— Dr.Ursus