Recently a doc told me he got promoted to chief of pediatrics. “I’ve achieved all my goals.” He paused. “Only thing left is to donate my organs.”
I run a suicide helpline. I’ve heard these words before.
Even in death, the selfless physician strives to save lives. All but one’s own.
Selfless from Old English self+leas means “without one’s own person.” Loss of self begins long before physical death. Perfectionists master the art of self-annihilation in childhood.
Like the small-town valedictorian turned Ivy League M.D., Ph.D. Brilliant cardiologist. Happy marriage. Great mom. Marathon runner. Best in class at everything.
Always smiling.
Her death “completely unexpected.”
No mention of suicide in her obituary.
Whispers of a divorce, an eating disorder as a child, parents punishing her if she made less than 100 on tests.
“Child abuse is still sanctioned—indeed, held in high regard—in our society as long as it is defined as child-rearing,” says psychologist Alice Miller who writes of the tormented child yearning for parental love through overachievement.
They do well, even excellently, in everything they undertake; they are admired and envied; they are successful . . . but behind all this lurks depression, feelings of emptiness and self-alienation, a sense that their life has no meaning. These dark feelings will come to the fore as soon as the drug of grandiosity fails, as soon as they are not “on top,” not definitely the “superstar” or whenever they suddenly get the feeling they have failed to live up to some ideal image . . . Then they are plagued by anxiety or deep feelings of guilt and shame. What are the reasons for such disturbances of these competent, accomplished people?
Repressed memories are well-hidden under the thrill of academic conquest. Hoarding degrees, certificates, and diplomas an all-consuming addiction.
Physicians stay very busy “helping people.” Why?
I interrogated my physician parents. Separately (so they couldn’t cheat). Beyond “love science” and “help people,” I sought the real reason why they became doctors. Dad poured a glass of vodka and murmured, “So my mother would love me.” Mom’s face turned red as she spewed out, “I thought my mother would finally love me!”
Lost parental love can’t be recouped with a medical diploma.
So we shower patients with attention and love. Hoping for reciprocity from grateful surrogates.
Dr. Jonathan Drummond-Webb was the only child of hypercritical violent parents. They’d wake him at 4:00 am and throw him into an ice-cold shower at age two. His father kept repeating, “You are good for nothing!”
Petrified of becoming his dad, Jon had no children.
Jon’s patients were his kids. As chief of pediatrics and congenital heart surgery, he was their protector and savior.
Despite repairing complex defects in hearts the size of an adult’s thumb (with lowest mortality of all US pediatric surgeons at 1.8%), Jon couldn’t stop the voice of his inner critic, “I’m not good enough.”
Most would celebrate saving 98 of 100. He’d say, “I lost two out of 100.”
Competing in triathlons to stay in shape for surgery, Jon set a frenetic pace performing triple the yearly cases of his peers.
“I have a bit of an extreme personality. What I do demands ultimate perfection.”
At the pinnacle of his career, after implanting the first successful pediatric heart pump, Jon barricaded himself inside his home study on Christmas then overdosed on pain meds and alcohol.
An organ transplant advocate, Jon was unable to donate his own organs.
His physician wife said he had no signs of depression.
A 325-gram baby he operated on weeks before his suicide.
Haunted by the few who died, Jon penned a five-page profanity-laden suicide note blaming the US medical system and naming incompetent staff. “These people don’t care! I have a gift to save babies. The world is not ready for me.”
Jon’s final words—a longing to reunite with his dead parents.
“I am going home!!! To my mom and dad!”
What do these three doctors have in common?
The chief of pediatrics, the brilliant cardiologist, and the congenital heart surgeon all felt unloved as children. So they “killed off” their true selves to play the perfect trophy child in hopes of one day (maybe upon death) feeling loved by mom and dad.
Childhood abuse fueled their professional success.
And choice of specialty.
Helping helpless children.
Fixing broken hearts.
❤️🩹
VIDEO: Dr. Jonathan Drummond-Webb: His Life & Legacy
Pamela Wible, M.D., is a suicidologist who offers peer support, weekly retreats, and a suicide helpline for physicians.
