The Weight of a Title

I earned the title “doctor” in 2005. Hearing my name—Dr. Fisher—gave me a profound sense of pride and accomplishment. It represented the culmination of years of incessant study, countless late nights, and the huge personal sacrifice it took to become a physician. Hearing that name was, in essence, a badge of honor.

When patients, colleagues, or even strangers addressed me that way, a surge of pride would fill my chest. It meant respect, trust, and the hard-earned recognition of my expertise.

The Sweet Taste Turns Sour

Somewhere along the demanding journey of being a hospitalist, that sweet taste began to turn sour. Now, when I hear “Dr. Fisher,” my mind doesn’t automatically go to accomplishment or respect. Instead, it’s an immediate, almost reflexive, “What do you want?”

Of course, I am grateful for the title, but now it almost certainly precedes the relentless grind of hospital medicine. “Dr.” is the prologue to a new demand, a crisis I need to handle, or another urgent task piled onto an already overflowing plate.

It reminds me of a family member wanting an update they could have received from my colleague, an ED doctor desperately wanting to “run something by me,” or another form that needs to be filled out immediately. It is the story of expectations—often unrealistic expectations—but expectations, nonetheless. Expectations that I can solve every problem, erase every fear, and be instantly available for every single need.

From Honor to Call to Arms

The weight of my title has changed. It no longer solely represents my training and knowledge. Dr. Fisher now inevitably equals responsibility. It stands for the endless demands on my time and emotional energy, and for the constant pressure to perform under duress.

It’s the sound of my pager going off, the chime of a new message in the Epic system, the feeling of being pulled in a dozen directions at once.

I would never complain about the work itself; this is the path I chose, and I remain committed to my patients. But the pressure associated with the title has fundamentally altered my perception of it. The pride has not vanished, but it is now tainted with an underlying sense of vigilance—an automatic bracing for the next request.

Maybe this shift is a natural evolution of a career in medicine, a transition from the idealism of graduation to the reality of daily practice. Maybe it speaks to the challenges faced by physicians today: the increasing administrative burdens, the strained resources, and the threat of burnout.

Whatever the reason, the once cherished “Dr. Fisher” now often feels less like an honor and more like a call to arms. Honestly, some days, I wish to respond, “Please just call me Cedric.”