Dr. Bachelor

Over the past few years, I’ve watched a little reality television. I don’t think I watched the first season of “The Bachelor,” but I definitely remember Trista and Ryan’s very pink wedding that was televised following the first season of “The Bachelorette.” I have to admit, though, to watching a few minutes of “The Bachelor” last night as Wes popped in and out of the bedroom (I wheeled it in there so he could have quiet in the living room/office) from working on his pulmonary exam. This season’s bachelor is Travis Stork. Travis, “Dr. McDreamy” as he is called in reference to a character on “Grey’s Anatomy,” is a 3rd-year ED resident from Vanderbilt. He went undergrad at Duke and then did medical school at the University of Virginia just two years ahead of Wes. One of Wes’s fellow residents here at Northwestern who is one year ahead actually roomed with Travis at UVA. So here on national tv as television’s most available doctor is someone who could be Wes – if Wes had more hair, less reserve, and were two years older.

Anyone who has ever seen “The Bachelor” knows how goofy the whole premise is. There are initially 25 women who meet and greet their potential Mr. Right. After a few hours, the man-who-clearly-knows-what-he-wants cuts the pool of could’ve-been-models women down to about half (save the decimal that results from that math) and then cuts again after a series of group dates and one individual date. The girls are instantaneously smitten with the guy, the guy is confused about his many wonderful choices, and those who are cut are upset, bitter, or resentful. Sometimes, like last night, one goes a little nuts over the whole thing (this time a candidate who announced her readiness to “reproduce”). For six weeks, the man-in-charge two times each girl times four. The women inevitably get upset about having to share their pseudo-boyfriend; cat fights and pettiness ensues, and somehow the pimp-daddy himself comes out looking more reasonable than his dates. Ultimately, the bachelor is supposed to pick his Mrs. Right and, in the vein of previous seasons, propose to her with some obnoxiously large diamond on the season finale. Of the many seasons of this show (eight at least), I think only one has actually produced a couple that stayed together and actually married (in the aforementioned Pepto pink affair).

The thing that really made me laugh about last night’s show, though, was hearing all the women talk about Dr. Stork – “It’s every girl’s dream to take home a doctor.” What will these girls think when “reality” really does set in. They don’t like sharing him with other girls, fine, but will they mind sharing him with his job? I always love how absent reality is from reality television, and it’s never hit quite as close to home as this show did last night. I know what it’s like to end up with a doctor husband. I consider myself fortunate to have met Wes not as Dr. Self but as Wes, the guy who lived on the hall where I was an R.A. and who liked to putt golf balls in the lobby (much to my consternation). I met him as Wes, the senior who told me he was either going to play professional baseball or become an MD/PhD – and wasn’t kidding. Wes, who studied for HOURS and HOURS through medical school and finally proposed when he realized what being a doctor is like (on his surgery rotation no less). Wes, who, now a doctor, works ALL THE TIME. He’s a resident, after all. He makes about what I do as a nanny, but he works at least twice as much.

I love Wes very much, and I think he picked a great profession – in general and for him. Some people questioned his choice of specialty – one that in the long run supposedly promises a much more manageable schedule than the one we’re facing right now – but it made sense to me from the beginning and does so even more now. He likes the people he works with, his work is necessary and important (though not all cases may seem that way), and ED work is fast-paced and requires a breadth of knowledge and skills. It pushes him – occasionally to exhaustion! But I didn’t enter into this relationship with the expectation of “I’m marrying a doctor.” I met Wes, and I married Wes. He happens to be a doctor, and I believe he will be a very good one. We are developing our life’s expectations together. This isn’t to say that I couldn’t have met him now and fallen in love with him, or that relationships that begin after medical school are doomed to fail. I guess I just realize now that I’ve seen it what misperceptions people have about this profession. People have always esteemed doctors, and perhaps rightfully so. Medical school is tough. Residency is tough. All specialties are at times very tough. But being married to someone in this field can be that, too – tough. Not because you love the person less, but because the lifestyle can be straining on your spouse and consequently on you. This is true of people in all walks of life, but I think people forget this with doctors and lawyers and other high-profile professions. I don’t think I’ve ever stood in awe of doctors, but it’s definitely the kind of profession that gets an “oh, wow” response when people hear it. But residency for a doctor is a lot more working, studying, conferencing, meeting, worrying – and far less well-paid (when I’m talking to other people who know my husband is a doctor and think we’re rich as a consequence, I have to clarify that he’s a resident, not a “doctor doctor” as we call it – not that we necessarily will be then!) – than people think.

My point here is not to suggest that Wes has the hardest job in the world or that our marriage is so tough as a consequence. In reality, Wes likes the profession he’s chosen, and we’re happier than ever (I hope so, since we’ve only been married about 18 months). We see each other and enjoy our time together. It’s just not the attached-at-the-hip kind of relationship that some people enjoy (we’ve never been that type, though, so maybe that’s why it works). I just think it’s funny to watch these women compete for their doctor – I have a feeling that they have no idea what it’s really like. You only realize the misperceptions you carry about people and life when you see others who have them about yours.

Endnote: Forgive the switching between “girl” and “woman.” I know these are all “women” (though they may not act like it), but I still think of myself as a “girl,” so I tend to refer to other intelligent, mature, grown women as “girls.” My apologies to any who may take offense at the word choice.