Just days ago, my wife and I welcomed our fourth child—a beautiful, healthy baby girl. We're beyond blessed. But her delivery wasn't just joyful; it was a profound reminder about medicine, desire, and practicing with true authenticity.
This was my wife's fifth pregnancy. The first ended in miscarriage, and each subsequent one brought escalating risks of postpartum bleeding. By our third child, she needed an implanted device to stop postpartum hemorrhage. It was traumatic, leaving us questioning if another pregnancy was even safe.
In past deliveries, different obstetricians rotated in as part of a larger group—competent, sure, but part of on-call teams. They'd react to crises, but I always worried: Did they fully grasp her history? Were the right tools and people prepped? As a doctor myself, I've seen how details can slip in busy systems, even with good people.
This time was different. We chose a private-practice OB—no group, no rotations. He handles every patient personally. When labor hits, he's there.
Labor started at night. He arrived at 11 p.m., just two hours after admission, and stayed through nine grueling hours of active labor. He knew her risks inside out, as he was there for every conversation we had with him in the 9 months beforehand. When she lost two liters of blood from a placenta that wouldn't fully detach, he was unflappable—meds ready, playbook executed.
Post-delivery, he spent 90 minutes meticulously removing the placenta and repairing a cervical tear. Some iron supplementation but no device needed and no blood transfusion. It was personalized, attentive excellence that left me inspired.
Why did it hit so hard? Modern medicine is increasingly organized into large systems. Physicians like me become small parts of massive machines. We track “key performance indicators,” not because they reflect the soul of good medicine, but because they satisfy the larger organizations that we become a part of.
In theory, patients are the “customers” in the business of healthcare. In reality however, insurance companies are the ones providing the majority of the reimbursements in the US healthcare system. And so, incentives drift. Physicians start unconsciously aligning with organizational goals instead of the deeper, older goal: caring for the patients in front of them.
Enter René Girard's concept of mimetic desire. Girard argued that we humans don’t invent our desires from scratch. We absorb them from models around us — often without realizing it. A young doctor starts his or her career with dreams of healing patients, but once part of a bigger system, success models shift to organizational metrics, promotions, reputation. Unknowingly, the desire to be an excellent physician can morph into the desire to satisfy the organization.
Watching this OB at 3 a.m., solo and fully present for my wife, reignited what authentic medicine is: Not performing for a system, but being there for a person.
At 41 years of age, I'm still growing as a physician, and this experience inspired me. I want to chase that deeper call to serve, not just benchmarks put forth as carrot sticks by larger and broader entities that aren't focused on the patient-provider relationship.
This isn't just for medicine. In business, teaching, art, or parenting, it's easy to adopt borrowed desires—serving systems over people, metrics over meaning.
But encounters with those who inspire us to stay true? They become models pulling us back to purpose.
That's what I saw last weekend: A doctor embodying presence, humility, and skill. I am grateful for my wife's care—and the reminder of who I aspire to be.
