TY - JOUR T1 - The epitaph of profession JF - British Journal of General Practice JO - Br J Gen Pract SP - 128 LP - 131 DO - 10.3399/bjgp08X376438 VL - 59 IS - 559 AU - Donald M Berwick Y1 - 2009/02/01 UR - http://bjgp.org/content/59/559/128.abstract N2 - As a very young child growing up in a small town in rural Connecticut, I would half-awaken at some dark early morning hour, stirred by the sound of my father's car starting in the driveway. My father was a GP in our town — one of only two. He was up because he would have received a telephone call that night from Mrs Baron or Mr Bishop; maybe Izzie had chest pain or Millie had a high fever. He would have dressed, rubbed the sleep from his eyes, and climbed into his car to make the house call. I would drift back to sleep, and maybe in the morning I'd hear a bit of the story; Izzie was in the hospital, Claire was in labour. Someone had been born. Someone had died. That night, my mother might bring dinner to Millie to help her out.Once a day — once every single day for 40 years — my father would drive the 17 miles to the local hospital to make rounds on his patients, then return to his office for morning consultation hours, and afternoon hours, and, several days a week, evenings. His work, our town, our lives were one, in rhythm. My sixth-grade schoolhouse window overlooked the road that connected my father's office to the town centre, and we would hear the whine of his engine as he accelerated recklessly along the road. His fast driving was famous in our town; he seemed to think he was immortal. My classmates would mutter as they heard his car speed by, ‘There goes Dr Berwick.’ They never even needed to look up.My father was not just a very good doctor — he was that — but he was also, in a small town, royal. He was a person of privilege. … ER -