Today is the day I retired back in 2020. That feels like such a long time ago. It was the end of a phased retirement pathway to giving up my role as a consulting psychiatrist for the University of Iowa Heath Care.
We were in the process of moving to an older house. And we just moved again to a brand-new house a couple of years ago. That was the last time.
I’ve ruminated a lot about retiring. I don’t regret it. I gave up wearing the fireman’s helmet. I don’t know what happened to it. A family medicine resident gave it to me as a parting gift when he finished his rotation on my service.
I still have the little fire truck a New York psychiatrist gave me so many years ago, I can’t remember when. I wasn’t just a fireman. I was on fire.
I’m barely a puff of smoke now. I think I still leave a faint trail of something while I’m out for my fart walks around our neighborhood, checking our mail (the usual AMA membership reminders), sporting my new cow cap, waving to our neighbors.
Like many retirees, when I left, I looked back—a thousand times. But I never went back, not even to say “Hi, how ya doin?” or razz my former trainees and former colleagues.
But I have always been proud of them, respected them, and never, ever forgot them.
Now, about that annual kickball game. I think it would be great for you guys to switch to a cooler, saner game like a cribbage tournament and lose the exposure to dangerous heat, blah, blah, blah.
Go Retire Psychiatrist 
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