An accidental career in a new discipline

othing about my life has been planned, including medicine. When, to my surprise, I obtained one of the rare scholarships then available to the University of Sydney after the Leaving Certificate, I asked my father what I should do. “Medicine”, he said, “that’s a good career for a woman”. So, despite having no sciences and braving the fierce opposition of my Latin teacher, I obeyed. Nor did I know, even after graduating, what field of medicine to aim for, having spent much of my undergraduate years at Arts lectures and playing bridge. After doing the odd locum and a bit of general practice, I married a naval aviator and had six children. This removed me from medicine for 13 years. Returning to Sydney from Perth (following the fleet) and being short of money, I went to Royal North Shore Hospital (RNSH) and asked to do a refresher course by attending outpatient clinics. Although feeling like a middleaged frumpish housewife, I was treated by each of the senior consultants, all men, with the utmost courtesy. I have honoured RNSH ever since. It was not easy to get a job. I worked first at Grosvenor Diagnostic Centre, assessing children with intellectual disability. The medical officers were at the fringe of a revolution in genetics, constantly learning about recently discovered syndromes and how to identify these as the underlying causes of the conditions in the people we saw. Yet, we were not esteemed by the medical profession, who referred to us as “guardians of the waiting list”, because we assigned priority to those most urgently in need of the few residential care places available. Our chief concern, however, seemed to be for the parents, and how to reconcile them with the pain of accepting that their children were “different”.