Dredged-up memories about missed opportunities, job offers
and other attractive invitations I’ve declined, rarely reach conscious levels,
let alone become a preoccupation that could trouble me if I paused to think about such
hypothetical matters. It required some effort
to recall and make a list of alternative careers I might have pursued.
Here are some highlights I can remember without making a special effort. I
can’t guess whether readers of this post who face career decisions will derive
comfort or be unsettled when they read this.
When I was about 12 I wanted to become a writer when I grew
up. By then I knew I was capable of stringing words together into sentences and
paragraphs that satisfied me and seemed to please others such as school
teachers, admiring aunts and my mother’s friends. Alas, by the time I was 15 or
16 I had discovered that I couldn’t invent credible plots, believable
characters, and had a tin ear for dialogue. Perhaps if Australia had been at
peace rather than embroiled in a world war I might have been able to take a
university degree in literature and learnt how to do these things; but it was
never a realistic option. A university education in literature might have
proved valuable in my career as an editor and medical science writer but I
think I’ve managed well enough without.
Over a period of about 18 months in 1959-60, I corresponded
with Professor WD Borrie, a distinguished demographer, head of the School of
Social Sciences at the Australian National University. In general practice I had become interested
in determinants of the health of immigrants. I published a descriptive paper on
this, and Bill Borrie offered me a position as research associate in his team,
where I could explore in depth the health consequences of migration. If I had
taken that position it would have led eventually to a PhD, probably to a
scholarly monograph and other publications, perhaps to a lifetime on the staff at
ANU. Canberra has become a lovely city with its own cultural attractions, within easy reach of both Sydney and
Melbourne, and I’m sure we’d have been happy there. There are plenty of worse fates. But I can’t
imagine that I’d have reached the heights I’ve achieved if I’d accepted Bill
Borrie’s invitation.
When I arrived in Burlington, Vermont early in 1964, Kerr
White, who had recruited me, famously said, “Don’t unpack. We are all moving to
Johns Hopkins in Baltimore.” What a thrill that was! Johns Hopkins is one of
the half dozen best medical schools in the USA, its School of Hygiene and Public Health is among the best schools of public health in the world. I was
almost deliriously happy when I first learnt of this dramatic turn of events. But
as mentioned in previous posts, Wendy and I rapidly became disenchanted with
important aspects of American culture and society and a timely invitation gave
us a choice of two alternatives, Johns Hopkins in Baltimore or the Usher
Institute of Public Health in Edinburgh. It was a no-brainer.
I established my scholarly reputation in Edinburgh and
towards the end of my time there I received many attractive invitations. Two
English universities, Newcastle and Nottingham, tried to entice me away from
Edinburgh. I had invitations from so many US universities that I lost count. Those
I took seriously enough to open lines of communication for 2-way exchange of
ideas included Pittsburgh, NYU (Downstate, in Brooklyn); and then one I had to
visit to see for myself, Harvard, a challenging cross-appointment between
Harvard Medical School and the Harvard School of Public Health. I provisionally accepted that one, despite
misgivings about returning to live in the USA, and – more important – despite
intimidating academic politics. On that same expedition across the pond from
Scotland to the North-east corner of North America, I flew from Boston to
Ottawa, and as already related, strolled beside the Rideau Canal from downtown
by the Chateau, southward to the Glebe, and along quiet tree-lined streets
where parents sat on their front steps while their kids played street hockey in
the gathering dusk. I had an epiphany: Ottawa would clearly be a better place to
raise our kids than some distant outer suburb of Boston with a long commute.
I’ve never regretted choosing Ottawa rather than Cambridge, Mass.
The invitations didn’t end with the move to Ottawa. They increased in number and attractiveness.
One morning in the late winter of 1974 I had a phone call from the vice
chancellor of Newcastle University in New South Wales: would I be interested in
becoming dean of the medical school that was to be established at the
University of Newcastle? My enthusiasm for this exciting career move didn’t
begin to evaporate until I was in the air about half way across the Pacific. I
began to reflect on the role, function and responsibilities of a medical
school dean, began to realize that I didn’t want to be a dean. This was just as well because it became
obvious when I reached Newcastle that I was the ‘other candidate’ – brought in
to ensure that the process had the appearance of honesty when the position was
offered to the insider who all along was intended to get it.
Because dates clashed with unbreakable academic obligations I
had to decline invitations to visit and speak at conferences in places I’d
always wanted to visit: Iceland, Portugal, Rio, Moscow, Jaipur, Oslo, Johannesburg, among
others.
Until 10-15 years in Ottawa, Wendy and I both hoped we would eventually move back to either New Zealand or Australia, but opportunities to do so were rare. When the dream job finally appeared and I was wanted enough to attract a personal visit from a distinguished Australian, the invitation came too late. My visitor, president of the Australian Medical Association, called on Wendy and me with an offer to return to Sydney as professor of public health and editor of the Medical Journal of Australia. But the enticing invitation came in 1987, too late. By them we had deep roots in North America. I was about to become president of the American College of Preventive Medicine, had just begun my second go around the track as editor in chief of the big public health textbook and the Dictionary of Epidemiology. I had several other important and worth while irons in the fire. Wendy's roots had sunk almost as deeply into Canadian social and cultural soil; and Rebecca and David both had commitments and partners who would keep them in Canada. Going back to Australia at that stage would have torn our little family apart. We realized that we were committed to Canada for life.
Until 10-15 years in Ottawa, Wendy and I both hoped we would eventually move back to either New Zealand or Australia, but opportunities to do so were rare. When the dream job finally appeared and I was wanted enough to attract a personal visit from a distinguished Australian, the invitation came too late. My visitor, president of the Australian Medical Association, called on Wendy and me with an offer to return to Sydney as professor of public health and editor of the Medical Journal of Australia. But the enticing invitation came in 1987, too late. By them we had deep roots in North America. I was about to become president of the American College of Preventive Medicine, had just begun my second go around the track as editor in chief of the big public health textbook and the Dictionary of Epidemiology. I had several other important and worth while irons in the fire. Wendy's roots had sunk almost as deeply into Canadian social and cultural soil; and Rebecca and David both had commitments and partners who would keep them in Canada. Going back to Australia at that stage would have torn our little family apart. We realized that we were committed to Canada for life.
