My daughter had her first child (my third grandchild, Max!) on January 23, 2012. A couple of days later, she was having a moment of angst. I explained to her that all parents have this out-of-control feeling and it will totally clear up in the next 35 years or so. My children are 28 and 29, so I’m still a little jumpy myself.

After my short but sweet monologue about the joys of changing poopy diapers and painful nursing, my lovely daughter said to me, “You’re wise, dad.” It made me think about losing my own father many years ago. (I had asked him at that moment for his wisdom. Maybe he heard?)

Anyway, I’ve always felt that wisdom is directly related to making mistakes and learning from them. Oh, occasionally we accidently do something right and remember how to do it again. But, by far, it’s our weak moments that evolve into strengths.

We prove that in our practices daily and, yes, there is a reason that they call it “practice.” We never quite perfect it…we’re always learning. I can remember when I thought it made good sense to tell the patient every single detail:

“OK, Mrs. Mightberight, let’s take a walk through your eyes. These are your eyelashes. They are brown. They protect your eye from dust and debris. They offer some shade and protection in bright sunlight…Let’s count ’em!”

Then, 26 minutes later, “These are your puncta…”

Can you guess that my patients thought I was goofy? It probably clicked in somewhere around, “This is your Mittendorf dot…”

Another bit of wisdom that I’m still working on: Patients who skip appointments don’t really want me to keep bugging them to come in. For example, when a diabetic patient misses a couple of appointments, I become partially crazed. I e-mail. I write personal notes. I explain in minute detail that blindness is a possible outcome in diabetes. I recount how diabetes caused a stroke that blinded my father.

It only ticks them off. I have literally tried such brilliant ideas as:

1. Writing a monthly proactive note after the exam telling them “only 11 months left until your next diabetic eye examination,” and later, “only seven more months,” and so forth. They hated me for it almost as much as when I wrote them a note every month for 10 years after they neglected to show up in the first place.
3. I offered, if they had financial issues, to pay for their eye exam out of my own pocket. They still never called.
4. I threatened that if they did not reschedule by the end of the month I would never, ever speak to them again! Boy, were they thankful.

Wisdom takes time, especially if the person wanting to be wiser starts from a position of resolute goofiness. It can be a challenge to move beyond goofy. Trust me.

The problem is this: I always thought that “wise” meant “perfect.” In optometry, there is no such thing as perfect, although I have met quite a few colleagues who feel, deep down inside, that they are pretty darn close.

The truly wise optometrist can admit his or her foibles. This doctor is often unassuming but, when consulted, is very often helpful and correct. He or she has learned from past mistakes and, thus, became wise. In some ways, the doctors who mess up the most have more room to become wise, right? So, based upon my mistakes, I must be a freakin’ sensei by now!