I learned early on that a worthy life goal is to have everyone like me. That goal is a perfect match for someone trying to fulfill the job description of a “caretaker.” Remember, society gives us the mistaken belief that “caretakers” are to be stoical, non-complaining and polite as they go about their business of being do-gooders.

Most Americans grew up learning that doctors are godlike. When doctors speak, you listen. No back talk. No inane questions. Shut up, listen and do what they say.

Sherrie was sick year after year and saw a lineup of medical specialists for a variety of physical problems. She struggled with pain and exhaustion and felt confused part of the time because of her symptoms and the drugs prescribed. She needed help from someone as she interacted with the doctor deities. I played the caretaker role well, nodding my head as doctors spoke, thanking them profusely for their expertise and concern. I even chuckled when they practiced examination-room humor.

One day about a year into her illness we went to visit another specialist. Sherrie retold her story for what seemed the hundredth time. He seemed as tired of Sherrie’s story and problems as we were. He answered our questions with curt statements, refusing to look us in the eyes. Then he said it was time for us to go. He told us he would call in a day or two with his diagnosis.

So I took my wife home. I watched her walk stiffly from room to room. I saw her blank face stare into the eyes of our beloved daughters. I watched her wince in pain as she reached down to pick up our tiny old dog who seemed as tired as she did.

Two days later Sherrie received a call from the doctor. When I walked in the door from work Sherrie was storming around the house like a professional wrestler. “The doctor suggested we see a marriage counselor,” she said angrily. “He thought I needed to get out of the house.” Then she retold the doctor’s coup d’etat. “He doesn’t think I have anything physically wrong with me at all. He just thinks I’m a little bit depressed.”

The old Gregg Piburn would have said: “Now, now, Sherrie. There’s no use getting upset about it. We’ll make an appointment to see another doctor tomorrow. Let’s go watch TV.”

This time I let steam spew from the pressure cooker I had become. Without saying a word, I marched to the phone. “Yes,” I said, “let me talk to the doctor.” Pause. “This is very important so I need to talk to him now.”

Finally, he came on the line. I asked him to quickly summarize what he had told Sherrie. Her recollection matched his summary. Then it was my turn to talk.

“I’ve lived with this woman for 14 years and I guarantee there is something significantly wrong with her body,” I said through clenched teeth. Sherrie stood by me, her eyes growing wide. “We are both offended that you would belittle her and her illness by saying what you said.”

The doctor began to interrupt. “Be quiet, let me speak,” I countered. “You treated Sherrie with disinterest two days ago and you’ve upset her with your idiotic diagnosis today. If anyone is sick in the head it’s you. If I ever hear you question Sherrie’s honesty or toughness again, I’ll punch you in the mouth.” I slammed down the phone.

I broke all the rules … and I loved it. So did Sherrie. My explosion turned what could have been a sour evening into a grand affair as we joked and laughed about the doctor and the tongue-lashing.

Did I really intend to punch out the doctor? Not likely, because I hoped our paths would never cross again. And luckily they haven’t.

This may sound crazy, but allowing others to dislike me represented personal growth. More important than that, however, my actions supported Sherrie in a new and bizarre way. She did not need a pat on the back or a “caretaker” to bring her warm soup while her mind smoldered with anger and questions about her sanity.

She needed a knight in shining armor to stand up for her, a princely figure willing to slay the dragon dressed in a doctor’s smock.