So I Married a Nurse (and Other Clichés That Work)

I keep challenging myself to write more lifestyle stuff in this blog. Which is brave, really — because I hold absolutely no qualifications in the field, except for being a human who’s in a relationship with another human. And… being alive.

A woman, specifically. Much to the surprise of many who saw me go through my tight-clothes-and-doing-musical-theatre phase.

Bonus points - she hasn’t murdered me yet. That feels like success.

I’m not here to give marriage advice. If anything, I’m a cautionary tale.

My wife, Emma — the aforementioned murder-resistant nurse — tolerates my existence with the patience of a saint and the eye-roll of someone who’s had to explain “that’s not how domestic chores work” for a decade straight.

But seeing as medicine chews up relationships like it’s sport, and I’ve somehow made one last, here’s a bit of a reflection. Less of a manual, more of a messy transcript of a play, very much in rough draft.

Love in a Rota-Based Economy

Dating within medicine makes a weird kind of sense. We speak the same language. We understand what an on-call coma feels like. We’ve been shaped by the same pressure-cookers, burnt out by the same systems, and occasionally dumped in the same nightclub (shout out to Espionage, aka NHS-pionage — may your sticky floors rest in peace.)

When you date inside your profession, there’s a catharsis to it:

• You get debriefs without disclaimers.

• You don’t have to translate the horror of a bleep at 2 a.m. or justify why you’re mentally flattened after six patients and a broken printer.

• You just get it.

That said, “breeding in circuit” comes with hazards. Breakups within departments? Pure tribalism. I’ve seen teams fracture into factions faster than a hospital Wi-Fi drop.

One wrong move, and your audit buddy becomes your mortal enemy’s coffee pal.

The Ballast Called Emma

Emma’s a nurse, which in my case has been equal parts pragmatic, grounding, and frankly, lucky.

She operates on protocol. On pragmatism. On plans. Which makes her the perfect foil to my chaos.

We’ve worked together — me a junior doc, her a ward nurse — and never stepped on each other’s toes.

We’ve done long distance (FY2 placement out of town)

We’ve navigated ridiculous shifts, and somehow avoided full-blown collapse even when we were both too tired to speak in full sentences.

She’s the ballast when I’m the weather.

And that balance only works when you don’t let work become the relationship.

Doctor, Heal Thy Damn Relationship

The biggest danger I see in doctor–doctor (or doctor–anyone MDT) relationships is letting medicine become the third person in the marriage.

If all you talk about is medicine, then when medicine goes wrong — and it will — there’s nothing left to connect you. You’re just two angry consultants with no clinic notes to bitch about.

The relationships I see thrive are the ones that respect the overlap but don’t drown in it. They debrief, then close the door. They honour the work without letting it leak into every meal, every moment, every minor disagreement.

Emma and I can talk shop. But we also talk nonsense - usually mine. It’s vital.

Also — and this is key — we never critique each other’s clinical acumen. Not because I’m scared of her (I am), but because that’s a boundary worth holding. Clinical ego has no place in your kitchen.

Kids, Clinics, and Crumbling Sanity

So if you get that far and don’t divorce or split up you’ve tragically beaten the odds. You’ve survived the chaos. You’ve won.

Then, your throw children into the mix and things get feral.

We’ve got two — ages six and eight at time of writing — which means we’re currently in the golden era of early social overstimulation and relentless questions.

Does Atlantis have a volcano near it?

Are their blue octopuses? Even orange ones?

If I was in the future, would there be monsters? (Because I went there and saw them)

How is chocolate made? Could I eat it?

How high do I have to be to be older?

Do seahorses have nipples?

Do all old people die?

Parental decision fatigue is real. It’s not just work — it’s the 150 existential queries your kid throws at you before breakfast.

The saving grace? Emma and I are both trained in handovers. Our shared mental model keeps the wheels turning. But even then that’s luck of the draw if it even happens sometimes. We’re both human with our own Transactional analysis imbalances at play.

If you’re with someone outside medicine, you need to train them in your system — and vice versa. Or it all crumbles.

And you have to be ok to let it crumble - from time to time. They call it rupture and repair.

Hierarchy, Rotas, and Why No One’s the Boss at Home

I’ve seen doctor–nurse couples. Consultant–reg couples. Even registrar–charge nurse setups. Hierarchy doesn’t seem to be the killer — it’s how you handle it.

Respect matters. So does recognising that once you get home, you’re not the boss of anyone. You’re just two exhausted people trying to make pasta and not cry.

I’ve known relationships where one person adapted their whole career path for the other. Others where two wildly different tracks somehow orbit peacefully.

There’s no formula — just communication, margin, and boundary-setting.

So… Date Inside Medicine?

Honestly? Fuck knows.

The only consistent truth I’ve seen is this: doctors make complicated partners:

• We’re neurospicy.

• We’re equal parts tired and tiring.

• We’re control freaks in denial.

• We’re full of guilt and caffeine and weird stories about rectal foreign bodies.

And we carry all of that into relationships

If you’re gonna date a doctor — or be one — know this:

• The rota won’t love you back. Your partner might.

• The job will change you. Make sure you have space to change together.

• Talk. Debrief. Laugh. Shut up sometimes. Say sorry often.

• Never marry someone who doesn’t let you be an absolute goblin after a bad shift.

Love doesn’t need to be efficient. It just needs to survive the night shift.

Stay Grounded

—DW