My Life My Story: Dr. Irwin Berman

The world I was born into was quiet and small – surrounded by cotton fields, family farms, and a graduating class of the same 30 people I started school with. As I grew, however, my world grew with me. From farmland to operating rooms, from a community where everyone knew my name to military bases across the world, my story has been one of expanding horizons, hard work, and carrying forward the dreams my parents brought with them to this country. 

I was born in a small town in West Texas, a place called Colorado City. My parents met there after they each escaped from Germany with their families before WWI, arriving with less than one dollar according to the captain of the ship. Both had never received formal education and arrived with very little. But they had one very important thing – determination, something different for their children. My brothers and I worked on the farm and helped our father and uncles with their business, all while keeping up with our own schooling. 

School was everything. In our house, there were two acceptable educational paths to pursue: law or medicine. That was it. From as early as I can remember, my parents insisted my brothers and I would become one of the two. At times I felt pushed, but I knew where this was coming from. They had lived through instability and scarcity. Education meant security. Education meant advancement. My older brother, who was about 3 years older than my twin and I, chose to study law. He was the smart one, he graduated from Harvard Law School when he got out of the military. Because he chose the law route, my twin and I decided to go the medicine route. The three of us were close – bound by shared expectations and a quiet understanding that achievement mattered. 

My twin and I had an especially deep connection. We always seemed to find our way back to each other over the years, even when we didn’t mean to. When we were drafted and separated, me going into the Navy and him into the Army, we happened to get assignments in neighboring cities. While I was in the Navy I applied to the Mayo clinic to train in surgery, having no idea that he was also interested in surgery and had applied to the same program. We studied together at the Mayo clinic. We separated again to study our specializations and again, both ended up in California. Somehow, we always seemed to circle back to each other. Losing him last year has left a space that can’t quite be filled. 

While medicine started as my parents’ dream for me, it eventually became a calling. I discovered early on that I was good with my hands. I wasn’t drawn to long conversations with patients the way some doctors were, but I understood the mechanics of the body. At one point while I was stationed at Fort Huachuca, the veterinarian I worked with asked if I would operate on an Army mule with cancer. I thought he was joking at first, but he wasn’t. I had always liked animals and had even wondered at times if I had gone into the wrong field, so I figured I might as well give it a try. The anatomy of the cancer was surprisingly similar, just larger, but the mule ended up recovering well. In the end, I kept coming back to surgery. Surgery required precision and control. It demanded mastery. Medical school was intense — I still remember the dean telling us to look to our left and right because one of us wouldn’t be there the next year. That kind of pressure stays with you. So does the moment my father told me after graduation, “You’re on your own now.”

Throughout my career, responsibility weighed heavily. As a surgeon, people’s lives were in my hands. The more I practiced, the more I specialized. Medicine kept expanding, and I believed strongly in narrowing my focus and mastering one area rather than trying to do everything. The better I became, the more confident I felt. Supporting my family through my work gave me pride. It felt like proof that my parents’ sacrifices had meant something.

The military remained a thread throughout my life. I served in both the Navy and later the Army, spanning over 30 years of my life. After discharging from the Navy into the reserves, I spent thirteen years in private practice in Santa Cruz with my twin. One day the Army kept calling, at first I thought it was a joke but then I got a letter from President Johnson stating “as a Fellow Texan, I congratulate you on your promotion” and hence I transitioned back to the Army as a Lieutenant Colonel. The Army took me to Germany and Korea, where my wife and I experienced cultures far different from the Texas farmland of my childhood. I admired the organization of German hospitals. I remember skiing near the German-Austrian border and the humor of family mishaps that turned into stories we still tell. The military was more than service — it framed the seasons of my life. I met my first wife while in the Navy. We had a daughter. Years later, after her death from breast cancer, I became a single parent while continuing my surgical practice.

Loss has reshaped my life more than once. My first wife died when our daughter was young. I remarried and had two more children. Eventually that marriage ended as well. Years later my first daughter died too. In recent years, I have lost both of my brothers. These are losses that don’t disappear. But life continues forward. I remain proud of my children — proud of their education, their independence, and their authenticity. The value of education that my parents instilled in me carried forward to them. They pursued their own interests, attended strong universities in Texas, and built lives true to themselves. That continuity matters to me.

Now, in retirement, there is a different feeling. For decades, I carried the responsibility of surgery, the pressure of outcomes, the weight of decisions. Today, there is relief. I no longer wake up responsible for someone’s life. I have time to relax and to learn about my children as adults. I even returned to an old interest in geology, taking classes simply because it interests me.

When I look back, I see a journey that began in a small farming town and expanded across oceans and continents. Hard work, education, family, and responsibility guided me. My parents wanted more for their children than they had. In many ways, that desire shaped everything. From cotton fields in Texas to operating rooms around the world, I have lived a life defined by dedication, perseverance, and connection. Today, what matters most is that my family is doing well, that I can rest, and that the opportunities my parents once hoped for continue on through the next generation.

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