The Many Names of Bernard Michael Rochford

There was a time I would’ve corrected you.

If you called me “Brendan,” I’d gently say, “It’s Bernard.” If you left off the Michael, I’d wonder why people always skip the middle. If you shortened it to “Bernie,” I’d wince—just a little—though I’d still answer.

These days? I’ve come to embrace them all.

Because here’s the thing: Bernard Michael Rochford may be what’s printed on my birth certificate, but the truth is, I’ve lived a few lives under that name—and collected a few versions of it along the way.

To my patients in Brisbane, I was “Bernie the Osteo.” To the occasional receptionist, I was “Mr. Rockford.” To my kids, I’m just “Dad.” And now that I’ve retired, a few close mates have started calling me “Chef Bernie,” which is a stretch—but I let it slide when the brisket turns out right.

The full name—Bernard Michael Rochford—used to feel formal. Weighty. Like a name meant for someone who wears a tie daily and reads The Financial Review with breakfast. But I’ve grown into it. Or maybe it’s grown into me.

It’s the name that listened to pain for 25 years. The name that signed off on exercises, wrote referrals, and kept secrets whispered in quiet treatment rooms.

It’s also the name that now stands behind a BBQ, flipping lamb cutlets with a cold beer in hand. The name that writes short reflections in a leather-bound journal on quiet mornings. The name people still remember—if not always correctly—when they bump into me at the markets and say, “Hey! You used to fix my back!”

That one makes me smile every time.

Because that’s the magic of names. You don’t choose how people use them, but you do choose how you carry them. And I’ve decided to carry Bernard Michael Rochford with pride. All of it—middle name included. Every version. Every mispronunciation. Every nickname.

Each one marks a moment in time. A role I played. A version of me that mattered to someone.

So whether you knew me as Bernie the Osteo, Bernard Michael Rochford from West End, or just the guy who makes a mean pulled pork on Sundays—I’m glad we crossed paths.

And if you ever forget my name, don’t worry.
I’ve been called worse. 😉

Until next time,
Bernard Michael Rochford
(Yes, all three names. Still here. Still cooking.)