I’ve Paid a High Price: I’m a Good Doctor but a Poor Father and Son
When Life Demands Choices
I rarely open up about my feelings. I’ve always been the one who listens, assists, and saves. But today, I need to voice what’s been heavy on my heart for years.
I’m a doctor. My profession is my calling, and I’ve devoted my entire life to it.
But I realized the cost too late.
The Beginning of the Journey
I was born in a small provincial town, where life moved calmly and predictably. My parents hoped I’d stay nearby, become a teacher or an engineer, start a family, and build a home.
But medicine always drew me in.
I enrolled in university in a large city and never left. Internships, residencies, night shifts, constant exams, conferences, endless consultations. The medical field consumed me entirely.
Initially, I visited my parents every weekend. Then once a month. Then once every six months.
When they suggested selling their home and moving closer to me, I was thrilled. But they refused. Their roots were here, among the old streets and their ancestors’ graves.
I accepted it, believing we still had plenty of time ahead.
How wrong I was.
Lost Fatherhood
I got married. We had children.
But I was hardly there.
While my son learned to ride a bike, I was on call in the ICU.
When my daughter experienced her first school crush, I was fighting to save a patient’s life after a severe accident.
While candles were being blown out on a birthday cake at home, I was signing medical records and reviewing tests.
I thought this was how it had to be. That I was doing something important.
Then suddenly, I noticed my children had grown up.
Their first questions about life went to someone else.
In times of trouble, they went to their mother.
When we gathered as a family—which was rare—they joked with my wife and shared thoughts with her but hardly spoke to me.
Because to them, I was a stranger.
The Pain of Loss
As my parents aged, I thought there was still time.
I called once a week, asking how they were, what was new.
But each call was brief—I had patients, colleagues, work demanding attention.
When my father fell ill, I couldn’t visit immediately. There were urgent surgeries, a conference. I kept postponing my trip.
When I finally got in the car and raced to my hometown, it was too late.
A year later, my mother passed.
Again, I didn’t make it in time.
I stood by their graves, unable to forgive myself.
I couldn’t believe I had the time to read medical journals at night but couldn’t make time for my loved ones.
One day, I asked myself
I know I’m a good doctor.
I know I’ve saved dozens of lives, helped many people.
But here’s the question: would I be this doctor if I hadn’t devoted all my time to medicine?
If I had come home at six, played with my kids, listened to my parents’ stories, spent time with my wife?
I know the answer.
No.
I wouldn’t be who I am.
But another answer tears at me.
I paid too high a price for this.
I became a good doctor because I became a bad son and father.
And this is a price I’ll have to live with.
