I paid a steep price: I’m a good doctor but a poor father and son
When life demands a choice
I seldom share my feelings. I’ve always been the one who listens, aids, and saves. Yet today, I feel the urge 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 self to it.
But I realized too late the cost of it all.
The beginning of the journey
I was born in a small village where life ambled along serenely. My parents hoped I would stay close, become a teacher or an engineer, start a family, and build a home.
But medicine always fascinated me.
I enrolled in university in a big city and ended up staying there for good. Internship, residency, night shifts, endless exams, conferences, and countless consultations. Medicine completely absorbed me.
Initially, I’d visit my parents every weekend. Then it became once a month. Eventually, just twice a year.
When they suggested selling the house to move closer to me, I was thrilled. But they declined. Their roots were there, among the old streets, near their ancestors’ graves.
I accepted it, believing we still had plenty of time.
How wrong I was.
Lost fatherhood
I got married. We had children.
But I was hardly ever around.
While my son was learning to ride a bike, I was on duty in the ICU.
When my daughter had her first school crush, I was fighting to save a patient’s life after a severe accident.
When candles were blown out on home-baked birthday cakes and laughter filled the house, I was signing medical records and checking test results.
I convinced myself this was how it was supposed to be. That I was doing something important.
Then, all of a sudden, I noticed my children had grown up.
Their first questions about life weren’t aimed at me.
When they faced problems, they turned to their mother.
When we rarely gathered as a family, they joked with their mother and shared their thoughts with her but barely spoke to me.
Because I was a stranger to them.
The pain of loss
When my parents started aging, I assumed I had more time.
I called them weekly to ask how they were and what’s new.
But each conversation was brief because I had patients, colleagues, and work demanding my attention.
When my father fell ill, I couldn’t come immediately. There were urgent surgeries and a conference. I kept postponing the visit.
When I finally got in the car and rushed to my hometown, it was too late.
A year later, my mother was gone too.
Again, I wasn’t in time.
I stood by their graves, unable to forgive myself.
I couldn’t believe that I found time to read medical journals at night but couldn’t find time for my family.
One day, I asked myself a question
I know I’m a good doctor.
I’m aware that I’ve saved numerous lives and helped many people.
But here’s the question: Would I have been such a doctor if I hadn’t dedicated all my time to medicine?
If I had come home at six, played with my children, listened to my parents’ stories, spent time with my wife?
I know the answer.
No.
I wouldn’t be who I am today.
But another answer tears at my soul.
I paid too steep a price for it.
I became a good doctor by becoming a poor son and father.
And that’s the price I will have to live with.
