I have paid a heavy price: I am a good doctor but a poor father and son
When life demands choices
I rarely share my feelings. I’m used to being the one who listens, assists, rescues. But today, I want to voice the thoughts that have weighed heavily on my heart for years.
I’m a doctor. My career is my calling. I’ve devoted my entire self to it.
But I realized too late the cost.
The beginning of the journey
I was born in a small rural town, where life passed by peacefully and steadily. My parents hoped I’d stay nearby, become a teacher or an engineer, start a family, build a home.
But medicine always called to me.
I got into university in a large city and stayed there permanently. Internship, residency, night shifts, constant exams, conferences, endless consultations. Medicine consumed me entirely.
At first, I visited my parents every weekend. Then, once a month. Eventually, every six months.
When they suggested selling their house to move closer to me, I was thrilled. But they refused. Their roots were there, amidst the old streets and the graves of their ancestors.
I accepted it. I thought we’d have plenty of time ahead.
How wrong I was.
Lost fatherhood
I got married. We had children.
But I was hardly ever around.
When my son was learning to ride a bike, I was on duty in intensive care.
When my daughter experienced her first school crush, I was fighting to save a patient after a severe accident.
While candles were being blown out on birthday cakes at home and laughter filled the room, I was signing medical charts and reviewing test results.
I believed that was how it should be. That I was doing something important.
And then suddenly I realized my children had grown up.
Their first questions about life were not addressed to me.
When they faced problems, they went to their mother.
When we gathered as a family—which was rare—they joked with my wife, shared their thoughts with her, but hardly spoke to me.
Because I was a stranger to them.
The pain of loss
When my parents began to age, I thought I had time.
I called once a week. Asked how they were, what was new.
But each conversation was brief—because I had patients, colleagues, work demanding my attention.
When my father fell ill, I couldn’t visit immediately. Urgent surgeries and a conference took precedence. I kept postponing the trip.
By the time I finally sped off to my hometown, it was too late.
A year later, my mother passed away.
I missed it again.
I stood by their graves and couldn’t forgive myself.
I couldn’t believe that I found time to read medical journals late at night, but couldn’t find time for my family.
One day I asked myself
I know I am a good doctor.
I know I’ve saved dozens of lives, helped many people.
But here’s the question: would I be such a doctor if I didn’t dedicate all my time to medicine?
If I came home by six, played with my children, listened to my parents’ stories, spent time with my wife?
I know the answer.
No.
I wouldn’t have become who I am.
But another answer tears at my soul.
I paid too high a price for this.
I became a good doctor because I became a poor son and father.
And that’s a price I will have to live with.
