I’ve paid a hefty price: I’m a good doctor but a poor father and son.
When life demands choices
I rarely share my inner thoughts. I’m used to being the one who listens, helps, saves. But today, I feel the need to voice what’s been weighing on my heart for years.
I’m a doctor. My profession is my calling. I’ve dedicated my entire being to it.
Yet, I realized too late the cost of this dedication.
The beginning of the journey
I was born in a small provincial town where life was calm and steady. My parents hoped I’d stay nearby, become a teacher or engineer, start a family, build a home.
But medicine always drew me in.
I enrolled at a university in a big city, and from that point on, I stayed for good. Internship, residency, night shifts, endless exams, conferences, countless consultations. The medical profession consumed me entirely.
Initially, I visited my parents every weekend. Then, it became once a month. Eventually, once every six months.
When they suggested selling their home and moving closer to me, I was thrilled. But they refused. Their roots were there, among familiar streets, amidst the graves of their ancestors.
I accepted this. I thought we had plenty of time ahead of us.
How wrong I was.
Lost fatherhood
I got married. We had children.
But I was almost never there.
When my son was learning to ride a bike, I was on duty in the emergency room.
When my daughter was experiencing her first school crush, I was fighting to save a life after a severe accident.
When candles were being blown out on a cake at home and laughter filled the air, I was signing patient charts and reviewing lab results.
I thought this was how it had to be. That I was doing important work.
Then suddenly, I realized my children had grown up.
That their first questions about life weren’t directed at me.
That when they had a problem, they went to their mother.
That 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 to them, I was a stranger.
The pain of loss
When my parents began to age, I assumed I’d still have time.
I called once a week. Asked how things were, what was new.
But each conversation was brief—for I had patients, colleagues, work that demanded my attention.
When my father fell ill, I couldn’t immediately visit. There were urgent surgeries, a conference. I kept postponing the trip.
By the time I finally got into the car and rushed to my hometown, it was too late.
A year later, my mother was gone.
Once again, I wasn’t there in time.
I stood by their graves, unable to forgive myself.
I couldn’t believe I always found time to read medical journals at night, but not 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 countless people.
But here’s the question: Would I have been such a doctor if I hadn’t devoted all my time to medicine?
If I had come 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 it.
I became a good doctor because I became a poor son and father.
And that’s the price I’ll have to live with.
