I have paid a high price: I’m a good doctor, but a poor father and son
When life demands choices
I rarely speak about my feelings. I’m used to being the listener, the helper, the savior. But today, I want to voice what has weighed on my heart for years.
I’m a doctor. My career is my calling, and I have given it my all.
But I realized too late at what cost.
The beginning of the journey
I was born in a small, quiet town where life moved at an easy pace. My parents hoped I would stick around, become a teacher or an engineer, start a family, and build a home.
But medicine has always drawn me in.
I went to university in a big city and stayed there indefinitely. Internships, residencies, night shifts, continuous exams, conferences, endless consultations. Medicine wholly consumed me.
Initially, I visited 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 refused. Their roots were there, among the old streets and the graves of their ancestors.
I accepted it, thinking we still had plenty of time.
How wrong I was.
Lost fatherhood
I got married, and we had children.
But I was seldom around.
When my son was learning to ride a bike, I was on call 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 being blown out on a cake at home, and laughter filled the room, I was signing medical charts and reviewing test results.
I thought it was how things should be. That I was doing something essential.
And then I suddenly realized my kids had grown up.
That their first life questions weren’t asked of me.
That if they had problems, they went to their mother.
When we rarely gathered as a family, they joked with my wife and shared their thoughts with her but spoke little to me.
Because to them, I was a stranger.
The pain of loss
As my parents aged, I thought I still had time.
I called once a week, asking how they were and what was new.
But each conversation was brief—my patients, colleagues, and work demanded attention.
When my father fell ill, I couldn’t go immediately. Urgent surgeries and conferences kept me away. I kept postponing the trip.
When I finally got in the car and hurried to my hometown, it was too late.
A year later, my mother was gone.
I was too late again.
I stood at their graves, unable to forgive myself.
I couldn’t believe I’d had time to read medical journals at night but not enough 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 and helped many people.
But the question is: would I have been such a doctor if I hadn’t dedicated all my time to medicine?
If I’d come home at six, played with my kids, listened to my parents, and 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’ve paid too high a price for this.
I became a good doctor because I became a poor son and father.
And it’s a price I’ll have to live with.
