I paid a steep price: I am a good doctor, but not a good father or son
When life demands choices
I rarely open up about my thoughts. I’m used to being the one who listens, helps, and saves. But today, I feel the need to voice what’s been burdening my heart for years.
I am a doctor. My profession is my calling. I’ve dedicated all of myself to it.
But I realized the cost far too late.
The beginning of the journey
I was born in a small provincial town, where life flowed peacefully and steadily. My parents hoped I would stay nearby, become a teacher or an engineer, start a family, and build a home.
But medicine always intrigued me.
I got accepted into university in a large city and ended up staying there. Internship, residency, night shifts, constant exams, conferences, endless consultations. Being a doctor consumed me completely.
Initially, I visited my parents every weekend. Then it became once a month. Eventually, it was just twice a year.
When they suggested selling their house and moving closer to me, I was delighted. But they refused. Their roots were there, among old streets, among the graves of their ancestors.
I accepted it. I thought we had plenty of time left.
How wrong I was.
Lost fatherhood
I got married. We had children.
But I was rarely there.
When 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 serious accident.
When at home they were blowing out candles on a cake and laughing, I was signing medical records and reviewing test results.
I thought that was how it should be. That I was doing important work.
But then, suddenly, I noticed my children had grown up.
That they weren’t coming to me with their first questions about life.
That if they had a problem, they would go to their mother.
That when we rarely gathered as a family, they would joke with my wife and share their thoughts with her, but almost never talk to me.
Because to them, I am a stranger.
The pain of loss
When my parents started to age, I thought I still had time.
I called them once a week. Asked how things were, what was new.
But every time the conversation was brief—it was always about the patients, colleagues, work that demanded my attention.
When my dad took ill, I couldn’t go right away. There were urgent surgeries, a conference. I kept postponing the trip.
When I finally got in the car and drove to my hometown, it was too late.
A year later, my mother passed.
I was too late again.
I stood by their graves and couldn’t forgive myself.
Couldn’t fathom that I found time in the nights to read medical journals but couldn’t make time for my own family.
One day I asked myself
I know I am 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 be 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 was a poor son and father.
And this is the price I must live with.
