When My Father Died

I had never known failure, sorrow, loss, or despair, until all of them descended upon me when my father died.

I had always admired my father. His childhood adversities had shaped him into an extraordinary man. At the age of 7, I announced my intention to pursue a career in medicine. When Dad asked me to explain why, I replied earnestly, “So that I can take care of you someday!” My career goals remained unchanged. I became a physician, ultimately to pursue training in cardiology.

During my sixth week of cardiology training, I learned that Dad had developed pedal edema and dyspnea. I was startled. He had been healthy, even engaging in pickup soccer a few weeks earlier. Anxious over the possibility of heart disease, I urged him to see his physician. His stress test was aborted because of significant ST-segment depression, dyspnea, and angina. When advised to have coronary angiography, Dad inquired whether this could be done at his local hospital. Wanting the best for him, I preferred the academic inner-city hospital in Toronto where I was training.

I was on my cardiac catheterization rotation and my supervisor, a renowned interventional cardiologist, offered to assume Dad's care. When Dad arrived for the outpatient procedure, he was quieter than I'd ever known him to be, and as he lay on the table, I noticed tears in his eyes. Initially, I wondered what medication could have given him epiphora as a side effect. Then, recognizing his look of pride and gratitude as I prepped his wrist, I whispered “I love you, dad.” I caressed his forehead and stepped back as my supervisor took …