Chapter 1: The Weight of Being a Doctor
At thirty years old, I had already learned that life rarely followed the plans we made for ourselves. I had spent most of my twenties studying medicine, working exhausting shifts, and sacrificing almost everything that other people my age considered a normal life. While my friends were traveling, buying houses, getting married, and building families, I was sitting in university libraries, preparing for examinations, and trying to survive another month financially.
Becoming a doctor had always been my dream. I remembered being a little boy, watching medical programs on television and imagining myself wearing a white coat. I wanted to help people. I wanted to make a difference. I wanted to believe that if someone was suffering, there was always something that could be done.
But reality was different.
Medical school had left me with an enormous amount of debt. My student loans followed me everywhere. Every paycheck disappeared into rent, food, transportation, and monthly repayments. Sometimes I wondered whether I would ever reach a point where I could finally breathe without worrying about money.
Despite everything, I loved my profession.
I worked at a hospital where every day brought a different challenge. Some patients recovered and went home smiling. Others received diagnoses that changed their lives forever. There were days when I felt proud of what I did, and there were nights when I returned home wondering whether I had done enough.
One of the patients who changed my understanding of medicine was a woman named Alicia.
I first met her during one of my hospital shifts. She was forty-two years old, although her medical condition made her appear older. She had been diagnosed with an aggressive form of cancer, and by the time she arrived at our department, she had already undergone several treatments.
She was not particularly talkative during our first appointment.
She sat quietly while I reviewed her medical history, occasionally looking through the window. When I asked how she was feeling, she simply smiled and said she had experienced better mornings.
I remember thinking that she was trying to make the situation easier for everyone else.
Many patients did that. They hid their fear behind jokes, smiles, and ordinary conversations because they did not want their families or doctors to see how frightened they really were.
Alicia was one of those people.
During our first conversation, she asked me whether I believed people could remain happy even when they knew their lives might be coming to an end.
I paused before answering.
I told her that happiness did not always mean having everything we wanted. Sometimes it meant appreciating the people who stayed beside us, remembering the good moments, and finding peace in the time we still had.
She looked at me for a few seconds.
Then she smiled.
“That’s a beautiful answer, Doctor.”
I did not know then how important that conversation would become.
