"Experience, feel, and confront your fears so that you can heal and grow. In the end, you won't remember the bad moments in your life, only the silence that existed between the good ones. Now leave so I can talk to your mother". Those were the last words I heard from my father, accompanied by a small note he handed me, a note with the same words written on it.
I remember that everything outside his shared room in the hospital seemed very clean, as a hospital should be. It smelled like floor disinfectant, and there was a constant stream of sounds, from people talking to beeping electrocardiograms. While my parents were talking inside, nurses would come in and out of the room, likely to attend to the other people who were admitted in the same room as my father.
At that moment, I didn't pay much attention to what my father had said. He was dying from a cause no one understood, and I was angry with him because, to my immature self, it seemed like he didn't care about dying or finding out why he was dying. I was furious with the doctors because I thought they weren't trying to find the cause of my father's inability to walk due to the pain in his body. He looked so different from the memories I had of him, emaciated, thin, looking like a dead man before dying. I grabbed the note, which I had unknowingly clenched in my hands, and threw it onto one of the chairs beside me.
As time passed, I started drifting off until the next thing I remember is being in the back of a taxi, lying on my mother's lap. It was raining outside, one of the worst storms in Los Angeles that I can recall experiencing.
My mother noticed that I had woken up. Her eyes were red, tear stains on her face, and her heart was undoubtedly broken. She did what any mother would do. She looked into my eyes and forced a smile, probably trying to cheer me up. Once again, this enraged me.
My father's funeral took place a few days later. Seeing my mother crying made me cry, and together we cried for a long time until I grew tired and fell asleep again, leaving my mother alone in her mourning.
From there, everything happened very quickly. We moved from home because Mom couldn't afford the mortgage and the debts from a hospital that did nothing to solve my father's illness. She got a second job and then a third. As a child, I didn't understand the difficulties she was going through, so I didn't do anything to support her in our small apartment. I isolated myself both literally and metaphorically from the outside world. At school, I stopped talking to my friends, playing video games, and watching television. I'm not exactly sure when it happened, but I made a promise to myself. I would be a better doctor than those at that hospital. I would show them how the work should be done, how lives should be saved, how they could have saved Dad.
I started studying day and night. My second home was the public library a few blocks from my school. With the little money Mom gave me for lunches, I bought second-hand books that gradually filled boxes I kept under my bed. I achieved the best grades, won awards, competed for my school against other schools, and won every time. Some small newspapers in the city wrote articles about me, but none of it mattered to me. They weren't my goal; they were just small achievements on my path to becoming the best doctor.
When the time came to go to medical school, I applied to the best schools in the country. I was accepted by all of them, thanks to my impressive academic records and my achievements in various competitions I participated in.
In the end, I decided on Harvard because being in Boston, on the other side of the country, would distance me from so many painful memories with my father in California.
What I didn't think about at that moment was that I would also be distancing myself from a very tired mother who was still paying off hospital debts.
"I'm so proud of you," my mother said as she hugged me goodbye outside the airport, "I know you'll be an incredible doctor who will save many lives."
"Thank you, Mom," I replied, squeezing her tightly, "I'll call you every day and come back during the vacation period," I promised before letting go, "so don't be sad." We shared a final silent embrace, and I left to fulfill the promise I had made.
Medical school was relatively easy for me. I had studied daily since my father's death for this purpose. All those years of seclusion were paying off.
Outside of academics, my life didn't change much from the past. I didn't make friends or seek to make any. The only people I talked to were the professors and assistants, with various questions related to disease diagnosis and medical findings.
At the end of my first year, I returned home. My mother was ecstatic with happiness, so proud of me. She called me her favorite doctor, showing me off to the elderly neighbors. She made my favorite meal as a celebration before leaving for her third job.
My mother was tired, worn out, with gray hair and old clothes that she surely wore to be able to help me at school.
I hadn't noticed it at that moment. I returned home with a lot of study material, but despite being at home, I secluded myself in my room to continue studying. I only came out to eat the food my mother had prepared because she wasn't there when I left.
The years went by like this until, four years later, my mother fell ill. Being so close to graduating, I decided, with my mother's help and her insistence, to stay and not visit her in the same hospital where my father had died many years before.
After the attacks on September 11, 2001, there were interruptions in telephone services in some areas of the country. One of the calls that couldn't be received that day came from the hospital; my mother was very ill.
Mom died on September 14, 2001, and I didn't find out until two days later.
I packed my whole life into a few boxes and moved to an even cheaper apartment. Now I had two debts to pay. I dropped out of medical school and applied for many different jobs. I easily obtained some certifications and became a paramedic. I worked in an ambulance, taking hundreds of injured people to the same hospital where I had lost my parents. I worked alongside doctors who were blinded by their hierarchical positions, envying those who had achieved what I had not.
Every day I felt worse. I started drinking and neglecting myself.
Years later, finishing my shift, my boss asked me and my colleague to follow him to a room. Inside, there was a family, a woman with a little boy by her side and a man on a bandaged stretcher, asleep but stable.
The child turned to his mother, asking for some kind of permission, and when he received a nod, he thanked us with a small hug for saving his father. It seemed that we had been the first responders when he had an accident a few days ago. I didn't remember it, but apparently, the mother had insisted on meeting us to express her gratitude, and she was given the opportunity later on.
I still remember her words: "Thank you for saving my husband's life," she said while giving me a hug.
I had forgotten. All those years thinking that I hadn't achieved my dreams, and there I was, depressed for not being a doctor, for not being recognized, for feeling lesser. I had forgotten that my promise was to become a doctor to save lives. It was the main point of it all. That child could see his father again because we saved his life. What did it matter if I didn't have a degree hanging in a beautiful office? I could still save lives.
I don't remember how I got home that day, or if I said goodbye to anyone. I remember arriving with chest pain, gasping for air. I possibly ran from the hospital to my house.
The apartment was a mess, cheap alcohol bottles scattered everywhere, trash all around, mold in some parts of the ceiling, leaking faucets, and the shower had no showerhead with water flowing directly from the pipe. Everything was horrible.
How had I not realized my way of life?
For some reason, I desperately wanted to see myself in a mirror, but I realized I didn't have one. I remembered that my mother had her only purse in one of the boxes.
Surely she had a handheld mirror.
I took out all the boxes from a closet and started unpacking everything. In one of the boxes, I found the purse and emptied its contents on the floor. It had many things, especially paper clippings, but there was no mirror. As I gathered everything, I realized the clippings were newspaper pieces, all with my achievements. She had collected them all. There were pictures of me as a child laughing with her and Dad, all the competitions I won, my high school graduation after a poor valedictorian speech, all the acceptance letters I received and a photo of us the day I left to medical school.
Tears began to fall from my eyes onto the papers in my hands. My mother had years of my accomplishments saved in her purse. She always made sure to let me know how proud she was of me, and for some reason it was only until that moment that I understood it.
Among all the things on the ground, I found an envelope with my name on it. Inside, there was a letter clearly written by my mother.
"Son, I'm writing this letter not knowing if they will give it to you someday. I sincerely hope it doesn't happen. I asked you not to come back this year because I didn't want you to see me the way I am right now. I remember how it was with your father; I didn't want you to experience something like that again.
At that moment, you isolated yourself and started studying as if everything that happened with your father was your fault, or maybe as if you wanted to take it upon yourself to ensure that something similar never happened again. It was never your responsibility; it was something that couldn't be controlled in any way. But seeing you so focused, I never had the courage, the heart, to tell you to stop. I'm sorry if you felt burdened with the responsibility of doing what you do.
Have I ever told you how proud I am of you? I know you'll be a great doctor someday, saving lives and diagnosing any disease you come across. You have a bright future ahead of you. I love you with all my heart.
Mom.
P.S.: There's something more for you inside the envelope."
Once again, with more tears than I could control, I pulled out a carefully folded piece of paper from the envelope. As I unfolded it, I couldn't contain my sobs and, for some reason, a hysterical laughter combined with a tinge of melancholy. The crying and hysterical laughter took up all my poor lung capacity, so much so, that at a certain moment. Everything turned dark.
The next thing I remember was waking up in a hospital bed. I had fainted, and they hadn't found me until the next day because, my colleague, reported me missing.
A nurse entered the room, surprised to see me awake. She immediately called a doctor.
Since they found me passed out with no explanation beyond my poor physical condition, and my apparent inability to wake up, the doctors decided to do a series of tests, tests that discovered the worst.
I had cancer.
Terminal.
I never saw it coming. I didn't feel well, obviously, but I attributed it to my depression and lifestyle. I never imagined it was cancer.
Somehow, I ignored all the symptoms.
I started treatment to prolong my life as much as possible, but my oncologist gave me only three months.
Two months later, lying in a hospital bed by the doctor's orders, I smiled at the small note of paper that I had asked the nurse in charge of me to bring from my apartment. Finally, I had understood it.
I remembered those very few happy moments of my life. All the time I had spent with my parents, the look of pride on Mom's face every time she saw me, the feeling that filled my chest as I achieved new steps in my goal, everything I had ever ignored, now filled my mind with memories, beautiful memories. That once again made me cry, but this time full of happiness.
Wiping my tears with my free hand. "If there's a second chance, I'll make sure to be happy. This time, I'll become a doctor, enjoy life, experience new things, make friends, and form a family that I'll cherish above all," I said as I closed my eyes and stopped breathing.
I died.
Nurses and doctors rushed in when the code alarms sounded, but they couldn't do anything.
On the floor, next to the hospital bed. The nurse in charge of the recently deceased man found a small note while cleaning up what happened after the code. She picked it up, and smiled as she read its content.
"Experience, feel, and confront your fears so that you can heal and grow. In the end, you won't remember the bad moments in your life, only the silence that existed between the good ones. Beautiful" she said.
In the obituary, a couple of days later. The loss of a paramedic with more than twenty years of dedication to all the families of Los Angeles was announced. During all his time in the ambulances he helped train just over thirty other paramedics, who mourn his loss and will continue his legacy.
And that's how I died, to tell the truth being dead felt good...
Or at least, that's what I should think. For some reason, my head hurts, and there's a frantic blonde woman in front of me.
"PJ!" the woman shouted. "Are you okay?"
...
Author's thoughts
I'm not a doctor nor am I American, therefore I don't know how the American educational system works 100%. If you find an error, I would appreciate it if you let me know. Please leave a review, and I will update accordingly if everything goes well in a few days.
...
Note added April 25, 2026
Hello, whether you're a new reader or someone revisiting the story, welcome. This was the first chapter I published, so it will also be the first one I revise.
If you're new, this marks the beginning of my editing journey, especially for this early chapters (I really didn't know what I was doing back then). As you continue, you might notice some errors that could affect the quality of the story, but I promise I've improved a lot (or at least I hope so) through this process and I will be working on fixing them.
With this, I am not going to change absolutely anything about the plot of the story, but I am going to fix any mistakes that I may have made more than two years ago, that includes dialogue, grammatical errors and anything else I find along the way.
So I'll be revising chapter by chapter while continuing weekly updates which, once again, are much better in quality (I hope so).
And without further ado, welcome to all new readers, and thank you to those coming back (?).
:D