Every detail of those days that led to the diagnosis of her father’s cancer was still very vivid in her memory.
One seemingly ordinary Saturday, she went with her father inside the hospital (one of the rare times he let her go inside the hospital as a kid). She sat across her father, and watched a young man pierce her father’s skin to get blood sample. When they went outside the room, she heard him speaking to another doctor colleague, both of their voices reassuring each other, but the worries could not be denied.
They were told that the result will be available in a few hours. While waiting, they had lunch nearby. When they came back for the result, next thing she knew, her father was already processing his admission to the hospital that night, this time as a patient.
But before he actually admitted himself in the hospital, they stopped by a few banks to settle her father’s bank accounts to be placed in one bank account. That very night, the doctor-father she knew all her life, became the first patient she has ever encountered, long before she became a doctor herself.
It was an ordinary Saturday that made her see a part of her father’s character — the pragmatic, reasonable man that he was, humbled by the patient’s gown he wore.