This First Person article is the experience of Keith Wong, a medical student at the University of Ottawa who wants to become a family doctor. For more information about CBC’s First Person stories, please see the FAQ.
When I think of Barcelona, I think of my parents. Not because they have ties to the city. They are Chinese — not Spanish — and have never been to Spain or even Europe.
But when my friends and I visited Barcelona two years ago, I left with wistful thoughts of my parents as an unexpected souvenir.
My friends and I were at a restaurant. Early evening, drowsy flies, music lilting from the radio. We were enjoying summer break after our first year of medical school.
At a nearby table, a middle-aged couple was sharing a slice of cheesecake. The woman’s scuffed shoes peeked out from under a rumpled dress. The man’s tubby stomach pushed against his faded T-shirt, and his weathered hands brushed Graham cracker crumbs from whiskers on his upper lip.
He listened silently to the woman’s chatter, his eyes crinkling with content.
The couple reminded me of my parents. Most evenings, they slouch in front of the living room TV and munch on apple strudels that were on sale at Superstore.
My father brushes crumbs from his bushy mustache, his hands as rough as pastry. My mother lounges next to him in pyjamas that she probably bought 20 years ago. Her rambling threatens to drown out the TV, so my father increases the volume, earning him an indignant slap on his belly.
Based on this description, my parents might seem idle in their home in Windsor, Ont. But I cannot imagine a better way for my father to relax after rising at dawn and assembling car parts for eight or more hours. Or, in my mother’s case, after trekking 20,000 steps in a casino to serve drinks and solicit tips.
My mother never finished university, and my father never finished high school. Yet they have supported me and my three sisters through university and postgraduate degrees in pharmacy, education and, in my case, medicine.
My sisters and I often encourage our parents to work less. But they continue their daily toil partly because I, the youngest child, have one year of school left. My parents want to ensure I have enough support to soar before they roost.
In recent years, thoughts of how to repay my parents have started weighing more on my mind.
While some of my high school friends started working after university and can now afford to send their parents on trips, I competed fiercely for four more years of med school where tuition is more than quadruple that of my undergraduate degree.
Although I know my parents value my education, I often feel responsible for their fatigue.
I wish my parents were exploring the world like me and their doppelgängers in Barcelona. Surely, they deserve to relax in Spanish restaurants more than I do.
“Once I’m done residency,” I told my parents shortly after returning from my trip, “just name a destination, and I’ll take you there!”
My parents scoffed, but I could tell they would likely accept future offers.
This bold promise assumes that my parents will always be capable of exploring the world. In recent years, however, my father has developed symptoms that I learned about in my cardiology lectures. My mother’s family doctor has urged her to start new medications.
I worry that when I finally finish my training and am financially capable of thanking my parents for everything they have done, they will not be able to enjoy their well-deserved gifts.
But perhaps I have become too accustomed to delayed gratification — a common side-effect of lengthy medical training.
Grand gestures years from now are not the only way I can express love and gratitude to my parents.
During holidays, we hug each other tightly after crossing the 800 kilometres between us. I memorize the pattern of sunspots that speckle my mother’s face, my father’s scent of Head & Shoulders. I FaceTime them regularly and see their beaming faces after just one or two rings.
I ask how they are doing. We share updates about our lives.
Through these words and gestures, they know that — whether I am in school or in Spain — I am thinking of them. And I am grateful.
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