Today my father and I stand side by side once again.
But this time, not as father and son — as colleagues, ready for another battle inside the operating room.
Ten long hours that demand calm, faith, and a strength that goes beyond the physical.
Outside, the world keeps moving, but in here, time stands still.
The sound of the machines, the focus of the light, the weight of responsibility…
All of it reminds us how fragile life is — and how every move can mean the difference between a new beginning and a goodbye.
My father taught me that being a doctor isn’t just about healing bodies.
It’s about carrying hope, fighting even when faith feels small, and never giving up on someone who still breathes.
Before we entered surgery, he looked at me and said,
“Let’s give it our best, as always.”
And that’s exactly what we’ll do.
Your kind words, your positive thoughts, your simple “stay strong” — they all mean more than you can imagine.
Because even those who save lives sometimes need a little love too.
We met at a friend’s barbecue on a warm Saturday afternoon. He handed me a beer, made a joke about my crooked sunglasses, and by the end of the night, we were inseparable.
It felt like one of those perfect moments you see in romantic comedies, the kind that makes you believe in fate.
Two years later, we got married in a small ceremony surrounded by friends and family. Three years after that, we had Emma, and then Lily came along two years later. My daughters are now seven and five, and they’re the brightest lights in my life.
For a while, everything felt perfect. We had our little family and our cozy home. But after Lily was born, something in Nick changed. It was gradual at first, like watching a light slowly dim.
