Room for a view : Parallax

When my father was in his 30s, he left his homeland and immigrated to America; when I was 30 I immigrated to Canada. He and my mother had three children together; my wife and I have three also. He was a physician; I am a physician. He died of cancer at age 64; I was diagnosed with lymphoma at age 54. After my father died the New York Times published his obituary. The hospital where he had directed a tumour clinic for 25 years put up a plaque in his memory. Such was his fame as a radiation therapist that for about a year after his death we received condolences from around the world. My father wanted one of his sons to follow in his footsteps, much as he had emulated his Uncle Gustav in Germany. My two older brothers, following their own lights, failed to pick up this torch. It was left to me to fulfil my father's dream. Actually, at the time I graduated from high school there seemed to be few career options: I could study medicine, law or engineering — unless I wanted to join the military or pump gas. I must admit that I enjoyed medical school and the practice of medicine, but my choice was strongly influenced by my father. When I was still in medical school my father developed bowel cancer, and I wondered whether his occupational exposure to radiation was a factor. He came from the school where cancer patients were not told about their diagnosis. Issues of grieving and the work of Elizabeth Kubler-Ross were not current at the time. He knew, of course, exactly what was happening to him, but his denial was so strong that neither I nor the rest of the family could talk to him about his impending demise. Instead, he would talk about getting better, tell old stories about his struggles and accomplishments and do crossword puzzles. I found it hard to play along, but I felt I had no choice. My father and I would often talk about my medical studies. I would try to describe some exciting concept or experience, but he rarely listened. Rather, I would end up hearing for the umteenth time about his experiences at his German medical school. Evidently, these experiences were more interesting or important than mine. I began to resent his need to impress me with his achievements and his need to undervalue my own. His death came during my last year in medical school. I felt cheated and angry that he would not be there to celebrate my graduation. I almost convinced myself that he had died rather than acknowledge my accomplishment. But these thoughts were soon pushed aside. I was newly married. I had a gruelling internship to complete, and then a two-year military obligation. I had no time to grieve or to examine my feelings. And so life continued. The next 10 years, as I recall them, were stressful, but happy and fulfilling. Then I decided to enter psychiatry. One requirement of my training was to be involved in personal therapy; this included a 2-week course in psychodrama. Although I wanted to learn the techniques, I was expected to be a participant and learn from my own life experience. After a week of observing and assisting with other peoples' dramas, I was finally triggered to work on my own unfinished business. In an arduous five-hour session the therapist-trainers helped me to deal with my unresolved grief for my father. I had always looked at my relationship with my father from my own perspective, a vantage-point from which I felt anger and self-pity. I was asked at the workshop to play the role of my father, to better understand his perspective. In one scene I acted the part of my father lying in a hospital bed, talking to the son who would soon graduate from medical school. I knew I was dying and would never have the pleasure of attending his graduation. I talked about my feelings, and cried with my son about our mutual frustration and grief. I was able to listen to him tell me how the graduation went and how his life evolved in the ensuing years. He told me about his psychiatry training, his marriage and the two children I would never meet. In this way, father and son came to an understanding, and the scene resolved in a long, wonderful hug. I was finally able to be the father my son needed. It was an experience that profoundly influenced my future life. I could finally forgive my father and remember him with love. I could finally forgive myself. My own experience with cancer has been so different. I have been able to grieve more openly with my own children, and I have attempted to remain in the present. I appreciate more deeply what my father must have gone through and, even at this distance of time, feel closer to him. The world may have forgotten him, but I have not.

Fetched live from OpenAlex and de-inverted. Abstracts are not stored in this database: the inverted indexes are 8.6 GB of the frame’s 9.3 GB of text, and the host has 13 GB free.