Destiny or Decision: Becoming a Pediatrician

Prologue

 The shrill ring of a telephone pierced the sterile hum of the operating room. The anesthesiologist, a kindly senior doctor with snowy white hair, took the call and beckoned me over. Handing the retractor to a first-year obstetrics resident, I answered the phone with trepidation. It was my mother-in-law. My heart sank as she explained that my infant daughter had crawled off the edge of the kitchen floor, a drop of about one meter. My vision blurred with panic.

When I rushed into the emergency room, my wife’s face was streaked with tears, pale with fear. Clutching our crying daughter, I held her tightly. After reviewing the X-rays and conducting an examination, the pediatric professor gently patted my shoulder and assured me everything was fine. That simple reassurance lifted a weight off my chest. Although I was a doctor accustomed to diagnosing and treating illness, I was also a father desperate to protect his child. I felt profound gratitude for the many hands that had safeguarded my daughter.

 

 This incident was not the sole reason, but it played a part in my decision to specialize in pediatrics after completing my internship. I wanted to extend a helping hand to children in need. However, my first year as a pediatric resident exceeded even my most grueling expectations. Thirty years ago, just as now, the pediatric department of a university hospital was a place where parents arrived with desperate hearts, hoping for a miracle at the brink of life and death.

Through the tangled web of IV lines and life-support machines, I witnessed trembling parents clutching the hands of their fragile children. I heard muffled sobs as parents prayed for children who had already slipped beyond reach. I saw countless weary doctors in white coats bow their heads after exhausting every possible effort. I was also the father who had once raced to the hospital, wiping away tears over his injured daughter.

 Pediatrics was divided into subspecialties such as neurology, respiratory care, endocrinology, hematology and oncology, gastroenterology, and cardiology, each requiring rotations of at least two months. The schedule was unrelenting—something I doubt I could endure now. After morning rounds and patient care, we stayed on duty from 6 p.m. through the night, covering the emergency room and wards. Without a wink of sleep, we worked until the next evening—a routine that left me dozing off on the bus ride home, often bumping my head against the window or even the floor.

Most children recovered and returned home with smiles. Yet the haunting footsteps of parents walking home alone after losing their child still echo in my mind. After such losses, we sharpened our knowledge and skills through conferences, determined to save the next child. It was a relentless battle between life and death, where sleep was a rare luxury.

There were moments when I regretted choosing pediatrics. But seeing grateful families shedding tears of joy, watching resilient children walk out of the hospital, and knowing I had provided relief kept me devoted to this path for over twenty years. Today, I serve as a pediatrician in a seaside town. Though connected to the mainland by two large bridges, it still feels like an island when I stand by the shore, watching the waves ripple toward the horizon.

One quiet night at 10 p.m., I pulled an old magazine from the shelf. Inside was an interview with a much younger version of myself:

 

 “I can’t resist the sight of babies. When choosing my specialty, I wondered if it might be better to avoid seeing sick babies. However, I realized that using my skills to help them would be a lifelong source of fulfillment. I have no regrets about choosing pediatrics. Someday, I hope to volunteer abroad, where doctors like me are needed more than here.”

Decades later, I still do not regret my choice. What has changed is the grim reality that pediatricians are disappearing in Korea—so much so that volunteering abroad is no longer necessary.

 

 Pediatricians often joke, “Why did I end up here?”—a phrase tinged with irony. Yet, I can’t help but reflect on the passionate young doctor who once dreamed of becoming a pediatrician. Did I really end up here by chance, or was it destiny? Regardless, I remain determined to be a doctor who extends a helping hand to sick children.

 The word ‘hapil’ (何必) in Korean often implies questioning a choice or outcome with dissatisfaction. But I prefer to read it differently—as ‘hapil’ (下筆), meaning “putting pen to paper.” Just as I have lived for over twenty years as a pediatrician, I intend to continue this journey.

 As I recall the children who became shining stars in the sky and those who returned home with bright smiles, I find resolve. I wish to remain a pediatrician who records these stories—to offer solace and strength to those striving to save lives or standing at the crossroads of life and death. That is why I am, and will continue to be, a pediatrician—by choice and by destiny.