This past weekend was Father’s Day, and I had the joy of spending it the way it should be spent—surrounded by family. We made a full day of it at the new Epic Universe theme park, something we haven’t done in years. Usually, our theme park visits are quick—annual pass holders popping in for a few hours. But this time, we were there from open to close. Hot day, sure, but nothing a little water on the face couldn’t fix. It was fun, exhausting, and totally worth it. And between the roller coasters, turkey burgers, and long walks in the sun, I found myself thinking about my dad.
He passed away in 2020. And every Father’s Day since, I can’t help but reflect on just how much of who I am—both as a person and as a physician—I owe to him.
My father wasn’t born into opportunity. He grew up in a small village in Kerala, India, in a family where no one had ever gone to college. But in 1963, at the age of 17, he became one of just five students from South India to receive a scholarship to study in the United States. Think about that: a teenager crossing the world, leaving behind everything familiar, landing in Illinois with little more than courage, grit, and a suitcase.
He didn’t have the luxury of a support system. No family. No friends. Just ambition—and, I imagine, a fair amount of fear. There were language barriers, social barriers, and a cultural gap that can’t be overstated. For nearly a decade, he was on his own in 1960’s America. He worked in hospital labs, studied tirelessly, and faced the quiet, chronic isolation that only immigrants in a foreign land truly understand.
My dad had dreams of going to grad school, maybe even med school. But survival came first. He made it through with persistence and unshakable resolve, eventually bringing my mom to the U.S. in 1972. They built a life in Chicago, and later moved us to Florida, where he could garden under the sun he missed from home. Our backyard—mango trees, jackfruit, curry leaves—became a lush, green tribute to where he came from. It was, as I liked to call it, “a little bit of India.” The HOA wasn’t always thrilled, but that garden made him proud.
If you had met my dad later in life, you might’ve called him quiet. A man of few words. But the stories from his siblings tell a different tale: a curious, talkative boy, full of ambition and laughter. It’s hard not to wonder what changed. I suspect the years of isolation and racial tension left scars. Not all wounds bleed. Some just settle into silence.
And yet, despite all that, he thrived. He raised three boys. He cooked legendary chicken curry. He worked two jobs so we could have a better life. He never complained, never asked for credit, and rarely talked about himself.
Growing up, I didn’t know I’d go into medicine. I spent my childhood reading voraciously, playing chess and basketball, excelling at school because curiosity was a fire I couldn’t put out. I ended up studying computer engineering in college and only applied to med school as I really loved the sciences. To my surprise, I got in—and the path shifted. Oncology called to me for its complexity, its humanity, its demand for both intellect and empathy.
But looking back, I see now that medicine wasn’t a fluke. It was a continuation. My dad may not have worn a white coat, but he taught me discipline, resilience, and the kind of focus it takes to hold someone’s life in your hands. He built the foundation… I just added the bricks. If he can come from another country with the disadvantages he had, then I had no excuse with all the advantages I had.
When I held his hand for the last time in 2020, I knew I was holding the story of a man who changed the trajectory of not just his life—but an entire family tree. He came here with nothing.. but endured everything. He chose love, humility, and service. He was never loud.. never flashy.. but he left behind a legacy louder than words.
So this Father’s Day, as I reflect on my own role as a father, I find myself carrying him with me—in the choices I make, the lessons I pass on, and the way I show up for my family, friends, colleagues and my patients. I try to live the values he embodied: patience over immediacy, effort over ease, and deep gratitude for life’s simplest gifts. The best things in life, after all, are not the things at all. And above all else, love—the quiet, unwavering kind that asks for nothing… but transforms everything.
Thank you, Dad. For the sacrifices. For the garden. For the life you made possible. I stand on your shoulders every day.
Absolutely amazing read. Your dad and mom should be so proud of you.