Walking My Own Path

The residents had gathered in the doctors’ lounge to wrap up the morning rounds. They all wanted to know how things had gone. I could only tell them the truth: the professor had neither the will nor the ability to fix the problem.

At that point, Dr. Kang, who was the same year as Dr. Choi, spoke up.
“Should we tip off the press? I know a few reporters. If I give them a call, this could be in the papers tomorrow.”

I glared at him.
“Kang, let’s not lose our dignity as surgeons.”

He shot back immediately.
“And what about Dr. Jung’s behavior—was that dignified?”

I asked in return,
“Did you admire what he did? Do you want to be like him? If we resort to media games, we’d be no different from him. Let’s not stoop that low.”

The truth was, I didn’t have a clever solution either. With the professor unwilling to move, what power did residents really have? No one had an easy answer. We just kept staring at one another.

Still, there was one thing we all agreed on: we couldn’t simply back down. If we did, we’d be setting a precedent—tacitly telling Dr. Jung that whatever he did in the future, we would swallow it. Above all, it would be a betrayal of the child’s parents. How could we, doctors sworn to save lives, pretend not to know what had happened? That left us with only one road forward. I finally said quietly,
“Let’s step out.”

“Stepping out” was the residents’ slang for a strike. Striking was almost the only tool residents had. Residents worked for meager pay under the pretext of “training” while doing the dirtiest jobs in the hospital. Many attendings treated this as their right, assuming residents existed solely for their convenience. A strike was the one shock therapy that reminded them: your comfort exists only because we’ve tolerated it.

But striking came with heavy costs. Residents endured the grind mostly for one goal—qualifying as specialists. If a strike went badly and someone was forced to leave, those years of suffering would vanish in smoke. For the chief resident, the stakes were higher still. As chief, you were closest to the finish line, preparing your thesis under the guidance of the very attendings you might anger. Lose their goodwill, and four years of hardship could mean nothing.

That’s why junior residents sometimes stormed out of hospitals, but senior residents usually stayed behind, smoothing things over and coaxing the juniors back in. Which made this strike different. It wasn’t about workloads. It wasn’t about hours. It was about truth—for the dead child’s parents, and for our own integrity. And this time, the chief—that was me—was leading it.

We drafted a document together, huddled around a single computer: “The Position of the Surgery Residents Regarding the Recent Patient Death.” It contained two demands. First, that the professor tell the parents the truth. Second, that Dr. Jung be removed from the list of attendings residents had to assist. Only then would we return.

I would negotiate with the staff; the others would cut off all calls from them. To guard against manipulation, I asked trusted nurses on each ward to monitor what happened in our absence—whether staff were properly covering our duties—and report to me quietly by phone. And in case patients’ care suffered, I arranged for residents to wait nearby in shifts, ready to rush back if needed.

The next morning, I handed the professor our statement. He read it silently, folded it, and said only,
“You’re walking out? All right.”

I bowed and left the building. I knew this was a turning point in my life. Sometimes you have to go all in. I headed straight to the airport, boarded a plane, and left for New York.

Why New York? Two reasons. First, I wanted the residents to see that I was serious. They feared I might fold at the first hint of pressure, just like chiefs before me who had been bribed or threatened with their theses. If I was halfway across the world, no one could even try to coerce me. My message to them was clear: If you trust me, I will not betray that trust.

Second, I wanted to shift the frame of the fight. To the attendings, the only question was: Will the residents come back? Not the dead child, not the grieving parents, not training conditions. Only their own convenience. So I changed the game. When they called me, they’d hear: “This number is roaming overseas. International charges may apply.” And the news would spread: the chief is out of reach. That forced the real question: What do the residents want? At last, the spotlight would move to the truth owed to the parents.

In New York, I holed up in a shabby rented room, collapsed on a creaky bed, and slept for hours. When I woke, I wandered. Central Park in the sun—children playing, couples biking, old men walking dogs. Their peace stung me. I had spent years in grueling hospitals, and here life felt utterly different.

I walked into the Met, marveled at relics of empires long gone, masterpieces spanning millennia. Against that backdrop, my five years of training seemed tiny, almost laughably so. A few days later, at MoMA, I saw the works of van Gogh, Picasso, Warhol. Outsiders once reviled, now celebrated. Their art spoke: Walk the path you believe in.

That night in Times Square, surrounded by a thousand versions of life—actors, vendors, tourists, dreamers—I understood. Becoming a surgeon was only one possible life. What mattered most was integrity: keeping faith with patients, honoring their trust. A certificate on the wall meant nothing by comparison.

I decided: I would go back, confront the professor one last time. If he still refused, I would walk away from training without regret. With that clarity, I booked my ticket home.

When I met the professor again, he surprised me. After a long silence, he said quietly,
“I told the parents the truth. And I warned Dr. Jung never to dump work on residents again.”

He didn’t admit it, but from that day forward the trauma center never again left patients without an attending surgeon.

Life returned to its routines. Residents back to their wards, the professor back to his booming voice in the OR—and sometimes, back to buying us meat with his own money. But soon, a notice appeared: he was stepping down as chief of surgery. He had clashed with the hospital director all along, siding with us, and our strike had been the breaking point. He resigned—but in doing so, freed himself. No longer burdened by politics, he returned to what he loved most: saving the gravely injured.

And Dr. Jung? He too was gone within months. Officially he left because of “poor working conditions.” Everyone knew better. Deprived of residents to exploit, he had no place left. Ironically, he left after giving a public interview about trauma center hardships, embarrassing even the hospital director who had once protected him.

In the end, both the professor and Dr. Jung lost their positions. Both claimed to follow their own convictions. But the legacies they left behind could not have been more different.

Now I look back and ask myself: what path was I walking? Was it truly the right one—or only the one I convinced myself was right? It’s easy to judge others. Far harder to face your own reflection. When I think of those moments, I still feel the chill. And yet I am grateful—for having come through them, and for being forced to learn what it really means to walk your own path.