Grief in the Midst of Medicine: Losing Veronica in April, 2019

In less than three months, I turn 30. A new decade awaits, but before I step into it, I’ve been reflecting on the journey that has shaped me. It's triumphs, its trials, and the moments that left indelible marks on my heart.

One of the hardest chapters came during medical school, when I faced a loss that forever altered how I saw life, family, and medicine. It was a season that tested not only my knowledge as a student but my soul as a brother and a son.

Grief in the Midst of Medicine: Losing Veronica in April, 2019

One of the bitterest season during my medical school journey (between 2014 and 2020) was losing Veronica. She was one of the only two biological sisters I had. It was in April of 2019. And I was in Level 500. The semester was intense, with clinical rotations demanding most of my attention. Yet nothing could have ever prepared me for the dawn of that Saturday.

I was startled awake by a call on the dawn of Saturday the 06th of April, 2019. It was my mother on the line, weeping. Through the sobs, I asked what was wrong, only for her voice to break completely as she uttered the words that crushed my heart: “Veronica is gone.” She had passed away the previous Wednesday, 03rd of April, 2019.

The pain deepened when I learned that my family had kept the news from me. Their reason? They didn’t know how I would handle such devastating news while in school. They feared it would derail me. But hearing it in that moment, alone and far from home, was a shock I’ll never forget. I packed some items immediately and traveled home that very day, still numb from the news. Vero was just 29 years old at the time of her passing

Veronica had battled goitre from childhood. In her late teen years, it became complicated and required surgical intervention. I believe she underwent a total thyroidectomy (in her early 20s), after which she was placed on lifelong thyroid hormone replacement therapy. She tried to live a normal life and largely succeeded. But she struggled with consistency. She would sometimes default on her medications and miss hospital appointments.

As a medical student back then, I was becoming increasingly aware of how vital it is to understand not just my school lessons and notes, but more importantly the health histories of my own family.

Having studied goitres and the complications that can follow surgery; particularly for patients with total thyroid removal, I often counselled her. I explained how such patients needed lifelong follow-up and medication to avoid potentially fatal consequences. Despite my efforts, I watched helplessly as she began to develop complications.

In those final months and weeks before her passing, she was frequently in and out of the hospital. She eventually succumbed to what I later learned may have been hypertensive disorder (a complication), likely tied to her underlying condition.

That loss redefined my medical school trajectory. I wasn’t just a student anymore. I was a brother grieving, a son awakening to the realities of delayed interventions. And a young doctor-in-training seeing firsthand the harsh cost of neglect and fear, and a witness to the fragility of life.

Later that same year in 2019, in my final year (in Level 600), another defining moment unfolded. It was wake-up call, this time with my father. Having recently completed an in-depth study of hernias, I began to notice subtle signs that he might be suffering from one.

This reminds me that knowledge is never neutral. It carries the weight of responsibility. And it struck me then that medical knowledge is not just a science to be mastered, but a duty to be lived. Though he never complained or admitted to any discomfort, my quiet instincts were soon confirmed.

I immediately made arrangements and ensured he underwent a successful hernia repair (in 2019) while I was still in school. It was a decision I didn’t delay, especially in light of what had happened with Sister Veronica. I was determined not to let another preventable condition become a tragedy.

On Saturday, the 25th of May, 2019, we laid her (Sister Veronica) to rest. May Sister Veronica’s soul continue to rest in peace, until we meet again, in the fullness of eternity.

Her loss became a turning point in my life, not just as a brother (and subsequently a son). I decided to be a compassionate clinician and practitioner, a vigilant caregiver, a discerning healer and a thoughtful advocate for those in need.

And I’m eternally grateful that through that searing pain, I found a deeper resolve to take decisive action, and to pay unwavering attention. I also learned never to wait too long to care for others, especially for those I love. And I learned to hold sacred the precious gift of time.

Every story in my upcoming autobiography is not just about me, but about lessons that speak to us all . It's about the brevity of life, the cost of delay, and the sacred duty of caring for those entrusted to us. Sister Veronica’s passing taught me that some opportunities to love, act, or speak cannot be postponed. If we wait too long, we may never get them back.

This is just one piece of a much larger mosaic I’ll be unveiling in the coming months. Until then, I invite you to read this excerpt with an open heart, reflect on your own journey, and above all, don’t wait too long to care for those you love.

The full story… will be told soon.

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