The epitaph of profession

Once a day -once every single day for 40 years -my father would drive the 17 miles to the local hospital to make rounds on his patients, then return to his office for morning consultation hours, and afternoon hours, and, several days a week, evenings.His work, our town, our lives were one, in rhythm.My sixth-grade schoolhouse window overlooked the road that connected my father's office to the town centre, and we would hear the whine of his engine as he accelerated recklessly along the road.His fast driving was famous in our town; he seemed to think he was immortal.My classmates would mutter as they heard his car speed by, 'There goes Dr Berwick.'They never even needed to look up.My father was not just a very good doctor -he was that -but he was also, in a small town, royal.He was a person of privilege.His privilege was to enter the dark and tender places of people's livesour people.He knew secrets.He knew -we didn't -that Mary, browsing the market shelves next to us for her cereal, had miscarried again; that Nicholas, who sold us shoes, was struggling with alcohol; that Maureen, our Cub Scout leader, was quietly beside herself because Jonas was depressed and using drugs.He knew that Mrs Kraszinski, who taught fifth grade, had lung cancer and was going to die from it, even though she didn't know, because they hadn't told her yet.For me, this was romance.I loved my father, but I also loved what he did; who he was in our town.I loved the way people looked at him, trusted him, named children 'Philip' after him.I loved that the constable would never give him a ticket, even though my father never saw a speed limit he didn't break.I loved that he knew secrets, and that he helped.Thank you for the gift of Fellowship in this College.Given my roots -given my father -it is impossible for me to overstate how meaningful this is to me.If I can beg your pardon,