I had always been independent growing up. My parents were ordinary, hardworking people who did not have the opportunity for higher education that I eventually had. After graduating from high school, I had to do most things on my own.
I became the first member of my family to graduate from college—and I went beyond college. I received my medical degree from one of the best universities in my home country. I took my country’s medical board examination and passed it with flying colors.
After graduation, I worked as a first-year resident in the Internal Medicine Department of the same hospital where I had completed my one-year rotating internship. I had been fortunate to earn the respect and support of my professors, and among the twelve interns who completed their training at the hospital, I was chosen as the outstanding intern.
My parents were very proud.
One memory from my graduation has stayed with me all these years.
My father dressed in his best clothes and walked onto the stage to help with my tassel. He was in tears as he watched me graduate. He had supported our family on the modest income he earned working as a gas mechanic for a company. He did not have the educational opportunities I had, but there he was, standing beside his daughter as she became a doctor.
I can still picture him on that stage.
After working for a few months, I received the news that I had been accepted to join a hospital on the East Coast of the United States.
There was joy, but there was sadness too.
At first, I was tremendously excited. America represented opportunity and the chance to continue building the career I had worked so hard for. But as my departure became real, I began to understand what leaving actually meant.
There might be no turning back.
I had made a commitment to pursue my career, so I began preparing for the trip to the United States. My immediate family was very sad, especially my mother.
In my heart, I did not want to leave her.
But I packed my suitcase.
My mother cried almost every day as the date of my departure approached. This was not like leaving home to go to another province where I could easily return.
Her daughter was getting on an airplane and going to America.
America seemed very far away then.
Neither of us really knew when—or even whether—I would be coming back.
And still, I left.
I carried my education, my determination, my family’s hopes, and the memory of my mother’s tears with me as I boarded that plane.
I was going to America to build a future.
But to begin that future, I first had to leave almost everything I knew behind.
It was winter in the USA. After passing my medical boards in the Philippines, I took the examinations required to enter the U.S. matching program for internship and passed them. I applied to several hospitals in the USA and was accepted at a hospital in New Jersey.
At that time, internships could begin either in January or July. I was accepted to begin my internship in January.
I boarded that plane excited and deeply sad at the same time. I was leaving my family and everything familiar behind, but the goal I had worked so hard for was finally becoming real.
In the winter of 1975, I was on my way to the USA.
