On pain, responsibility, and the fine line between trust and doubt—
A parent has not yet been born whose heart does not ache when their child is in pain.
Sometimes even the thought of it is enough to throw a parent off balance, pushing them to act in ways they normally wouldn’t. This is always true — and even more so when it comes to parents of infants: those sweet, helpless little beings who depend on us completely.
How can one even imagine a baby screaming in pain?
Unfortunately, there are moments when a parent must accept that their baby will experience pain for the first time in their life: vaccinations, medical tests, necessary treatments. I can personally attest that every time my daughter Sara receives a vaccine, I close my eyes and silently pray, over the sound of her screams, that it will be over as quickly as possible.
But what happens when the pain is not unavoidable?
And what happens when it is inflicted by a medical professional — a doctor?
The First Visit to the Pediatric Ophthalmologist
The story began about two months ago. As part of the routine checkups infants are expected to undergo, we visited a pediatric ophthalmologist. At the time, Sara was experiencing discharge from her right eye. The doctor diagnosed a blocked tear duct and recommended applying pressure between the eyes to open the blockage.
She warned us that the procedure would be painful, but necessary.
With no real alternative, and wanting to prevent future suffering — and even the possibility of surgery — I agreed.
The doctor applied the pressure.
Sara, then two months old, screamed in pain with an intensity I had never heard before. My mother, Sara’s grandmother, was present as well, and she too struggled to witness that moment. Sara was in my arms, writhing, and all I wanted was for it to end.
Even after the pressure was released, it took a long time to calm her down. It was the first time she had experienced pain of that magnitude.
The Second Visit — and an Impossible Dilemma
Two months passed. The first incident faded into memory, until Sara once again developed eye discharge — again in her right eye.
My mother and I hesitated deeply.
On the one hand, we vividly remembered the suffering from the first visit.
On the other, we did not want to ignore a medical issue.
We first consulted her pediatrician, who prescribed eye drops. At the same time, we decided to return to the ophthalmologist to better understand what was happening. The doctor said the blockage in the right eye had not opened and suggested trying the same painful pressure again.
My mother and I looked at each other in horror, then at Sara — calm, peaceful, resting in my arms.
Could we really put her through this again?
It was one of the hardest decisions I have faced as a parent.
And yet, out of concern for her eyesight, I agreed.
Once again, the doctor applied strong pressure between Sara’s eyes.
And once again — screaming, crying, suffering that is hard to put into words. My mother and I wanted to cry along with her.
When the Treatment Fails — and Doubt Creeps In
After the doctor removed her hands, Sara continued screaming and was difficult to console. Only after some time did she finally calm down in my arms. I sighed with relief — and then the doctor said the words that froze me in place: “I couldn’t open the blockage this time either.”
She prescribed strong antibiotic eye drops, replacing the drops previously prescribed by Sara’s pediatrician.
We left the room confused.
Something didn’t sit right with me.
A Second Opinion — and a Completely Different Answer
I decided to take a different approach and brought Sara to another ophthalmologist — a doctor who has treated me for many years and whom I trust completely.
After a thorough examination, he asked a simple question:
Is the discharge constant?
When I told him it wasn’t — only two isolated incidents, two months apart — he stated unequivocally:
There is no blockage.
According to him, a blocked tear duct causes continuous, ongoing discharge, not isolated episodes. The discharge, he explained, was most likely the result of a cold or mild infection — not a blockage.
Moreover, he noted that the antibiotic drops prescribed to Sara were inappropriate for her condition and intended for more severe cases. He prescribed a different treatment — the exact same drops the pediatrician had originally prescribed, and which the ophthalmologist had dismissed.
I Will Not Stay Silent When It Comes to My Child
I can forgive the ophthalmologist for her condescending and inappropriate attitude toward me as Sara’s father.
But I cannot sweep under the rug a failed and unprofessional treatment that caused my daughter intense and completely unnecessary pain — twice.
By nature, I am not someone who rushes to file complaints.
But when it comes to my daughter’s health and well-being, I cannot stay silent.
In an unusual step for me, I filed an official complaint with the health fund’s administration.
Hopefully, This Will Prevent the Next Case
This post is not written against doctors, nor against medicine.
It is written in favor of caution, listening, and responsibility — especially when it comes to babies who have no voice of their own.
I sincerely hope that bringing this story to light will prevent unnecessary pain for other infants in the future.
Because truly — a parent has not yet been born who can stand by while their child suffers.
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Read Next
If you’d like to read more about Sara and our life together, here are two more posts you might enjoy:
Beyond the Blog
Alongside this blog, I also give talks about late fatherhood, surrogacy, and the emotional journey of becoming a parent later in life.
Sara and Me 
‘A Parent Is Not Yet Born’ feels less like an article and more like someone opening a door they kept locked for years.
What struck me most was the emotional honesty. The author doesn’t try to sound wise, heroic, or inspirational. Instead, he admits fear, loneliness, insecurity, and the terrifying possibility that maybe fatherhood simply wasn’t meant for him. That vulnerability gives the piece enormous emotional power.
One line that stayed with me was: ‘Maybe not everyone is born to be a parent.’
It’s such a painful thought, and yet so many people probably carry some version of it quietly inside themselves.
I also loved how the story avoids clichés. This isn’t a “feel-good miracle” narrative. It’s much more human than that. It’s about years of emotional isolation, about hope arriving late in life, and about learning that becoming a parent is not something magical that happens overnight.
By the end, the title itself becomes deeply meaningful. A parent is not simply born — sometimes a person slowly grows into one through heartbreak, longing, and love.
Beautifully written, deeply personal, and impossible to forget.
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Honestly, what impressed me most about this piece was its restraint. The author could have easily turned this into an overly dramatic story, but instead the writing feels quiet, observant, and incredibly authentic. That makes the emotional moments hit even harder. ‘A Parent Is Not Yet Born’ isn’t just about becoming a father. It’s about what years of loneliness can do to a person’s self-image — and how difficult it is to believe you deserve happiness after spending so much of your life feeling invisible. There’s also something very universal here. Even readers who are not parents will probably recognize the fear underneath the story: the fear of arriving too late to life, too late to love, too late to become the person you hoped to be. What makes the piece memorable is that it never offers easy answers. The author doesn’t suddenly become confident or emotionally healed. He remains uncertain, vulnerable, and deeply human all the way through. That honesty is rare, and it’s exactly what makes the writing so compelling.
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Maybe not everyone is born to be a parent.’ That opening idea immediately sets the emotional tone for the entire piece. It’s vulnerable, painful, and brutally honest. What makes ‘A Parent Is Not Yet Born’ so powerful is the way the author allows readers to see thoughts most people would never admit out loud. When he writes about loneliness, social disconnection, and the fear that life may have already passed him by, it feels deeply authentic. One of the lines that stayed with me most was: ‘I spent most of my life alone.’ It’s simple, but the emotional weight behind it is enormous. You can feel decades of isolation inside that sentence. I also loved the quiet transformation hidden inside the story. The title itself becomes symbolic. ‘A parent is not yet born’ stops sounding hopeless and starts sounding like possibility — the idea that people can still grow into love, family, and connection even later in life. Another memorable moment was when the author reflects on the gap between who he was and the father he hoped he could become. That tension runs through the entire piece and gives it such emotional depth. This doesn’t read like polished inspirational content. It reads like real life — messy, vulnerable, uncertain, and therefore deeply moving.
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