Love & Courage

by Jagmeet Singh

  As we crossed the Peace Bridge over Lake Erie and onto the US interstate, my dad’s good-natured personality came out of hiding. At one point, he asked me to pull over so he could relieve himself. He jumped out of the car and peed under the tire opposite Gurratan’s side in the backseat, talking to my brother through the cracked window the entire time. The way he was positioned, Gurratan couldn’t tell what was going on.

  “You can’t tell I’m peeing,” he said conspiratorially to Gurratan. “Even if someone on the highway saw us, they would just think I’m having a conversation with you.”

  Normally, when my dad tried to be goofy like that, it wouldn’t work. But it was such a genuine and bizarre moment that Gurratan couldn’t keep a straight face. He started laughing uncontrollably, and I couldn’t help but laugh along with him.

  We arrived at my aunt’s house that evening, and we spent the night catching up with our family. It was the first time I’d seen my aunt and grandmother in years, so there was plenty to talk about. The next day, we went sightseeing and shopping with my aunt and cousin. Considering the reason for our trip, the day off was surprisingly fun and carefree. The next day, my aunt and cousin had to be back at work, so Gurratan and I checked out the city on our own, while my dad spent time with his mom.

  Finally, though, it was time to say goodbye to my dad and grandmother. They’d purchased one-way tickets, so we had no idea when our dad would return or in what condition.

  Despite having had a relatively good time with my dad on the trip, Gurratan kept his distance at the airport. His lingering resentment was understandable. I hugged my dad near the departures gate and looked at his face for a long time. He looked healthier than he had been in a long time. I knew he still had a long way to go, and that his past track record would be hard to overcome. But still, I truly believed he was going to get better. It was something in his eyes. They shone with hope and determination, love and courage.

  The specifics of what happened in Panjab during the next six months is still somewhat of a mystery to me. The way my dad describes it, he didn’t just rediscover his faith, but the universal energy to which he belonged. Whatever it was, my dad was a changed person.

  “I went inside my body and I realized there was a bigger world than the one I was looking for inside the bottle,” he later told me. “It came out of me like water from a hand pump. The high feeling from alcohol was nothing in comparison to this. And as long as I pumped it, it poured from me.”

  What I do know is my dad set about rebuilding both his body and his mind. If I knew my father, he took to his new regimen with the same focus and obsessive nature he applied to studying medical literature. He began reading spiritual poetry and meditating regularly. He became a vegetarian and took up yoga. And he began each day by reflecting on ek onkar, the fundamental principle of the Sikh way of life. Or, as my mom put it, “We are all one.”

  The message gave him a sense of empowerment that addictions treatments didn’t offer. My dad explained that in Canada, the focus was on accepting his illness. “They wanted me to say I was ill, that my addiction meant that I was unwell, and that I would always be an addict,” he told me. “They wanted me to define myself by my illness. If I didn’t want to define myself that way, they would say that meant I was even more unwell than I realized. What I learned was that yes, they were right. I am an addict, but I also have the infinite inside of me, as each of us does. With that, we are more powerful than addiction, and we can overcome any obstacle.”

  The day my dad returned to Canada, my mom and I met him in the arrivals terminal of Pearson Airport. I was excited to see him, but also nervous about how my brother and sister would take him coming back. The deal still remained that as long as he wasn’t drinking, then he could be at home.

  When my dad walked through the gate, I was relieved. He looked like a new man. His salt-and-pepper beard was growing again, and his hair was tied in a turban. When I wrapped my arms around him, I felt not bones, but the muscles of someone who could hold his 180-pound self in a handstand—and who eagerly showed us as much when we got home.

  But not everyone was so eager to see it. Gurratan was still slow to trust my dad. When my dad tried to join Gurratan in the living room for the first time after coming back, my brother said to him, “Why are you here? Go upstairs.”

  “That’s okay,” my dad said as he walked back toward the stairs. “I understand you don’t trust I can be better. I promise I will prove it to you.”

  My brother continued to tell my dad to leave the room whenever they were in the same place, and my dad continued to listen without complaint. I hoped that, with time, things would get better.

  My father was healthy again, and he was putting in the effort to earn back his family’s trust. What he didn’t have much of, though, was purpose.

  His conviction was strong. Every day he told me, “I want to get back to work.” I knew that work was important to him—being a doctor and being able to practise was a defining part of who he was, and he wanted to return to it.

  I figured now that he was sober, we could start by getting his driver’s licence back. We went to the ministry of transportation’s licensing centre to see what we needed to do. The service agent pulled up my dad’s records.

  “Mr. Dhaliwal,” she said, “the records show that you have a medical suspension. Do you have any idea why?”

  He thought about it long and hard but couldn’t come up with a reason.

  “Do you have a history of seizures or epilepsy?”

  “No,” he said.

  “Acute diabetes?” He shook his head. “Uncontrolled sleep apnea? Any past psychiatric disorders with symptoms of suicidal thoughts?”

  “Never,” he said.

  She frowned. “Whatever it is, you’ll have to get a doctor to lift your suspension. I’m sorry.”

  We left empty-handed, and the next week, my dad saw his doctor. The reason for the mysterious suspension quickly became clear. A couple of years prior, when my dad had hit rock bottom, he had been hospitalized. As a result of his drinking, he had become prone to fainting and losing consciousness. Doctors are obligated to flag those types of concerns to the ministry of transportation, and the attending physician at the time had noted the medical condition on my dad’s driving record.

  My dad had been living healthy for over a year by this point, so we were confident the tests would confirm he was able to drive. Sure enough, the test results showed a clean bill of health and my dad’s record was cleared. My dad’s new licence arrived in the mail a few weeks later, marking his first steps back to independence.

  Of course, all of that was a walk in the park compared to lifting the suspension on my dad’s licence to practise medicine. He’d been suspended since 2000, so the process would require several rounds of negotiations and a series of steps as my dad slowly proved himself capable and trustworthy.

  “I’ll support you every step of the way,” I told my dad as we went through the paperwork.

  I went with my dad for his first official meeting with the College of Physicians and Surgeons of Ontario. I was there for emotional support, yes, but I had taken a page out of our bankruptcy court claim and was also serving as my dad’s legal representation. It was unusual for a lawyer to be present in a physicians’ meeting like that, but I wasn’t concerned with precedent: my focus was finding a pathway for my dad to practise again. We’d had some preliminary conversations with the College that hadn’t provided any definitive takeaways, and I wanted to make sure we came out of this meeting with something concrete. So, as we exchanged pleasantries with the committee, I took the opportunity to mention that I was a lawyer and to clearly state what our goal was.

  “We’re here to discuss a pathway for my father to return to practising medicine.”

  “There’s nothing more we’d like to see than Dr. Dhaliwal practising and healthy again,” said one of the College’s council members.

  “Great, then let’s discuss what the path to lifting the
suspension on his licence looks like.”

  The College staff were a little taken aback with the directness of my approach. Out of the corner of my eye, I could see my dad almost smiling. The irony of the situation wasn’t lost on me, either. My father hadn’t always been there for me, but there’s no doubt he laid some of the foundation for me to have achieved what I had so far. The work that my dad had done as a doctor had opened up doors for me. I had walked through those doors, become a lawyer, and was now using my skills to help him get his licence back. There was an interesting symmetry to the whole thing.

  I let the awkward silence run its course. Finally, one of the College representatives created the opening I was waiting for.

  “We would need to be convinced that Dr. Dhaliwal was managing his addiction and would be able to return to practise to standards set by the College,” the council member said.

  “I absolutely understand,” I replied. “What steps could my father take to demonstrate that he is fit to practise?”

  The council member turned to my father. “We would need you to see a specialist on addiction and attend regular meetings before we could consider even a probationary return to practise,” he said.

  “Deal,” I said before he could veer off to another topic. “We’ll set up a follow-up meeting in three months to discuss the terms of a probationary return to practise.”

  My father began seeing the specialist suggested by the College and regularly attended the meetings for physicians recovering from addictions. My dad took to the meetings and specialist visits with an energy I hadn’t seen before. Three months passed successfully, and before we knew it, we were back in a meeting with the College.

  The council members had an impressive report from the specialist indicating my dad’s perfect attendance at the meetings and meaningful contributions, as well as a positive prognosis regarding his recovery. With all of that, the College was prepared to consider a return to work.

  The sticking point, though, was how many hours a week my dad would be allowed to practise. I was stunned when the Council offered five hours.

  “How does that make sense?” I asked. “You expect him to rent an office, buy equipment, and pay staff while only being able to work one half day a week?”

  “Your dad had many chances before we suspended his licence, and after every opportunity, he broke critical policy,” one of the council members reminded us.

  “I never received one patient complaint,” my father protested. “Not one report of maltreatment or misconduct.”

  “That’s correct, but it doesn’t change the seriousness of the situation or the number of times you failed your monitoring,” the council member said. “We’re approving you for five hours a week. We’ll try that for three months before we can consider the next step.”

  Though it was far less than we had hoped for, it was a start. My dad was going to practise again.

  There was one final condition. Until the end of his probation, my dad needed to find a supervising doctor to voluntarily check in on him and monitor his practice. That shouldn’t be a problem, I thought. There were plenty of psychiatrists in the Toronto area to choose from. But when we got in the car, my dad told me the only potential supervisors he trusted lived in Windsor.

  “There’s no way you can go back to Windsor on your own,” I said, surprised my dad had even suggested the idea. “You’re doing well here in Mississauga. It’s not a good idea to go back to the same place where things went so wrong.”

  “Jagmeet, I don’t know any psychiatrists here.”

  “It’s Toronto—there are probably thousands of doctors to choose from.”

  “And how could I ask one of them out of the blue to supervise me? That’s a big responsibility, and they would be putting their name on the line, too. I can’t just ask anyone. I have colleagues in Windsor who I’ve worked with for almost two decades; I can explain to them that I’m committed to staying healthy.”

  He paused, trying to see if I was convinced. “Besides,” he continued, “Windsor is where my patients were. I won’t have to start from scratch.”

  “It’s not just that,” I said. “It’s one thing to set you up here with an office and staff on a part-time salary. But in Windsor, we’d need to get you an apartment again, furniture, your own car.”

  “I’ll get a loan,” he said.

  “You can’t get a loan. Bankruptcy, remember?”

  I weighed the options as we drove home to Mississauga. My law practice was going well, so I had a decent enough salary to support one household, but not two. I had a line of credit that I carefully managed, and I was only just beginning to feel financially secure. Could I take another risk without jeopardizing the entire family?

  “Fine,” I said with a sigh. “If this is important to you, then let’s do it. But if this is just about making money, don’t worry about that. I can support us. We just want you to stay well.”

  “I want to practise again,” he said.

  My mom decided she would stay with my dad on the days that he was in Windsor. Her willingness to sacrifice so much for our family amazed me to no end.

  We found a small office in Windsor and a part-time secretary. His five-hour weeks didn’t even finance the overhead, so I covered all the expenses. I signed a lease for a decent apartment nearby at a reasonable rate. When it came to furnishing it, I knew just who to call.

  The day we moved in, a box truck pulled into the moving zone at the back of the apartment. The words painted on the sign read MANSOUR’S FURNITURE. I watched from the balcony as the truck came to a stop, and I waved at Walid as he hopped out of the driver’s side. My mom, dad, and I went downstairs to meet him.

  Walid and I hadn’t done the best job of staying in touch. But whenever we did reach out to each other, whether we were speaking on the phone or meeting up in person, we picked up right where we left off.

  We slapped a hearty handshake that turned into a bear hug. Walid turned to my dad and shook his hand. “Welcome back to Windsor, Dr. Dhaliwal,” he said. “Now let’s get you set up.”

  Walid threw open the roll-up door on the back of the truck and the four of us started unloading new matching tables and chairs; couches and a bed set—pieces that my dad could take pride in.

  “Thanks for the furniture hookup,” I told Walid as we each grabbed a corner of a bed frame to carry down the ramp.

  “Of course,” Walid said. “We’re brothers.”

  After furnishing my dad’s apartment, I said my goodbyes and headed back to Mississauga. I left Windsor with mixed emotions. I was worried that the gamble we were taking would put our family back into the same precarious situation we had just climbed out of. I was worried that my dad would relapse, or that taking care of my dad would demand too much of my mom. There could be any number of things that might cause him to fall into a downward spiral.

  Even with those reservations, though, I accepted that it requires courage to take risks on the people you love. Despite it all, I had never given up on my dad. And this time felt different. I was older now and able to take care of myself. I didn’t need my dad to get better for me. I needed him to do it for himself.

  After a couple of months of working without incident, my dad was given permission to practise for ten hours per week. A little while after that, it was fifteen. Bit by bit, the College lowered the terms of his probation.

  In the spring of 2008, about a year since our first negotiation with the counsellors, we met one last time in the College’s red office in Toronto’s medical district. He’d done everything the College had asked, and when the meeting ended, my dad’s probation was officially lifted. He still had to continue attending meetings in London, visiting the specialist, and being supervised by his sponsor for another year, but he was free to practise as many hours as he wanted. He was doing what he loved, healthy and relapse-free. Dr. Jagtaran Singh Dhaliwal was back.

  “Thank you for supporting me,” he told me as we left the building. “And for supporting the
family.” He stopped at the bottom of the steps, patted the shoulder of my winter jacket, and looked at me kindly. “You’ve taken care of the family for so long and you kept me alive. You have a big soul.”

  “I got it from mom,” I said.

  “She is a special woman,” he said, smiling.

  “Yes,” I said with a laugh. “She definitely is.”

  He glanced about his surroundings on College Street, taking in the snow-dusted sidewalks between an old gothic church and various towers for rehab centres, blood clinics, and hospitals. Dozens of health professionals milled about on their lunch breaks, cocooned inside their dark parkas.

  “I lost a lot of time,” he finally said. “I’m lucky to still have any left. I want you to make the most of your time now. Go live your life. I’ll take it from here.”

  I took his advice to heart, and a couple of months later, I went on my first solo vacation. The sheer luxury of travelling alone was a little overwhelming. Most trips I had ever taken were either with family or friends. The idea of going by myself felt so indulgent that it took me some time to get over the guilt of it. I went to the Caribbean and immersed myself in reggae music and delicious Rastafarian vegan food. I made friends and simply enjoyed the weather and the ocean. The trip wasn’t anything life-changing. I didn’t find myself or learn a specific life lesson. A lifetime of struggles had forced me to take account of myself and figure out who I was. The trip was pure fun—a carefree summer like nothing I’d had a chance to enjoy in a long time.