Arnold I. Roth MD

One idea has been repeated in a couple conversations I have had over the last few weeks: it is impossible to describe the entirety of a person. Everyone’s relationship with someone relies on mutual conversations and experiences. My relationship with my dad is no different. As I sit here listening to Pink Floyd (The Wall, not Dark Side of the Moon) I am wondering how I am supposed to explain our relationship. Do I write as a historian, something both of us have degrees in, writing life event to life event? Or do I share specific memories of things we did together? Hopefully I can do a bit of both.

Most people knew my dad as Dr. Roth. Many of my memories of him growing up were colored by this. Him getting home late after a long day at work. Late night phone calls from the hospital. Cutting short a Quakes game because he had to admit a patient to the ER. I’ll admit that as a kid I was a bit jealous that his work took so much of his time, and it took a long while for me to realize that this level of dedication was not normal. It wasn’t until I worked with him in the office to fully appreciate his day to day activities. I was able to see firsthand how the act of healing his patients affected his frame of mind for the better. I could see that he considered each patient a part of his family.

The times he was able to stop working for any length of time always stood out in my mind. These were the times that I could spend with Dad where I knew we wouldn’t be interrupted by the phone (or his pager, if you want to feel old). We could take a breath and enjoy the experience. There were a handful of longer vacations with all four of us, usually about a week where my parents, sister, and I could travel somewhere out of state. But the ones I am most fond of are the short ones. He would find someone to ‘cover’ his patients for a day or a weekend where they could still get care while allowing us to be out of the immediate area. Our love of photography in mind, Dad and I would choose a place within a couple hours’ drive where we could go take pictures. Walking around a beach or among wildflowers, we searched for the perfect shot all the while complaining about the temperature (he was always too cold, I was always too hot). These were when we could open up to each other one on one about our experiences and our outlook on life. After Dad’s cancer diagnosis, these trips took on a new meaning. It allowed him to get away from being the patient (which no doctor is good at) and it provided us with the time to be with each other when we knew time was short. These trips became a focal point for him to look forward to.

When I think about the life I shared with my dad, my mind goes from one snippet of memory to another. Sitting on the porch listening to the rain. Driving around while looking for a good spot to take out the camera. Holding his hand when we both knew the end had arrived. Dad always spoke more with his actions than he did with words. I remember so many instances where he showed his love through these actions. A brief look would see Dad taking time from something he loved (his work) to do something else he loved (photography), but this was never about his work or his hobbies. They were about the people he chose to spend his life. He chose spend time with those he loved.

April 29, 2021