For me, it would be 2007 — the year I became a pharmacist.
It was neither my best year, nor my worst. But every year that came after stands upon it. If I could relive that year, I would change nothing. I only wish I could speak to that young man behind the dispensary counter, whose hands still trembled slightly. I would tell him he would remain at that window for seventeen years, and that in the end, he would remember far more than drug names. He would remember the hands holding them.
The pharmacy window has taught me this: every week, I meet people who wish they could turn back time. They wish to relive the year of a diagnosis, of a harmful delay, of advice they wish they had not followed. Medicine cannot give those lost years back. It can only help people live the years they have left a little more fully.
So while 2007 holds great meaning for me, I have no real desire to go back. I would rather stay here, and try to make each year ahead one that no one will feel the need to relive.
Note: This is personal‑reflective writing from a hospital pharmacist, not medical advice.
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