Leaving Harvard for Motherhood

By Hilda Der Zakharian M.D.

A motivational biography about an independent woman's journey from the Middle East to becoming a successful doctor at arguably one of the most prestigious Medical Institutions in the US, then leaving it all for motherhood.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: Jan 17, 2015
• ISBN: 9781329503724

Book preview

history…

The Beginning

Born in Tehran to Armenian parents, I was the third child of four, the middle sister. I was what they call the black sheep of the family. I was originally named Gilda after a movie starring Rita Heyworth. I was called by that name until I started school, but I still don’t understand how it turned to Hilda! My parents explained to me once that Hilda was easier to pronounce. I still don’t get it, but friends went ahead and called me Hilly. My father was an accountant and my mother was a housewife, like other mothers those days.

I was barely acknowledged at home, but I was an honor student and was complimented frequently by my teachers and the principal. Because of that, I was a teacher’s aide and involved in many extra curricular activities like school plays, choir, dance, and art. My parents, although loving and caring, didn’t care whether I was an outstanding or average student. They were occasionally stopped on the street and congratulated by my schoolmates’ parents for my achievements. Some parents used to bring their children to our door asking if I could help their kids with their homework, asking if I could be their tutor. I was only in the 2nd or 3rd grade, and I was tutoring for free. Later, I started charging some of those who could afford it. I was a self-employed teacher making money at a really young age, and I barely realized it at the time. It was my pocket money, an allowance to myself.

Growing up, I was a tomboy. I used to play soccer with the neighborhood boys, my brother’s friends, who were much older than I was. My brother was five years older and he would position me as the goalie. Because I was little, the ball would sometimes strike my belly so hard that I couldn’t catch my breath but I would stubbornly continue. If I didn’t play, I couldn’t win! I guess that attitude became a characteristic of mine, both in my personal and professional life; as a physician I was a fighter and gatekeeper. My motto was prevention.

I attended an Armenian elementary school called Boostan. This school was rich in its extra curriculum activities: music, dance, plays, field trips etc. It was almost made possible because of the principal, Madam Sonya. She was a big, charismatic woman who was in control of everything. Students were afraid of her presence. Some would literally shiver when she would come to the class unannounced and randomly ask questions. I wasn’t afraid, in fact I looked forward to her questioning me. She would give me a smile and say, sit down! Through the years I became her protégé and she put me in plays, singing solos, and had me announce school news and events. I remember when TV Iran was inaugurated, our school was the first in the nation to perform on the children’s program. Our choir performed and I was the soloist.

At the sixth grade graduation ceremony I was praised by my principle as the student of the year. Upon the announcement, there was applause and cheers from the audience. However, my own parents were not present to share my accomplishment. At that point, I was used to it. Later in life, when I was watching Tatum O’Neal receive her Oscar without her parents present I said, Tatum, you are not alone. After the ceremony was over I headed to the school gate and found my Dad, older brother, and sister waiting outside. We went to the local ice cream shop for a treat. I was happy, wearing a gold medal and all! When we arrived home, my mom was waiting with my little sister who had a low-grade fever. It wasn’t too serious, but that was why my mother didn’t make it to my ceremony. She even didn’t ask how it went or congratulate me. It was as though my achievements had become a routine thing! She was a very kind, quiet homemaker, always present at home. When neighbors or friends asked, Why didn’t you tell us about Hilda? she would say, I don’t like to brag about my kids. That was the way she was, very modest! She believed that if something was obvious, then there was no need to brag about it.

My older sister was my mother’s favorite, the princess. She had this classic beauty: skinny, with the physique of a ballerina. Polite, quiet, and reserved by nature. I was just the opposite, like I said earlier, the black sheep of the house. My baby sister, six years younger than me, was the butterfly of the family. When she was born, I babysat her. I held her in my arms and rocked her so she would stop crying and fall sleep. I did that at such a young age. At that time, I had no idea I would grow up to be a pediatric anesthesiologist!

The Armenian school we went to was quite a walk from home so we had to wake up early to get there on time. Our baby sister refused to wake up early. I didn’t know it back then, but she was not fond of the Armenian school. In fact, she had her eyes set on going to a French school near our house. Finally, she got to attend the French school, the same school as many children from royal families in the area. A young French principal, a quadriplegic, ran the school. I vividly remember her face: in her late thirties with fair skin, a caregiver always trailed her. She sat in a heavy black leather wheelchair always had a smile on her face. She was an amazing woman who was completely in control of her students and her staff.

Tehran was hot in the summer. We used to go to a suburban area an hour north for our three-month long summer break. It was an Armenian village, known for its cool, crisp, mountain fresh breeze and icy sparkling spring water. It had a small church and a youth club. During the day, young boys and girls would use the sport facilities and at night it would convert to an adults’ recreational center with lotto, games, music, and dancing.

Young adults used to meet each other there and then go to the park nearby to chat and hang out. At midnight the big gate would close and nobody could pass. I called it Armenian Peyton Place. It was a closed community and everybody knew everybody. Outside the village there were many resort-like gardens owned by locals. They rented them seasonally to wealthy people who wanted to escape the scorching heat of Tehran. It was a pretty great investment!

Boostan Elementary School play. Me: Prince Adrik, standing center Age 9

Caspian Sea

We used to go to the Caspian for two weeks every summer, a beach town called Port of Pahlavi where my father was from. The area