On September 11, 2001, I was deep in rural India, five years into a posting to help control tuberculosis. In the lobby of a small hotel, I watched on a flickering TV as the second tower of the World Trade Center fell. I was born in New York City, was trained as a doctor there, and ran its tuberculosis program. Watching my hometown under attack, I knew it was time to return. Three months later, with the rubble still smoldering, Mayor-elect Mike Bloomberg called to ask me to become health commissioner.
Before I started, I visited my father in his nursing home. He was a cardiologist. Quiet, kind, and a man of few words. Parkinson’s disease had silenced him almost completely. I sat at his bedside, holding his hand, and told him about my new role. “Dad,” I said, “I want to be the best health commissioner.”
