#2 From Chapter 1, “Comes a Storm”

Jul 12, 2026

—

A Child Will Lead

Bobby is six-years old but except for his size he looks like a man. His face beneath buzz-cut brown hair shows he is trying very hard to please. He and his grandmother had been inseparable. He’d been alone with her, playing at her side, when she fell to the floor. Somehow Bobby had managed to call 911, but all he saw and suffered only got his grandmother as far as the hospital, in a deep and probably irreversible coma.

His parents assure me that he is a “big boy” and is handling this well. They demand that I not tell him his beloved Gramma is sick.

At my urging, they have their sitter drive him to the hospital.He takes one look at my stethoscope and collapses into my lap. “Is Gramma dead?” (And some folks think a child doesn’t know what’s up!)

“Bobby, tell me what happened.”

He shifts his feet, gnaws his lower lip. “I was holding Gramma’s hand. Then she fell down.”

“Do you know why she fell?”

He studies the ground. When he looks back at me, his eyes are drowning. “Because I held her hand too hard.”

My turn to drown.“That’s why she’s dying?”

Nodding yes, he curls into himself and closes like a clam. His shoulder feels brittle as driftwood beneath my hand. Bobby is just my son’s age. What would I tell my son to soothe this wound?

Time. Give it time.

“Bobby, I don’t think that’s the right story. Do you want to hear what really happened?”

He considers me a while, suspicious. Then, with that considerable skepticism childrenappropriately reserve toward all adults,he nods permission for me to continue.

“I believe your Gramma loved you so much, when it was time for her to leave the world she couldn’t do it without you holding her hand. She needed you there. She needed you to call 911 so we could all be with her, to show her how much she’s loved. She needs you with her now so we can all say goodbye. Without you, she would have been so alone, but you gave her everything she needed.

“Does that story sound right?”

He cocks his head and squints one eye. I can see him rolling my story around like a smooth, strange cat’s-eye marble.

“Yeah, I guess so.”

I look at his parents for permission. “Do you want to go hold her hand now so she can go be with your grandfather? After that, you could draw some pictures of you and her playing together, so she’ll always have you nearby. What do you think?”

The tiniest wisp of a smile appears on Bobby’s face, uncertain; then he takes his parents by the hand and pulls them through the ICU doors. I respect and envy his grandmother—for the endless, rich hours she’d spent so close to Bobby, and for having him now to accompany her as she starts on her way.

Comments

Leave a Reply Cancel reply

Forty-seven years of practice in nephrology, critical care and ethics consultation, working with countless cherished colleagues, have convinced me that we are all rising or sinking together on a boat in peril. I thought that the archetype of the “Wounded Healer” was just old Greek stuff. This half century in medicine, plus writing these books, have convinced me I was wrong. Yes, we may have come to our professions by a desire to help others, make a living, be respected. Or was it perhaps a “Calling”? What was it within us that was calling to be healed by this work? At the 55^th year reunion of my Northwestern University medical class I asked several medical students, “Yes, but what in you called you to this work?” Their looks seemed to respond, “Please pass the butter.”

At the end of a long day do you find yourself worried that “What you gave was not what was needed, and what was needed you didn’t have to give” (Norman Maclean, “A River Runs through It”)? And needed by whom? The “patient,” the family, the community? Yourself, your family when you come home depleted?

I’ve come to believe the facades between caregivers and patients are beyond artificial: these barriers of identities, roles and presumptions block true healing for all participants. The always compassionate nurse, the bustling therapist, the perfect physician and the ill-informed, dependent patient are all death to being soothed and heard. We are trapped behind the safety of our lab coats, unemotional, untouched, sterilized of our true feelings. How we long to sit on the bedside, show our despair and joy, share what in our lives led to the guidance we’re offering our “patients”.

Most of these stories come from my and other healthcare providers’ involvement with patients and families. Listen for that voice that called out from within us, perhaps even when we were children? Consider “Foreword, why this book?”, “A doc becomes a patient – the missed diagnosis”, “A week with the dark guys”, “A thousand blossoms”, “Where hearts meet”, “Dear John – the evolution of a diagnosis”, “Do I care?”, “Spirituality? Seattle 2003”, and “When God fails”. The last is for those times when we wonder, are we doing God’s work, or the Devil’s?

I thank you all for your courage to labor long in the depths of human experience.

Your comments, questions and personal experiences will be much appreciated at my blog. There I hope we can initiate a conversation that will carry on.

BLOG

Are you a friend or family member of someone dealing with an illness? Does your heart ache, trying to figure out what they need, how to enjoy your time with them as you did before they got all tied up in being a “patient”? What should you say? Where should you sit? How much time is appropriate?

As you deal with the medical providers, are you made to feel like a crucial member of the healthcare team? Or are you shut out by visiting hours, isolation precautions and everybody too busy to give you anything but medical-ese gobbledygook? Do you fear, as Norman Maclean expressed in “A River Runs through It,” that “What you gave was not what was needed, and what was needed you didn’t have to give”?

When your loved one goes home, they’ll get discharge instructions. What instructions will you get? What will you be offered to ease your pain?

Readers will notice that I often put the word patient in quotation marks. This is to remind myself and all of us that a “patient” is a person—not a case—and should be afforded the same courtesy, kindness, and consideration as any other human being. The same applies to family and friends. You are a big part off your loved one’s life, and living through the illness with them.

Part of my message is that the division between doctor (or any other medical professional) and patient is as artificial as a lab coat and a set of scrubs. All can be barriers to successful treatment. Even more, healthcare workers come to this busy-ness of illness with our own set of wounds. We come, unbeknownst, to find our own healing. You become our healers. Ask us what in our life experiences lead to our recommendations. Are we hurting? How can we go through this crisis as colleagues, not opponents?

Though you’re present in every story in this book, consider especially “Intro: comes the storm”, “A child will lead”, “Grieving: things not worth saying that we need to say”, “Chapter 3: a time to fight”, “A crossing”, “Where hearts meet”, “He took care of me”, “Wrapped in Love”, and my Dad’s final joke, “Death of a Salesman”.

When your loved one goes home, they’ll get discharge instructions. What instructions will you get? What will you be offered to ease your pain?

Your comments, questions and personal experiences will be much appreciated at my blog, where I hope to initiate a conversation with you.

BLOG

Are you currently a “patient”? Are you struggling with fitting that designation into living the life you planned to enjoy? I often put the word patient in quotation marks. This is to remind myself and all of us that as a “patient” you are first and foremost a person—not a case—and should be afforded the same courtesy, kindness, and value as any other human being.

You are the center of all 54 stories in “Healing Together.” Some may give you insight into how others have managed various stages of their illness, from first symptom to decisions around the last of life. Many of the stories emphasize the struggles facing your family and friends, and others may give you some insight into what’s motivating your healthcare providers. See especially “Intro: comes the storm”, “Heartbeats”, “A child will lead”, “The Blessing: A Cancer Support Group after 9/11”, “Chapter 3: a time to fight”, “Where hearts meet”, “To despair and back,” “Wrapped in Love”, and “Denise and Jerry: a fine life on dialysis.”

Fifty-five years of practice in nephrology, critical care and ethics consultation have convinced me that we are all rising or sinking together on a boat in peril. I hope this book will empower you and guide you to find your way through a hard time.

Your comments, questions and personal experiences will be much appreciated to initiate a conversation at my blog, by clicking the button below.

BLOG