Mitchell’s neurologist, the same doctor who diagnosed him at the age of 3, came to the Cardiac Intensive Care Unit to say hello to our son. Except, she wasn’t really coming to say hello; she came to say goodbye – for she learned Mitch had end-stage heart failure and cardiologists thought he had days to live. 

This good doctor had a reverence about her as she set aside her degrees in medicine and practiced humanity. My heart swelled as I heard her speak softly to our little boy. She was kind and compassionate, even when she didn’t need to be. We were not even at her hospital, yet she went out of her way to be human. By stark contrast, a different doctor who denied our son a heart transplant was visiting other patients right next to us. Our son was dying and she never said a word to us; she walked by us as though we were ghosts. Imagine the deep psychological panic we felt when we saw other patients receiving life-saving treatments right next to us, while our child was denied help and hope. I wept so hard that night I nearly passed out from exhaustion. 

I’m not angry at that doctor for being so impersonal, nor am I angry with God that my son was called home. I am sad. Sad beyond all description. But I am not angry, for anger is a toxin that destroys us from within. 

Little Mitch looked softly into his doctor's eyes as she leaned in and said tender things to him. Dr. Kerr didn’t know, at the time, what her visit meant to my son. This was not a billable visit. Insurance wasn’t going to reimburse her travel. Instead, she came on her own accord because she remembered why she practiced medicine in the first place. She was then, and remains today, the personification of The Child First and Always.

Later that night, Mitch told me how much he loved his doctor and how special her visit made him feel. I can only hope that during those moments when my son was slipping away, he remembered the good people in his life and the love he received. I hope that brought him comfort. I hope it brought him peace.

It occurred to me during this tender exchange between Mitch and his doctor that there will come a point in each of our lives when medicine will fail us, but we don’t need to fail each other. We are all mortal and death is our inheritance. 

Though we cannot stop death, we can help each other along the way. When someone’s time has come, we can, like this good doctor, love them and offer comfort. When medicine can’t save us, we can offer love and compassion, and that is medicine for the soul.