To the Doctor Who Knelt In Front of My Son’s Wheelchair… {A Reminder to SEE}

The clock read 1:40 in the morning, and sand scraped my eyelids every time I blinked. My body buzzed with the need for sleep…but also with fear.

My son sat in a wheelchair in the eerily quiet hospital, waiting to go into emergency surgery. I kept my voice calm as I tried to comfort him about what was to come.

But deep inside, I felt horribly inadequate.

I’d already watched as he struggled through painful dentist appointments. Comforted him through the trip to the ER. Had to step out of the room when the nurses started his IV because his fearful screams were too much to handle. I’d walked him through the CT scan and distracted him through worry-filled hours of waiting for results and conclusions.

And we were finally here.

There were four of us standing outside the operating room — my husband, myself, the doctor in charge of the surgery, and you. I can’t remember if another person joined us, but I remember we all stood while my son sat, his mind likely racing with questions and fears.

I can imagine because my mind raced with its own questions. {Nothing is guaranteed in life. What if…?}

And then you stepped in front of his wheelchair and got down on your knee. You touched his arm, looked him in the eye, and said, “We’ll take good care of you, buddy. We’ll get you better soon, I promise.”

I watched as he nodded and closed his eyes, those simple words seeming to ease his worries for the time being. And in the simplest of ways, they eased my worries too. Carried me through the minutes that followed as I sat in the half-dark waiting room, trying to stay calm until I heard his prognosis.

Now three weeks later, as I sit in my living room and listen to my son’s playful chatter in the backyard, I wish I could rewind time and say thank you. But “better late than never” is all I can do.

So to the doctor whose name I can’t remember and whom I’ll likely never see again, THANK YOU.

Thank you for saving my son’s life, yes. But even more, thank you for looking at him as more than a medical chart. For meeting him at eye-level. For giving much-needed assurance to a mind and heart parched with fear.

Thank you for reminding this weary mom that small gestures matter. That people all around us are waiting for someone to see them. To notice and make eye contact. To smile and care.

As I look back on those nerve-wracking days in the hospital, the kindness and knowledge of countless doctors stand out in my memory.

But your simple gesture stands largest.

A reminder to go beyond job or duty.

A reminder to see.

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