My son is currently facing one of those big life choices: which path to take after college. He’s pre-med, but as we all know, while many are called, few are chosen. Not everyone who intends to go to medical school will actually find themselves on that journey. He’s also considering applying to a PA (physician assistant) program. Whatever path he chooses, his goal is the same: to work with patients in healthcare. And he’s diligently preparing himself now, no matter what the future holds.
Recently, someone close to him said, “We’ve decided you need to go to medical school because one day you’ll regret not going all the way.”
I bristled immediately. While I believe my son is smart enough to get into medical school, if he chooses a different graduate program, I will be proud of him. I would never see him as not having gone “all the way.” And here’s why: my son’s motivation for entering the medical field—at least in part—is to have a positive impact on the lives of others. He doesn’t need to be an MD to do that.
I may not know everything, but I know a lot about being a patient. I’ve spent my fair share of time in hospitals, clinics, ERs, procedure rooms, and recovery rooms. I’ve interacted with everyone from surgeons to nurses, CNAs, patient care techs, therapists of all kinds, pharmacists, and imaging technicians. I’ve been impacted both positively and negatively by all of them—no special credentials required.
I recall one early admission in the ICU. It was terrifying. They were listing me for my heart transplant while simultaneously trying to stabilize my erratic heartbeat. I was bewildered, scared, and miserable—and to top it off, my ICU room had no windows, no privacy, and no toilet. The cardiothoracic surgery team came to meet me. I don’t remember much from that meeting, but after everyone else left, one PA stayed behind. With tears in his eyes, he said, “What you’re going through is very scary. We’ll do everything we can to help.”
Another memory comes from a particularly rough pre-transplant clinic visit—perhaps when I was told my transplant listing would be paused while I underwent treatment for thyroid cancer. I broke down in tears. I’d been stoic until that moment, but everything spilled over. My fake eyelashes fell off. My nose ran. It was embarrassing. The doctor hugged me—a gesture unusual for physicians, at least in my experience. Then, that weekend, on her own time, she called to check in on me.
Even now, I sometimes dread my visits to the cardiac clinic. I occasionally leave feeling gaslit or hopeless. The clinic isn’t my favorite place. Yet, even there, I’ve noticed small acts that matter. A medical assistant compliments my outfits and tells me I look nice. That simple kindness motivates me to show up with a smile, to demonstrate that I am worth supporting.
I’ve had nurses hold my hand, patient care techs remember my name and greet me with a smile, echocardiogram techs treat me like a human being, and doctors treat me more like a friend than a body in a bed.
One of my favorite stories comes from a hospital stay while being treated for Lippy. I was trying to make the best of it, to find silver linings. There was a housekeeper who swept my floor almost every day. I could tell by the shine in his brown eyes beneath his mask that he was genuinely happy. Aaron, ever the conversation starter, asked where he was from. He paused, smiled, and shared his story.
He was a refugee from Eritrea in East Africa, who had spent 14 years in forced military service and 15 years in a refugee camp in Ethiopia before coming to America. He had lived in Seattle before settling in Salt Lake City. He had a wife and five beautiful children, proudly showing us photos. He bragged about his daughter, who had earned a scholarship to a local college.
Then, humbly and tenderly, he spoke of his son, whom he thanked God for before recounting how his son had become involved in a gang and tragically lost his life to senseless violence at a nearby trailhead. I remembered hearing about the incident in the news. My heart broke for him, this unassuming man.
“I do not judge,” he said. “I thank God; he was a gift.”
In that moment, this man—through his vulnerable authenticity—made me feel seen, valued, connected, and human again. And perhaps, in that connection, I found the medicine I truly needed to begin healing.
The lessons I take from these experiences are clear—and there are always lessons:
- Never let adversity dim your light.
- Never let your circumstances interfere with your ability to connect with another person or to act on what you feel called to do.
- Life itself is the best course in kindness, the best training in compassion.
- No credential is required to be a decent human.
- And there is no gatekeeper to having a positive impact on someone’s life.
It’s not about titles or degrees. It’s about showing up, being present, and living with empathy. Any human can do that.
Witness Marks 