Recently in the early hours before dawn, a little boy’s spirit departed from a body weakened by cancer.
His name was John McElligot; he was 5 years old.
My husband was John’s pediatrician.
The majority of a pediatrician’s patients rarely have time for illness; they are much too busy playing, exploring, living. They get sick but they generally recover with remarkable speed.
They are loving patients and they rarely complain; in fact they often come bearing gifts.
These gifts are usually lovingly created and offered with pride, their ever-changing worlds depicted in personalized works of art.
They cry when they are in pain, but are easily comforted by the promise of a lollipop or a Sponge Bob sticker and the belief that their doctor’s magical skills can make any illness disappear.
They come into the office a helpless newborn and leave as a street-savvy teen with all the scrapes and scratches of childhood behind them.
John McElligot will not leave my husband’s practice on the threshold of manhood; he will remain a child forever.
My husband’s heart is heavy because he carries John in there just as he carries all the children he has lost in 17 years of practice. Those children are as precious to him as our own. They have taught him more than his medical training ever could, and they have inspired him to deepen his dedication and devotion to the welfare of every child he sees.
Today as he opens the door to greet an awaiting patient, I know he will pray for the privilege to watch that child grow, and for the strength to endure the grief for the ones he had to let go.
