This has been the worst year of my life medically.
In the span of months, I was diagnosed with breast cancer, underwent a double mastectomy, required revision surgery, developed a post-surgical infection, and found myself hospitalized when I thought I was supposed to be recovering.
At the same time, my daughter began experiencing episodes of idiopathic anaphylaxis that sent us to emergency departments, specialists’ offices, imaging appointments, and follow-up visits that seemed to multiply faster than we could attend them.
My son has lived his entire life with a rare autoimmune condition that requires ongoing monitoring by a team of specialists. Thankfully, this has been the healthiest year he has ever had, thanks to a recently approved medication. It was fortunate timing. Between my health and my daughter’s, there wasn’t much bandwidth left for anyone else’s medical crisis.
This year has been measured in appointment reminders, lab results, imaging reports, discharge instructions, and insurance authorizations.
But strangely, when I look back on it, those aren’t the things I remember most. What I remember are the moments between.
I remember the surgeon who somehow always answered messages with a speed and thoughtfulness that made me feel less alone.
I remember my daughter’s doctor, who would text me to check on how she was doing or send updates on her thinking and next steps.
I remember the hospital technician who took me on more walks than were strictly necessary through the hallways because the thought of lying in a hospital bed doing nothing made me anxious.
I remember the nurse who became familiar after repeat visits to the hospital for my daughter. She brought me a blanket before I ever asked because she had noticed that I was always cold.
I remember another nurse who somehow always found a way to squeeze me into an already full schedule.
I remember the physician who ordered a few additional tests — not because anything alarming was expected, but because thoroughness can be its own form of compassion.
I remember sitting with residents who shared their plans after training. Some were first-generation college graduates. Some openly admitted they weren’t always sure they had what it takes. Others described the winding roads that led them to medicine in the first place. Every story was different. Every story reminded me that beneath the Patagonia jacket or North Face vest was a person still figuring things out, just like the rest of us.
I remember the EMT who told me he was in nursing school because his fiancée was pregnant and he wanted a career that would allow him to be present for his family.
I remember the physician assistant who shared details of her own recent health scare — not to make the conversation about herself, but to normalize my situation.
I remember healthcare workers quietly acknowledging the frustrations of the system we were all navigating. They could not always fix the barriers, but they could recognize them. Sometimes that mattered almost as much.
I remember the residents and attending physicians who patiently listened while I climbed onto my soapbox about patient portal access for minors. They listened. Some laughed knowingly. Others shared their own frustrations. For a few moments, we were simply people trying to solve the same problem.
I remember comparing favorite Trader Joe’s items with a patient transporter as we rolled through hospital corridors.
I remember bonding with an MRI technologist over our shared love of 90s music and joking about what passes for music these days.
I remember the resident who had just matched into her dream fellowship and could barely contain her excitement.
I remember the nurse with 40 years of experience who stopped to check on me while my daughter was undergoing imaging, despite having no obligation to do so.
These are not dramatic moments. They will never appear in a medical record. No billing code exists for them.
Yet, they are the moments that stayed with me.
Healthcare is often discussed in terms of outcomes, efficiency, quality metrics, throughput, staffing ratios, and cost. Those things matter. They matter enormously.
But there is another layer of healthcare that is harder to measure.
It exists in the moments between. In the conversations that happen while waiting for a scan. In the blanket offered before it is requested. In the shared frustrations, small celebrations, and ordinary stories exchanged between strangers who may never meet again.
Over the past year, I have spent more time inside hospitals, clinics, infusion centers, imaging departments, and emergency departments than I ever wanted to. What I discovered there surprised me.
Beneath the machinery of modern medicine, beneath the protocols and policies and endless documentation, there are still people finding small ways to care for one another. If the walls we sat between could talk, they would tell stories of vulnerability, fear, uncertainty, resilience, pride, compassion, and hope. They would tell stories about illness. But they would also tell stories about humanity.
And in a year defined by illness for my family, I found that what carried us through was often not the medicine itself, but the humanity in the moments between.