A Life Dedicated to Patient Care.

In my last post, I wrote, “Knowing patients’ lived experiences is critical to successful value-based and quality care programs.” One of my own lived experiences shaped not only how I view healthcare, but why I continue to advocate for a system that rewards compassionate clinicians, supports patient-centered care, and prioritizes better outcomes over volume. 

This isn’t a fictional story. It happened in our neighborhood, and it has stayed with me for decades. 

 Doctor. Neighbor. Friend. 

 Some people change your life not through grand gestures, but through steady, consistent humanity. For my wife, that person was a physician I’ll call Dr. Ken. 

She met him nearly 30 years ago on a night when she was in pain, uninsured, and unsure where to turn. A shingles outbreak had left her scared and hurting. She wasn’t his patient yet, and she wasn’t sure she could afford to be. 

But that didn’t matter to him. 

Without asking about insurance or payment, he showed up at her home after hours with medication in hand. He checked her vitals at the kitchen table and stayed until he was confident she’d be okay. That single act defined everything about the kind of clinician—and the kind of human—he was. 

Over the following decades, we learned that this wasn’t an exception. It was simply the way he practiced medicine. The Carnegie Hero Fund Commission, citing The Denver Post, once described him this way: 

“He was very dedicated. He would come in if someone needed to be seen, and many times there were patients who couldn’t pay and he would work it out or do it for nothing.” 

 He carried his own burdens quietly.

 Life dealt him unimaginable grief. He and his wife lost two of their children to a rare genetic disorder—losses that would break most people. Yet he continued to care for others with humility and grace. You’d never know the weight he carried unless he chose to share it. 

He stayed late for worried patients. He called after hours “just to check in.” His compassion wasn’t performative; it was woven into who he was.  

 He lived—and died—the same way.

 Years later, tragedy struck again. When he heard neighbors in distress, he rushed outside to help, just as he had done his entire life. He was shot and killed stepping toward danger to protect others. 

He didn’t hesitate. Not for a second. His final act was consistent with the life he lived: run toward people who need help. 

Why I’m sharing this.

I’m not sharing this to dwell on tragedy. I’m sharing it to honor an example of what patient care can be when it’s driven by humanity rather than transactions. For nearly 30 years, my wife was blessed to have him as her doctor. But more importantly, he was our neighbor and friend.