This Fourth of July, I Became the Patient

Exactly a week ago, I finished my last task before signing off for the long weekend; wrapping up the final talk tracks for a presentation I was scheduled to give in San Francisco today. Little did I know, that’s as far as the presentation would go. 

Shifting into holiday mode and taking advantage of the 8 pm sunset, I obliged my friend Conor Uhlir when he suggested an early evening surf session in Malibu. The first big summer swell was already rolling in. 

One wave changed everything.

As a novice surfer (I’m much more at home in the alpine), I’ve begun to find comfort in the rolling waves of breaks like San Onofre, but was happy to try out a new, steeper wave. The paddle out was easy, but the timing was different. I tried to pull back, mistimed it, and went “over the falls.” Although I’m well acquainted with the feeling that's not dissimilar to being in a washing machine, this time my board’s fin, 9-inches of fiberglass, launched back into my leg just above the knee and sliced all the way to the bone. I instantly knew something was wrong.

Conor got to me fast and pulled me onto the beach by my wetsuit — an image he now jokes was his Saving Private Ryan moment. As he ran for help, a German woman on the beach — a total stranger, and as it turned out, a doctor on holiday — ran over, lifted my leg, and calmly applied pressure to stop the bleeding. No hesitation. Just a human being choosing to help.

From there, it felt like hitting fast forward on an old VCR. Lifeguards. Paramedics. A life flight helicopter ride that picked me up at Pepperdine University. And then, suddenly, I was wheeled into the trauma center at UCLA Health Ronald Reagan — a hospital I know well, not just by name but by hallway and unit. I’d worked alongside clinicians there for several years, learning from teams and helping them make their units more sustainable. 

But now, I was the patient.

I’d recently finished The Pitt on HBO, an entire series about a single day in the Emergency Department. And here I was, in my own episode, surrounded by doctors, nurses, and med students all acting as a team as they put me under, cleaned me out, and sewed me up.

In observation, 7-inch gash stitched, sore, and receiving a steady influx of IV, oral, and injection antibiotics (salt water is no joke - especially if that water is near where the Palisades Fire had recently burned), I reflected and processed what I had just experienced.

What if the fin had hit my femoral artery?

What if I didn’t have insurance?

What if I lacked a support system?

What if…

I kept thinking about how this country is home to some of the best hospitals and medical professionals in the world, many of whom are immigrants or children of immigrants (most estimates are at least 25%+). I kept thinking about how access to the care they provide remains rationed: not by need, but by job title, insurance status, bank balance, or zip code. I kept thinking about how it doesn't have to be this way, and how we must come together to find a way to increase access rather than widen an already gaping hole in inequality.

Around sunset on my second evening in observation, a nurse wheeled me outside to feel the California sun on my face for the first time in days. An infectious disease doctor who I’d not met but was consulted about my case joined me at a picnic table, making sure she understood the full picture. Shortly after that conversation, I started putting my thoughts down.

Here’s what I wrote: I’m filled with overwhelming gratitude. I know the right words exist but I can’t find them, not really. But I can certainly feel them.

For Conor and the German woman on vacation, for the pilot and the paramedics. For the fact that I’m able to recover in a place with access to medication and a variety of specialized doctors. For the nurses that took care of me around the clock. For Alexandra Cheney — my partner — who sat for hours in uncomfortable chairs in waiting rooms, who fought the 405 traffic (the true test of love in Los Angeles) to bring me what I needed from home, who anchored me when I was scared, and kept my family, thousands of miles away, up to date. She even brought me a piece of cheesecake. And let’s face it, cheesecake always tastes better when it’s hand delivered with love into a hospital. 

I’m a very lucky man.

Every time I open my phone, it seems like our national stories center on division and cruelty. I offer this quiet but important counterpoint: there are good people out there, even perfect strangers, who still show up. No hesitation. They still want to help. They still care. You can too.

This Fourth of July, I didn’t see fireworks. But I did see the best of what people can be when we choose to care for one another.

And that’s worth celebrating. That’s what we should be building toward.