Thanks For Being Here - Teammate

Kelly Corrigan (0:00)

Hi, everyone, welcome to Thanks For Being Here, a short weekly pod to remind us of the many essential and beautiful ways we affect one another. Every Sunday, I'll read a submission from a listener, Kelly Corrigan Wonders, could be wedding vows or about mitzvah toast, a eulogy or retirement speech. We believe this is probably the loveliest way to tap into our better selves and remember our highest values. We encourage you to share this podcast each week with one person you love, maybe someone you miss and need to bring closer, someone you want to feel your appreciation or admiration or both.

This is Thanks For Being Here.

Today's thanks for being here is from a listener named Jocelyn Cohen. Jocelyn writes, Hey Kelly and team, this is both a thank you to my doctor and a eulogy of sorts. To commemorate National Doctors Day, I'm sharing a piece I wrote in honor and in memory of Dr. Leon Root, who treated my cerebral palsy and cared for me from the age of four. He set the bar high for every medical relationship I have, and I'm fortunate to still have several great doctors caring for me. There are many fantastic medical professionals focused on cerebral palsy, and I'm thankful for their dedication and expertise. It's my hope that every person with cerebral palsy and every person with a disability has someone like Dr. Root in their corner and on their team, warmly Jocelyn.

Jocelyn's essay is called, Teammate.

As I got dressed for Dr. Root's funeral, I sat on my bed and ran my fingers along the perfect white-pink lines. Eight inches long, running down the outside of each leg, uniform in width all the way from the top of each hip to the middle of each thigh, straight along the curves. They were numb, but I wasn't. I said something aloud to myself, my voice quivering as I willed tears away, I will never look at you the same way again. For decades, they reminded me of pain, trauma, spasms, difference, and ugliness. Of triumph, power, perseverance, grit, and change. They had been red, purple, and dark pink. Cut, recut, cut again and again. I thought they'd never lighten up. They had reminded me of every hospital stay, every hour of therapy, every spastic step, every grimace, every fall. Every time I got back up, every time I caught myself and stayed on my feet with a rush of adrenaline. Every success.

That's a lot for two lines, but they're different now.

Now they remind me of the person who made them for me. The man whose medical expertise was equaled by his kindness, empathy, and his magical way of making me feel like I was his only patient. And like each appointment was a family reunion. They remind me of the man who carried balloons in his pocket, just in case his beaming smile and bear hug weren't enough to cheer me up. They remind me of the man who let me cry on the exam table as an adult, frustrated by my decreased balance and strength. He knew me. He kept a book I made when I was four and gave it back to me when I was 27 It's yours, he said with a wide grin. You should have it.

He kept a photo of my college graduation at the front of my file. He kept a letter I wrote to him from camp. He called to congratulate me when I got into law school. He consoled me through a breakup and my dad's health crises. He asked about my mom, my sister, my brother-in-law, my niece, and my nephew. His presence was a safe place to let go. He understood like no one else could. You're so close to not having a problem, he said. You've mastered dealing with it. So when something changes, it upsets you.

At the end of many appointments, after the hugs and I love yous, I told him he was my hero. And he responded by telling me I was his. That all he did was perform the surgery and I did all the hard work. The recovery, the rehab, the maintenance, it was all my effort. But really, we were a team. For almost 30 years, 16 incisions, suture removals while he distracted me with funny questions, countless walks down hallways, runs if we were being adventurous, updates dictated onto tape to be typed, saved and compared. He always started by describing me.

Jocelyn is now five years of age. She loves kindergarten. Jocelyn is now 10 years of age. She dislikes her teacher. Jocelyn is now 20 years of age. She majors in creative writing and loves college in Atlanta. Jocelyn is now 23 years of age. She's moved to the city and commutes on the subway, climbing all the stairs. She's finishing law school but doesn't want to practice law. She's not sure what she wants to do. Jocelyn is now 29 years of age. She goes to a lot of concerts. She's an aunt. She hopes to write for a living. Jocelyn is now 32 years of age. She still goes to lots of concerts. She's working on her memoir.