There are some conversations you never forget. You remember where you were sitting, who was in the room, and the exact words that were spoken. Years later, you can still hear them as clearly as if they were spoken yesterday.
For me, one of those conversations took place in a hospital room in August 2019. The room number was 413, and the person who spoke those words was a nurse I unfortunately can’t name here.
To understand why that afternoon mattered so much, though, I need to take you back a few months.
On May 9, 2019, I went into Lake West Hospital for what was supposed to be an elective robotic surgery to remove a portion of my lower colon. Years of diverticulitis had taken their toll, and the surgery was intended to put those problems behind me.
That was the plan, anyway.
Instead, complications developed, and I ended up needing emergency surgery. I spent thirteen days in the hospital, much of that time seriously ill, with an ileostomy, a large open abdominal wound, and a wound VAC attached to help it heal. There were moments during those thirteen days when things were pretty frightening, not just for me but for Julie and our daughters.
I was placed in Room 413, a large private room normally used for patients recovering from bariatric surgery. Apparently, no one needed it at the time, so it became mine.
Now, if you’re familiar with Scripture, you may recognize those numbers. Philippians 4:13: “I can do all things through Christ who strengthens me.”
Julie and I noticed the connection, and before long, we’d made a little sign that read “Phil.” and taped it above the room number. Anyone walking past the door would see “Phil. 413.” It wasn’t anything elaborate, just a handwritten reminder of where we were placing our trust during a very difficult time. And believe me, we needed that reminder.
During those thirteen days, we got to know several of the nurses who cared for me. They helped me walk the hallways when I barely had the strength, dealt with the unpleasant realities of an ostomy and an open wound, and somehow managed to keep their sense of humor while caring for a patient who occasionally thought he was a comedian. I even sang to some of them. Whether they appreciated that part of their nursing assignment is probably debatable.
One of those nurses was a very special blessing.
We got to know her through conversations that went well beyond medications and vital signs. She told us about her children, and we talked about our daughters. Julie and the girls brought goody baskets for the nursing staff, small expressions of appreciation for people who were doing so much for us. She was compassionate, attentive, and easy to talk to. She was one of those people who made a difficult hospital stay a little easier to endure.
At the time, we had no idea just how important that relationship would become.
When I finally went home after those thirteen days, I thought the worst was behind me. I was wrong.
The months that followed were filled with complications. I had a large abdominal wound that required a wound VAC and regular home healthcare visits. My home healthcare nurse, Christel, became an important part of our lives as she worked to help that wound heal. But something else was going on inside my abdomen.
I continued to develop infections. There were antibiotics, CT scans, drainage tubes, and repeated attempts to get things under control. A fistula had developed, creating an abnormal passage through which infection was draining. Despite everything being done, I kept getting sicker.
By the weekend of August 17, I was in terrible shape. I was running a fever, losing weight, and growing weaker. When Christel arrived on Monday, August 19, she was concerned enough about my condition that she called an ambulance.
So there I was, heading back to the very hospital where this whole ordeal had begun.
The ambulance took me to the emergency department, where I was immediately placed in a treatment room. A physician assistant from my original surgeon’s office came down to examine me and explained that I would be admitted. I can’t say that news came as much of a surprise. By then, I’d learned that when a medical professional says, “We’re going to keep you for a while,” there’s not much point in arguing.
What happened next, however, surprised both Julie and me.
Upstairs, on the surgical floor, this nurse was working that day. She saw that a patient in the emergency department was being admitted to her floor, and when she looked at the name, she recognized it.
Mine.
Normally, someone from patient transport would have come down to bring me upstairs. But she decided to come get me herself.
Imagine our surprise when she walked into the emergency room. After everything we’d been through since May, there was something comforting about seeing a familiar face. She wasn’t a stranger reading my medical history for the first time. She knew us, and she knew what we’d already endured.
She brought me upstairs and took me to Room 413. The same room where we’d spent thirteen difficult days in May, and where we’d taped that little “Phil.” sign above the number as a reminder of Philippians 4:13. She made sure I was back there.
She helped me get settled into bed, and then, almost immediately, she closed the door.
What happened next is something I’ll remember for the rest of my life.
After closing the door, she removed her hospital identification badge. Julie and I looked at her, wondering what was happening. We’d known her since May, and we’d come to trust her, but there was something different about this moment.
Then she looked at me and said something I’ve never forgotten.
“I’m going to talk to you as if you were my Dad.”
She continued.
“If you stay with this current surgeon, you will never leave this hospital.”
Those words landed hard.
For more than three months, we’d been trying to get through one complication after another. We’d trusted that the infections would eventually clear, that the wound would heal, and that I would finally begin recovering from what was supposed to have been a fairly straightforward operation. Instead, I was back in the hospital, weaker than ever, with an infection that simply wouldn’t go away.
And now, a nurse we knew and trusted, was telling us she was deeply concerned about what would happen if my treatment continued on the same course.
She wasn’t finished.
“There is a surgeon here that we have seen work literally miracles. You need a second opinion.”
She was talking about Dr. Patrick Huck. Julie and I asked what we needed to do to make that happen.
“Just give me the word and I will make it happen.”
So we gave her the word, and she started the wheels turning.
I’ve thought about that conversation many times over the years. She could have brought me upstairs, gotten me settled, and gone about her shift. She had patients to care for and responsibilities to fulfill. No one was requiring her to have that conversation with us, but she saw someone she knew was in serious trouble, and she chose to speak up.
I don’t know what it took for her to arrange that second opinion or every conversation she had along the way. I just know that she did what she said she would do.
And before long, Dr. Huck walked through the door.
I believe it was within the next hour that Dr. Patrick Huck came into Room 413. Julie and this nurse were both there.
By this point, the large abdominal wound from my emergency surgery in May had mostly healed, but a fistula remained. Infection had been draining through that small opening for months, despite repeated attempts to treat it.
Dr. Huck began examining my abdomen. He removed the gauze covering the opening and started pressing on different areas.
Suddenly, pus began pouring out. And it kept coming.
There was so much that it nearly filled a bedpan.
Now, I’ve never claimed to have a medical degree, but even I knew that wasn’t a good sign. After months of antibiotics, drainage tubes, scans, and appointments, here was a new surgeon examining me for the first time, and the extent of the infection was suddenly impossible to miss.
Sometime later, she told me something that had happened after that examination. According to her, Dr. Huck stepped into the hallway and asked, “What the hell is going on here?” I wasn’t in the hallway to hear it myself, but after everything we’d experienced, I can understand why he might have asked.
On August 23, Dr. Huck operated. During that surgery, he discovered a problem with the previous connection in my colon, where the staple line had been leaking. He addressed the fistula, removed infected and damaged tissue, and repaired the underlying problems that had allowed the infection to continue.
For the first time in months, we began to see real progress. The infection that had dominated our lives finally came under control, and my recovery began moving in the right direction. I would eventually undergo another operation in November to reverse the ileostomy. There was still healing ahead of me, but the difference was enormous.
I have a great deal to say about Dr. Huck, and he deserves a story of his own. But this story is about my nurse, because without that conversation behind the closed door, I don’t know when—or whether—we would have found our way to him.
You might think that’s where her story ends. It isn’t.
In 2021, I needed another operation. The surgeries and infection of 2019 had left behind scar tissue, and I’d developed a hernia because of the damage to my abdominal tissues. While they were addressing those problems, I also needed to have my gallbladder removed.
Another trip to the operating room. Just what I’d been hoping for.
And guess who was my nurse?
It was her.
There she was again, two years after that unforgettable afternoon in Room 413. The same nurse who had helped change the direction of my care was once again helping care for me.
I don’t know whether that assignment happened by chance or whether she had a hand in it. But I do know how good it was to see her.
There are people you meet in life whose faces immediately bring back a particular memory. Her face will always take me back to a hospital room, a closed door, and a conversation that changed everything. But by 2021, there was something else attached to that memory.
Gratitude.
Over the years, this nurse and our family have stayed in touch. We exchange messages occasionally, and every now and then we’ll run into each other around town. We talk about our families and catch up on life.
Then, in 2025, Julie needed to have her gallbladder removed at Lake West. She wasn’t assigned to her care and had no professional obligation to come see her. But when she learned Julie was there, she made a point of coming to the preoperative area to check on her.
Six years earlier, she’d come down to the emergency department because she recognized my name. Now she was coming to see Julie.
Later that same year, Julie needed a hysterectomy. This time, the surgery was scheduled at another hospital within the same healthcare system. She saw Julie’s name on the surgery schedule and once again reached out, this time with an encouraging message letting Julie know she was thinking of her.
No dramatic intervention. No urgent conversation behind a closed door. Just a thoughtful note from someone who still cared.
And in some ways, that’s what makes it so meaningful. Those moments in 2025 tell me something about her that goes beyond what she did for me in 2019. She didn’t simply care about us when I was critically ill. She continued to care long after the crisis had passed.
I’ve spent a good portion of my life thinking about leadership, both in the workplace and in ministry. And the older I get, the more convinced I become that some of the most important examples of leadership have nothing to do with titles, offices, or organizational charts.
Sometimes leadership looks like a nurse noticing a familiar name on an admission list and deciding to go downstairs herself. Sometimes it looks like closing a hospital room door, removing an identification badge, and saying something difficult because you care too much about someone to remain silent. And sometimes, six years later, it looks like walking into a preoperative area to check on an old friend or sending an encouraging message before surgery.
She did all of those things.
I’ve wondered what might have happened if she’d been off duty that Monday in August, or if she’d simply allowed someone else to bring me upstairs, or if she’d decided that speaking up wasn’t worth the risk. I don’t know the answers to those questions, and I’m grateful I don’t have to.
What I do know is that on August 19, 2019, she was there. She recognized my name, came to get me, and when she had something important to say, she said it.
I still think about those words: “I’m going to talk to you as if you were my Dad.”
That’s a remarkable thing to say to a patient. But what makes it even more remarkable is that she followed through. She treated us like people who mattered to her, not just names on a hospital chart. Years later, she still does.
I have a photograph of myself standing outside Room 413, pointing toward that little sign we’d taped above the door during my first hospital stay.
“Phil. 413.”
At the time, it was our way of reminding ourselves to trust God for the strength to face whatever came next. Looking back, I can see how much of that strength came through the people God placed around us. People like Christel, who cared for me at home. People like Dr. Huck, who took on a complicated case and helped me recover. And people like this special nurse, who saw a man in trouble and decided she wasn’t going to remain silent.
Dear nurse friend, if you’re reading this, I hope you know how much that afternoon meant to Julie and me. You probably had a hundred things to do that day, other patients to care for, and a whole shift ahead of you. But you made time for us, and when I needed someone to speak up, you did.
Thank you for treating me like your dad. Thank you for looking after Julie all these years later. And most of all, thank you for showing up.
You were one of my heroes then.
You still are.
Another beautiful part of your story. She was definitely amazing for stepping in! It says a lot about you Jeff, and who you are as a person, for people to care so much about you like we did and like so many still do!