The Heroes Who Showed Up — Dr. Patrick Huck
I’ve met a lot of interesting people over the years. Some are naturally funny, some are serious, and a few are so serious that getting them to laugh becomes something of a personal challenge.
Dr. Patrick Huck fell into that last category.
He was a former military surgeon, having served as a major in the United States Air Force. He had also spent years working in surgical quality and teaching future physicians. I didn’t know much about his professional background when we first met, but his military bearing was unmistakable. He was direct, focused, and all business. I don’t recall him wasting many words, and I certainly don’t remember him being particularly impressed with my attempts at humor.
We did have one thing in common. We both had shaved heads, which I thought ought to provide plenty of material for a few jokes. Apparently, Dr. Huck didn’t share my enthusiasm for bald-headed comedy. I tried more than once to get him to smile, but I don’t believe I ever succeeded.
At least not initially.
What I came to appreciate about Dr. Huck was that beneath that serious exterior was a man who genuinely wanted to see me get well. He wasn’t interested in making a big production of things. He had a job to do, and he intended to do it.
And in August 2019, I desperately needed someone like that.
On May 9, 2019, I entered Lake West Hospital for an elective robotic-assisted surgery to remove part of my colon. I’d dealt with severe diverticulitis for years, and the hope was that removing the diseased portion would finally put an end to those problems.
Unfortunately, things didn’t go according to plan.
Complications developed, and five days later, on May 14, I underwent emergency surgery for a perforation in my colon. That operation left me with an ileostomy and a large open abdominal wound. I spent thirteen days in the hospital before finally going home with a wound VAC and a long road to recovery ahead of me.
I thought the worst was behind me.
Instead, the next three months became a seemingly endless cycle of wound care, infections, CT scans, drainage tubes, and antibiotics. My home healthcare nurse, Christel, worked tirelessly to help me heal, but something was still terribly wrong.
A fistula had developed, allowing drainage through an opening in my abdomen. The wound was slowly healing on the outside, but inside, the infection continued. I was losing weight, growing weaker, and becoming increasingly frustrated that nothing seemed to be working.
By August, I’d lost approximately thirty-five pounds. I was severely malnourished, my body was struggling to heal, and the infections had taken a tremendous toll.
On Monday, August 19, Christel arrived at our house and found me in such poor condition that she called an ambulance.
Back to Lake West I went.
It was during that hospitalization that a nurse who had cared for me previously became deeply concerned about my condition. She urged Julie and me to seek a second opinion and told us about a surgeon she believed could help.
His name was Dr. Patrick Huck.
We agreed, and she helped make the consultation happen.
I believe it was within an hour that Dr. Huck walked into my room.
My first impression of Dr. Huck was that he was a man who meant business. There wasn’t much small talk. He was there to find out what was happening inside my abdomen, and he went straight to work.
He examined the fistula, removed the gauze covering the opening, and began applying pressure to different areas of my abdomen. What happened next was something neither Julie nor I will ever forget.
Pus began pouring out of that small opening. And it kept coming. There was so much infection that it nearly filled a bedpan.
Now, I’ve never claimed to be a medical expert, but even I knew that wasn’t normal.
Dr. Huck ordered additional evaluations and began planning surgery. My medical records describe an enterocutaneous fistula, an abdominal abscess, extensive inflammation, and severe malnutrition. In ordinary language, my abdomen was a mess, and my body was running out of the resources it needed to recover.
But Dr. Huck wasn’t just looking at the infection. He was looking at the whole problem, including the fact that I needed better nutrition if my body was going to heal.
He had a plan.
And I had a request.
Before Dr. Huck performed that first surgery, I told him about something that was weighing heavily on my mind.
Our youngest daughter, Emily, was getting married on October 12, 2019.
The wedding was less than two months away, and after everything I’d been through since May, I had no idea what kind of physical condition I would be in by then. I’d lost a considerable amount of weight, my strength was gone, and there were days when simply getting through the afternoon was an accomplishment.
But there was one thing I desperately wanted to do.
I wanted to walk my daughter down the aisle.
I wasn’t asking to run a marathon, play eighteen holes of golf, or even feel completely normal. I just wanted to be on my feet and have enough strength to stand beside Emily and walk with her on her wedding day.
I told Dr. Huck that was my goal.
He listened and told me he didn’t think it would be a problem.
That was it. No elaborate promises or dramatic assurances. Just a calm response from a surgeon who had a difficult operation ahead of him.
I took him at his word.
On August 23, Dr. Huck operated.
The surgery was extensive. According to the operative report, he and his team worked through significant scar tissue and adhesions from my previous operations. They addressed the fistula and abdominal abscess, removed damaged and infected tissue, and reconstructed the affected portion of my colon.
The procedure required considerable time and care. The operative report describes more than two hours devoted to separating tissues that had become stuck together, along with the additional work necessary to address the infection and reconstruct my digestive tract.
Dr. Huck also placed a feeding tube so that I could receive additional nutrition while recovering. I had become severely malnourished during the months of illness, and he understood that getting the infection under control was only part of the challenge. My body needed nourishment and strength to heal.
For the first time in months, the treatment began to make a lasting difference.
The infection that had plagued me throughout the summer finally came under control, and I began to recover. There were still dressings to change, appointments to keep, and plenty of healing ahead of me, but we were finally moving in the right direction.
I also came to appreciate the people who worked alongside Dr. Huck. He had an excellent staff, and their professionalism and care helped make a difficult experience easier for both Julie and me.
And as the weeks passed, one particular date kept getting closer.
October 12.
When October 12, 2019, arrived, I was there.
I was still recovering, but I had plenty of strength to do exactly what I’d asked Dr. Huck to help me accomplish.
I walked Emily down the aisle, just as I had walked our oldest daughter Sarah down the aisle in 2010.
There are certain moments in a father’s life that stay with him forever. Walking your daughter down the aisle on her wedding day is one of them. But for me, that walk carried an additional meaning.
Just weeks earlier, I’d been lying in a hospital bed, seriously ill, malnourished, and wondering when I would ever feel like myself again. Now I was standing beside my daughter, preparing to take those steps with her.
I didn’t need anyone to hold me up. I didn’t need a walker.. I had the strength to enjoy the moment, and I was grateful for every step.
Dr. Huck had told me he didn’t think there would be a problem.
He was right.
I don’t know whether he realized just how much that assurance meant to me. To him, it may have been one more goal in a patient’s recovery. To me, it was a father getting to be where he belonged on one of the most important days of his daughter’s life.
And I will always be grateful.
By November, I was ready for what I hoped would be the final surgery of the ordeal. Dr. Huck had scheduled my ileostomy reversal for November 12.
Now, if you’ve never had an ostomy, there’s something you should know. During my first hospitalization, one of the wound care nurses told me that some people give their stomas names.
I thought that sounded like a perfectly reasonable idea. After all, if you’re going to spend six months with a rather unusual-looking little fellow attached to your abdomen, you might as well get acquainted.
So I named mine George.
Curious George, to be exact.
I won’t go into great detail about what a stoma looks like, but let’s just say that George was an appropriate name. He was certainly curious-looking, and he had become a constant companion through one of the strangest chapters of my life.
By November, however, George and I were ready to part ways.
On the morning of surgery, I was supposed to put on a fresh ostomy bag before heading to the operating room. Before Julie attached it, I took a marker and wrote a message across the bag:
“Parting is such sweet sorrow.”
Then I added a Post-it note:
“Please be kind to George. He served me well.”
I figured that after six months of faithful service, George deserved a proper send-off. He’d been with me through some pretty difficult days, and while I wasn’t going to miss him, I felt we should at least part on friendly terms.
The reversal surgery went well.
Later, Dr. Huck told me that everyone in the operating room had gotten a kick out of my farewell message.
And this time, he was smiling.
After all those months of trying to get that serious, no-nonsense surgeon to laugh at one of my jokes, it turned out that George was the comedian in the family.
I suppose I should have let him handle the entertainment from the beginning.
By December 2019, Julie and I were ready to put that year behind us. We’d spent so much of it dealing with hospitals, surgeries, wound care, infections, and uncertainty that we wanted to do something to mark the end of it all. Not another doctor’s appointment or medical milestone, but something we could choose to do together.
So we signed up for A Christmas Story 5K in Cleveland.
If you’ve ever seen the movie A Christmas Story, you know that Cleveland has a special connection to Ralphie, his Red Ryder BB gun, and that unforgettable leg lamp. Every December, people gather for a 5K celebrating the movie, and that year Julie and I decided to join them.
Our neighbors, the Mohners, joined us for the walk. Mike and I had been friends and neighbors for years, and having them there made the day even more special. We walked the entire 5K together, and when we crossed that finish line, Julie and I knew we’d accomplished something that would have seemed almost impossible just a few months earlier.
We had spent so much of 2019 wondering what the next day might bring. On that December day in Cleveland, we weren’t thinking about hospital rooms, wound dressings, or another surgery. We were enjoying a Christmas celebration with friends, laughing, taking pictures, and showing off our medals.
For us, those medals weren’t about athletic achievement. They were reminders of how far we’d come. Three-point-one miles.
Now, for someone who regularly runs marathons, that might not sound like much. But for a fellow who’d spent much of the previous seven months in and out of hospitals, recovering from multiple abdominal surgeries, and wondering whether he’d ever feel normal again, those miles meant something entirely different.
We weren’t trying to set a record. We weren’t competing for a medal. We were simply walking, enjoying the company of friends, and celebrating the fact that we could.
And I had Julie beside me.
She’d been there through every hospital stay, every setback, every frightening conversation, and every little victory. After everything we’d experienced together, there was something wonderfully ordinary about walking through Cleveland with our neighbors on a December day.
We finished all 3.1 miles.
For Julie and me, that finish line meant more than completing a Christmas-themed walk. It was our way of saying that the hardest chapter of 2019 was finally behind us.
We’d made it.
And we were ready to move forward.
I wish I could tell you that crossing that finish line was the end of my surgical adventures. Unfortunately, my abdomen apparently hadn’t received that memo.
In July 2021, I found myself back under Dr. Huck’s care. Scar tissue from the previous surgeries had created problems with my small intestine, and I’d developed a hernia that needed repairing. My gallbladder also needed to come out.
So back to the operating room we went.
This time, the hernia repair involved using biological mesh made from pig tissue. That’s right. After everything I’d already been through, I was apparently getting replacement parts from a pig.
I’ve noticed something rather strange ever since. I seem to have developed a much greater appetite for pork than I had before.
I’m not suggesting there’s any medical connection, but I do find myself looking at bacon with a newfound sense of family loyalty.
Dr. Huck once again helped me through the operation and recovery. By then, I’d come to appreciate his serious manner, his attention to detail, and his determination to see me get well. He wasn’t a man who needed to be the center of attention, and I never got the impression that he was particularly interested in hearing how wonderful he was.
I had opportunities to thank him personally for everything he’d done. Each time, I was struck by his humility. He didn’t make a big production of the surgeries or the difference he’d made in my life. He simply seemed grateful that I’d recovered.
Eventually, Dr. Huck moved on from Lake Health. He continued his career with University Hospitals, where he served in leadership roles involving trauma care and surgical quality. In May 2025, he joined Michigan State University College of Osteopathic Medicine.
Looking at his professional background today, I see a career that includes military service, surgical education, patient safety, and a commitment to improving the quality of surgical care.
None of that surprises me.
Those were the very qualities Julie and I had witnessed firsthand.
When we think about heroes, we often imagine people who are larger than life, people who make dramatic speeches, display extraordinary courage, or step into the spotlight when everyone else steps back.
But some heroes are different.
Some are quiet, serious, and focused. They don’t necessarily tell you what you want to hear, and they may not laugh at your jokes. Their compassion isn’t always expressed through warm words or grand gestures. Sometimes it’s expressed through preparation, skill, persistence, and the determination to solve a problem that has defeated everyone else.
That’s the kind of hero Dr. Patrick Huck was to me.
He came into my life at a time when I was physically exhausted, seriously ill, and beginning to wonder whether I’d ever get back to normal. He looked at a complicated medical situation and went to work. He didn’t just address the immediate infection. He recognized the malnutrition, the damaged tissue, and the obstacles standing between me and recovery.
He also listened when I told him about my daughter’s wedding.
I suspect that if you asked Dr. Huck about my case, he’d tell you he was simply doing his job. And perhaps that’s exactly how he sees it.
But from where I was lying, that job meant everything.
Because of his care, I was able to walk Emily down the aisle. I was eventually able to say goodbye to George. And by December, Julie and I were walking 3.1 miles through Cleveland with our friends, celebrating the fact that we’d made it through one of the hardest years of our lives.
I’ve thought often about how God provided for Julie and me during that season of life. Sometimes His provision came through a compassionate nurse who recognized that I needed another opinion and helped make it happen. Sometimes it came through Christel, who showed up at our house day after day to care for a wound that seemed determined never to heal.
And sometimes it came through a serious, bald-headed surgeon who didn’t smile much but knew exactly what he was doing.
Dr. Huck, if you ever happen to read this, I want you to know something.
I haven’t forgotten what you did for me. I haven’t forgotten the care you provided, the people who worked alongside you, or the confidence you gave me when I told you I needed to walk my daughter down the aisle.
You may have considered it all part of your job.
But to me and my family, it was so much more.
Thank you for helping me get back on my feet.
Thank you for giving me the opportunity to walk Emily down the aisle.
And thank you for being one of the heroes who showed up when I needed you most.
Oh, and one more thing.
George says hello.
Well, not really.
But I think he’d want me to tell you that.