The Electrician Of The Heart

My childhood friend who grew up to become a brilliant cardiac electrophysiologist. But he doesn’t go around parading his success. He humbly calls himself an electrician.

He’s busy. Very busy. Yet, somehow, I manage to bug him all the time.

I have a headache: I call him.
High triglycerides? I call.
Flu? Of course, I call.
No symptoms at all? Yep, still calling.

And every time, he answers. Maybe not immediately, but he texts back. Even if he’s in the middle of a twelve-hour day, he finds a way to check in. He makes sure I’m okay. That my mom is okay. My dad too. That small gesture? It’s everything.

He doesn’t have to do that. No one would blame him if he didn’t. But he does. Just because that’s who he is.

What makes him special isn’t just his skill with catheters and circuits inside the human chest: it’s that he’s never once acted entitled. Not once. Humble, grounded, human.

That’s rare. That’s beautiful. That’s my friend.