I'm Dr. Rock and Roll: Rock Star

If you’ve read my writing for any length of time, you know I talk about rock stars. A lot. We place athletes and rock stars on the level of royalty and are fascinated by their lives, even their mistakes and flaws (at times, ESPECIALLY their mistakes and flaws). In fact, if someone performs well in any area of their life, we’ve become fond of calling them “rock stars” (much to the chagrin of Ozzy Osbourne, Joan Jett, and Paul Stanley in a recent commercial).  I agree that most of the time, calling someone a rock star is hyperbole.

That being said, my uncle Donnie was a rock star.

Losing both of his parents before he finished high school hit him hard, and he channeled his grief onto the basketball court, which paid dividends for a 6’4” kid in basketball crazy southern Indiana. He became a hardcourt hero in the small town of Ferdinand, Indiana and went on to play for Arad McCutcheon at the University of Evansville. Even in the late 80s, my uncle cast a long shadow, where the locals watched my growth spurt and would ask if I was going to play basketball like Uncle Donnie and bring a sectional championship home. I’ll admit, I spent many hours shooting on the very same gym floor, but it wasn’t meant to be. He still held track and field records when I was in school. To hear of his exploits in athletic endeavors required others, because you never heard him talk about it.

Note how many players from the other team it took to keep him from the ball.

After his basketball career was cut short by health issues, he returned home and married my aunt Brenda, a local girl that graduated with him. He learned the trade of an electrician and eventually started his own company, where his hard and meticulous work gained him a stellar reputation. Despite the end of his basketball career, he still pursued athletic interests, playing rec softball and riding hundreds of miles on his bicycle. He was a hard worker, as well as devoted husband and father to my cousins Phil and Allison. He was a larger-than-life figure in my hometown, and I never heard anyone say anything remotely negative about him. To a polarizing figure like me, I found that immeasurably admirable and came to see that as the ultimate compliment you could pay someone.

If I had to guess, the DJ was playing "Stop! (In the Name of Love)"

But his public persona paled by comparison to his private one. His smile had a way of making his eyes disappear, an expression that lit up his whole face. He never seemed to take himself too seriously, and he had a way of telling stories that could transport you to another time. He was a sucker for nostalgia, and his knowledge of 60s music was impressive; he was one of my heroes when it came to music knowledge. He once bought a karaoke machine and spent hours in his office singing songs from his high school years, even putting some of them on cassette tape. To this day, I can’t hear Gene Pitney without thinking of him. When my daughter was first starting to walk, he’d encourage her every time she fell. “Come on, get up and get going!” he’d push, and she responded. She tried to crawl, he’d pick her up. “You ain’t done yet!” he said. He looked out for his friends, as well as his sisters. He coached Little League. He coached his kids and grandkids, but he never pushed. He had a way of leading without dictating. He didn’t want to make you tough; he wanted you to succeed and love it like he did. An ideal coach and mentor.

Donnie and my infant daughter. One day, he'd help her walk.

Finally, I think about what he meant to me personally. I grew up without a dad, and as my godfather, he always stepped in when I needed him. He was my Confirmation sponsor. Any father/son activity in my youth, he’d take time from his own family to be my surrogate dad. He recently told me that he felt like he didn’t do enough, but that wasn’t my perception. He was like a blue sky on a rainy day – you didn’t have to see him to know he was there. He never forgot birthdays. He was there for graduations, and he drove halfway across the country to watch me walk across the stage to get my medical degree. As I got older, he became someone from whom I could seek advice or get perspective. Our relationship deepened as I got older, and I learned that his hugs had a way of removing psychological weight. As recently as a couple of months ago, we spoke about visiting the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame. He’d never been, and I had suggested finding the time to go together.

Donnie with my mom (center) and his other sister, Brenda, on my mom's birthday.

About four years ago, his health started to slip, in the aftermath of the pandemic. His symptoms were vague, and every provider would shrug their shoulders when faced with his mystery symptoms. Workups would be done, and nothing would come back enlightening. He sought out specialists, with each result becoming more frustrating than the last. He had spoken to me on a couple of occasions, and I promised to use my resources to help, even looking into functional medicine as an alternative approach. He spent hours on the Internet doing research, and I think he had more insight than he was given credit. A couple of weeks ago, my uncle passed away, with the medical team still shrugging their shoulders. The shock waves reverberated through our shaken family, as well as the communities that loved him. My uncle Donnie dying was about as foreign to me as Superman dying. A guy who had ridden 65 thousand cumulative miles on a bike isn’t a mere mortal. Even in his weakened physical state, he seemed to be a rock-solid presence. This weekend, instead of discussing spirituality or the works of Sam Cooke, I thanked friends, family and well-wishers for attending his Celebration of Life. For a few hours, I was repeatedly told something I already knew – my uncle was a great man. My cousin Phil reflected on Donnie’s life, and appropriately, he sought out stories from others. Fitting and tragic at the same time, because no one told a better story than my uncle; however, Phil was more than up to the task, especially since he has my uncle’s fantastic radiant grin.

Donnie and Brenda at my medical school graduation. I hope he knew how much this meant to me.

“I’m so sorry for your loss” rings hollow for me, if I’m being honest, and my emotions are complicated. Personally, I’m gutted. A central figure in my life is gone. I will never get to ride my bike with him. The Rock Hall will never get to bask in his presence. The karaoke machine will collect dust. My mom and my aunt are devastated. The “good-guy-to-asshole” ratio has taken a huge hit. The quality of wiring in Dubois County homes will be irreversibly reduced. I’ll miss his stories, his zest for life. His keen mind and thoughtful wisdom will be missed. On a positive note, I promised to spend more time with my extended family moving forward, but I wish it hadn’t required such a sacrifice.

Donnie (right) at our wedding, with Mom on the left and Brenda next to him.

On a professional level, I’m embarrassed. And angry. Why did he have to suffer for four years? Why were there so many dead ends? I know death and dying is inevitable, and I’ve seen my share of it in a quarter-century in the healthcare industry. But I still get frustrated when I lose a patient, feeling in some ways that I’ve lost, that I’ve failed them. Sometimes, I wonder if I’m alone; I hope that others have simply found a better way to cope, because the alternative is unthinkable to me. Donnie expressed his lack of faith in traditional medicine more than once with me, and his trials are certainly damning evidence. And if I can make a small confession, there are times that I echo his sentiments on what medicine has become. His case is but a small iota of what I’ve seen countless times. We puff out our chests with pride, and we love to parade our fancy scientific knowledge around others, claiming an intellectual superiority that brands us as cold and arrogant. (I would say we’re taught to look that way, but that is a topic for another time). Yet, the first time we don’t know the answer, we’re quick to shrug our shoulders, dismiss the severity of the complaint or, even worse, suggest that the patient’s thinking is not based in reality. I’m aware that not every doctor behaves that way, but it’s far more the rule than the exception. In those situations, I wonder: what happened to the scientific curiosity that drew us to medicine? Where is the dogged determination that pushed us through all-nighters, determined to get a good grade on a test, an outcome with FAR less at stake? I mean, we are talking life and death here. Have we become so numb to the suffering of others that we move our focus to our unfinished charts and our work-life balance? Maybe if we, as a profession, worked according to principle than protocol, our patients would benefit more. I keep going back to the Biblical passage that reminds us that “he who humbles himself will be exalted, and he who exalts himself will be humbled.” We all need to be humbled on occasion, but we also need to fight with all we have, to at least make Death earn it in the end.

A classic look for a one-of-a-kind human

It’s at this point that people start with their well-meaning advice. Don’t be so hard on yourself, Eric. We’re only human. No one has all the answers. He’s in a better place. The list goes on and on. Make no mistake, though – not only do I hold my own work in contempt, I’m taking everyone else in my line of work with me. We need to do better. We need to BE better. We need to stop living for our possessions and be humble and hungry again. Humble enough to know from whom our power arises, and hungry to pursue truth, regardless of politics or personal beliefs. And healing. Am I holding my profession to a standard that’s too high? Most definitely. What’s the greater sin, to aim too high and come up short, or to aim too low and succeed with flying colors? With all the provider burnout, maybe we need to start looking to something greater than ourselves.

My uncle Donnie was a rock star. And he needed a superhero. And I’m obsessed with being better, because I never know the day that someone else’s uncle Donnie will be sitting in my exam room.

My Confirmation day. One of the many times he came through for me