Dr. Daniel Whitman and I go way back—five years back, to be exact. He’s a few years older than me, but he’s one of those rare people who’s always seemed to have it together. The kind of person you can call when everything feels like it’s falling apart. Over the years, he’s saved me from a whole lot more than just a medical emergency or two.
There was that time when my mom first got sick. I’d spent hours in different doctors’ offices, getting referral after referral, and I was at my wits’ end. He made one call to a specialist he knew, and suddenly things were going smoothly. Another time, when my car broke down late at night on some godforsaken stretch of highway and my father refused to send help, he showed up with tools and a thermos of coffee, his easy grin somehow making the whole situ
