Beyond Bedside: When Healing Meets Humanity

I first established care with my doctor after my diabetes episode and blindness back in 2024.

My mother was with me that day, helping me as she always did, standing by my side through any and everything. She immediately liked him.

We discussed Dr. Alton Perry, one of my best friends and a family friend we both knew, with whom we shared a deep connection. He passed away several years ago, but his presence, guidance, and the memories he left behind continue to influence and inspire us. She declared, “We’re like family.” We all hugged, and the moment felt warm, personal, and reassuring — a connection that put me at ease.

Near the end of my first return visit, almost two weeks after my mom passed, life had been incredibly difficult. I was struggling with grief, anxiety, and depression, and he prescribed medication to help support me through my turmoil.

My eyes landed on his shirt: a Hawaiian pattern with hula girls and palm trees — my mom! The shirt reminded me of her, a meaningful and almost uncanny sign of her presence in the room. We took a photo together to capture the moment.

Dec. 19, 2024, 11:33 a.m. — Only 12 days after her passing, towards the end of the visit, he offered to take a photo, which made the moment feel even more personal and kind. The photo on the left shows that moment. The photo on the right is my mother in her hula attire, strumming her ukulele, circa 2011.


According to my doctor, his mother was murdered while helping someone in need. She had offered food and shelter to someone, and that person turned on her, killing her. He shared that he was performing surgery when he received the devastating news: she had been found on her kitchen floor.

Her actions reflected God’s will, showing compassion and care. The way she was taken was both horrific and tragic and should never have happened, but I trust she will be rewarded for the love she lived by.

My mother, too, praised God every day on her ukulele, went out of her way to help others, and lived as a kind, loving, and devoted person. Her actions in everyday life reflected her love for God, her love for Jesus, and for those around her, and I know she has a place in His kingdom just as his mother does.

But whenever my mother’s passing is brought up, I can see that it hits him. He points out that his mother was taken violently, while my mother was not. I think he conveys this to try to comfort me in some way. I understand the difference, and it shows me how grief affects each of us.

My doctor is an older physician, very close to retirement, and still practicing. Sometimes he remembers me clearly, other times he doesn’t straight away — understandable given everything he manages.

He has also shared his own struggles with diabetes, anxiety, sleep issues, and other health challenges. He’s experienced highs and lows—moments when he thought he had things under control, only to realize things weren’t where they should be.

We’ve talked about the common human tendency to stop paying attention when we feel better, whether it’s health, medication, or habits. Those conversations remind me that even doctors are human; they live through the same challenges we do, and their humanity often mirrors our own.

Since I began visiting, each encounter with my doctor has been about more than medicine — it has been a lesson in empathy, human fragility, and trust.

I’ve seen the weight of his grief, the vulnerability of his body, and the wisdom of his experience. I also expressed that I would be there for him after he retires, in case he ever needs anything, and he was clearly appreciative of that.

That moment strengthened our connection, and I hope we can stay in contact even after he’s no longer my doctor. And I’ve realized that God often places people in our lives — like my doctor — to guide, support, and teach us, even in ways we don’t immediately recognize.

I’m also planning to visit him in two months, as he requested, since he’ll be retiring soon. Originally, he had scheduled me for three months to check my A1C again, but he wanted to see me sooner before he leaves.

The plan is to see where my numbers are in two months — hopefully improved — and that visit will be another chance to connect before he retires.

Through all of this, I’ve learned that health care, human grief, and faith intersect in profound ways.

My doctor’s struggles and his willingness to share them remind me that even those we rely on are navigating their own trials and challenges. In those shared experiences, there is understanding, empathy, and the quiet affirmation that none of us walks alone.

March 18, 2026 — I received this message informing patients of my doctor’s upcoming retirement. I’m grateful I had him as my doctor during this time.

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