In the middle of a humdrum afternoon at the office, in between sobbing febrile toddlers and heartbroken adolescents, those patients whose suffering I can do little to alleviate, momentarily I become a hero to one family.

I watch them go—a new family I will most likely never see again. They've played by the rules, but got burned by the system. Lose your job, lose your health insurance, lose your doctor.

Some things grow more quickly than others, and sometimes we have the chance to weed the garden before it's too late.

I watch them walk down the hallway, this woman I have known as a mother, now as a grandmother, whose grandson still has a great grandmother of his own.

A visit from an 8-year-old patient reminds the author that in medicine as in the natural world, every seed germinates in its own time.

On a day in late winter, an acutely ill 6-week-old infant reminds the author of a famous poem—and leaves him hoping for a different outcome.

After a trying week, a young patient with puzzling heart pain reminds this clinician to breathe easy—and let his own chest discomfort subside.

An exchange with a troublesome adolescent girl incites contemplation about whether the teenage years are always a time for blooming.

When a teen-age boy disguises his true intention to receive a Viagra prescription, the author reflects on relationships and reading between the lines.

The comfort of a clinician's home visit is immeasurable to patients who wish to live their last days in their own home.