Conversation on an Airplane

Some of the most interesting conversations I’ve had with strangers have taken place on an airplane. On a recent flight from Kansas City to Orlando, the conversation with the man sitting next to me definitely fell into the “highly interesting” category.

Early in the conversation, I learned that the man—who was about my age—was a pediatric orthopedic surgeon connected with Children’s Mercy Hospital in Kansas City. But he also traveled to developing countries to do complicated “rebuilds” on children who were dealing with major congenital deformity or seriously rearranged bodies because of accidents. 

He was deeply involved with a non-profit that made it possible for surgeons and other caregivers like him to make those trips to far-off places—or to bring the children to them—to help those whose situation would be hopeless if such volunteers didn’t exist In fact, the man was headed to Orlando to attend the non-profit’s board meeting.

Our conversation took many twists and turns, but a theme that we came back to repeatedly was how often in life a seemingly ordinary experience or encounter with an ordinary person may prove to have motivated or prepared us for something that came much later. For example . . . 

When the man, who referred to himself as Ricky—I never did get his last name—graduated from high school at age 17, his father asked him what he planned to do for the summer. Like many California teenagers who lived near the beach, he said he planned to spend the summer surfing. His father informed him in no uncertain terms that there would be no such summer of leisure. It was time that he learned a few life lessons—such as independence and self-sufficiency. And to ensure that happened, he gave Ricky a certain amount of money, made sure his car was running well, and told him he would have to get a job and earn his own way, which meant he would not be living at home.

The news came as a shock. But Ricky wasn’t a no-hoper. He had graduated from high school with grades high enough to earn him a full-ride scholarship to university to do pre-med. His ultimate goal was to be a pediatrician. He now just needed to show he was also capable of getting a job, finding a place to live and paying his own way for the three months of summer.

Heading north up California’s coast, he decided that construction work would pay better than any other option he could think of. He hadn’t gone all that far when he came across a house that was being built. A pickup truck was in the driveway, and a man seemed to be working on his own. So Ricky stopped and asked if the man could use a hand. 

It just so happened that the man, we’ll call him Bill, had that very day fired his two helpers because they were undependable and lazy and wouldn’t do what he asked. When he heard how serious Ricky was about working, he gave him a chance. Bill was a no-nonsense sort of guy, but very fair. He and his wife let Ricky have a room in their home. And the summer began.

It was typical residential construction work—except for one thing:   Bill talked incessantly. And his talk was all about explaining the why’s and wherefore’s of what they were doing—Residential Construction 101, it could be called. The guy was a natural-born teacher. Ricky was an excellent pupil. And together, working from nearly daylight until dark each day, the two made great progress on the house.

A couple of weeks before the academic year was to begin, Bill asked Ricky what his specific plans were about going to the university. To which Ricky replied that the house was still not completed, and he thought he’d like to postpone university for a year and continue working at construction. It seemed to Ricky to be an innocuous idea. Bill saw it differently. Strongly so.

“I never had a chance to go to college,” Bill said, in a tone that left no doubt about his disdain for Ricky’s suggestion. “And here you are with a full-ride scholarship. I would have given anything for such an opportunity. Let me assure you, I’m not going to jeopardize your future just because you think you’d like more time working at construction. And just to make it clear how strongly I feel, you’re fired! Now get yourself packed up and off to that school!” 

Right then and there—without letting him even finish the day’s work—Bill paid him all that was owed and sent him on his way. (Though, Ricky did come to work for him for the next three summers, and Bill continued to provide running commentary about the why’s and wherefore’s of construction.)

Fast forward about a decade.

Ricky completed his pre-med, graduated from medical school, then went on to do a residency and fellowship in pediatrics. To fund his medical schooling, Ricky had availed himself of a sponsorship program provided by the U.S. Government, which required him to do two years of service in return for the help he’d been given. Thus he found himself at a small hospital on an Indian reservation in New Mexico. There were only three doctors on staff, none of whom wanted to be the medical director. Somehow, Ricky ended up with the job. 

At that time, Harvard Medical School was seeking to ensure that their medical students were exposed to how medical services were delivered to under-privileged people by doctors working in under-staffed and under-equipped situations. So a steady stream of Harvard medical students—one at a time—took a month-long rotation through the little hospital where Bill was medical director. It fell his lot to ensure that they learned as much as possible during their short time under his tutelage. 

Copying the style of the man who may have been the best teacher he’d ever had, Ricky talked non-stop to his students, explaining the why’s and wherefore’s of various procedures and the pros and cons of different approaches. The students loved it—just as he had when Bill explained the principles of construction to him.

In fact, medical student after medical student wrote to him, profusely thanking him and lauding the immersive experience he had provided. They talked about it among themselves when back at Harvard. And even their professors wrote to Ricky, commending him on the way he had so completely engaged and inspired their students.

For three years Ricky worked on the Indian reservation, seeking to provide the best care possible to his patients. But increasingly, he became convinced that what was most needed was not just a pediatrician who related to them well and who dealt with their various ailments, but an orthopedic surgeon who could more comprehensively address both the congenital and accident-induced structural issues they faced. He knew all about the need for appropriate structure in building houses, and he saw what a difference appropriate structure could also make in the functioning of the human body.

Ricky decided to do a residency in pediatric orthopedic surgery. To get into such a program, though, he needed references. Instead of asking a few big-name doctors to write on his behalf, he simply sent in the sheaf of letters he’d received from Harvard medical students and their professors. 

It worked. 

Ricky was accepted into the desired residency program. A lot of once-hopeless children in some of the poorest regions of the world have had their lives radically changed by a much-sought-after pediatric orthopedic surgeon named Ricky. What onlookers might find it hard to believe is that an ordinary salt-of-the-earth residential home builder we’ve been calling Bill played a far bigger role in making it happen than anyone could ever imagine.