Takeaway
In caring for a neurosurgeon facing probable Parkinson’s, perhaps the most healing act was to be fully present—to listen, bear witness, and acknowledge his reality. It also underscored that such empathy must be paired with suicide risk assessment, safety planning, and close follow-up.
Passion in the Medical Profession | February 10, 2026 | 3 min read
By Karl VanDevender, MD, MPhil, Centennial Hospital, Nashville, Tennessee
Dr. C presented to my general internal medicine clinic for an annual physical examination. It had been 18 months since I’d last seen this prominent neurosurgeon. I was surprised to learn that he had retired. He was 60 years of age, divorced, and had two daughters. He was a musician, poet, former college football player, and well-respected member of the medical community.
As we began the visit, I noticed that he’d lost weight. His voice was weak and his face was without expression. A pill-rolling tremor of the left hand was observed. Before the physical examination, a diagnosis of probable Parkinson’s disease began to form in my mind.
Be still and listen
In my time listening to and observing Alan Alda, including working with him on his podcast “Clear+Vivid” and collaborating with the Alan Alda Center for Communicating Science, I’ve been impressed by his capacity to be still and to listen with full focus. I wanted to say to Dr. C, “It appears that you’ve lost weight . . .”, or “When did you first notice the tremor?” or to ask neurological questions that might be appropriate.
But I decided to be still and to listen. At first Dr. C simply looked at me and then began to talk. He addressed me by my first name and shared that he’d diagnosed himself with either Parkinson’s disease or Progressive supranuclear palsy. Without consulting with anyone, he’d made the decision to retire. Over the previous six months he’d withdrawn from his family and friends. He wrote his own obituary and decided that he didn’t want to go on living.
He’d come to me to give me an update on his life that he now defined by a condition for which there is no certainty regarding the cause and for which there is no known cure. His request was simple: he wanted to be able to discuss his fears in confidence. He would consider seeing a neurologist but felt the usual treatments would only prolong a slow and demoralizing inevitable end.
I wanted to offer him encouragement. I wanted to say that many people with his condition have fulfilling lives. But I knew that what Dr. C wanted was for me to listen, to absorb his suffering, to acknowledge his particular reality. Listening, hearing, and bearing witness was what he wanted.
I asked myself: Was he depressed or deep in grief from the loss of his marriage? Was this grief a normal reaction to the loss of identity as a respected professional person? I wasn’t sure. I made a referral to a neurologist of his choosing and he agreed to consider seeing a psychiatrist.
After clinic hours I felt that I hadn’t done what needed to done; that the hour I’d spent with him wasn’t enough. I also wondered if I might feel and act in the same way under his circumstances. A week later I received a call from the ER that Dr. C had hung himself. A few days later I received a letter from Dr. C that was dated the day of his clinic visit. He shared that he was grateful I had witnessed his suffering by listening. He was grateful that I hadn’t tried to cheer him up. He was grateful to have been afforded the time to reveal who he was. Perhaps this is why some are comforted by the confessional.
I am honored to have been with him to listen.
This piece expresses the views solely of the author. It does not necessarily represent the views of any organization, including Johns Hopkins Medicine.