It took a few seconds to realize that the phone was ringing and I wasn't dreaming. “Doc, this is Julie. I'm sorry to waken you but thought you would want to know. Kyle just died.” Kyle's death was not unexpected—he had advanced muscular dystrophy with respiratory muscle failure. As I searched for words to comfort Julie, I was astonished by my own profound sadness. Physicians are cautioned to maintain professional distance from patients and their families, but my long history with Kyle and Julie caused me to break the rules. I realized I'd known Kyle most of my professional life. Our connection punctuated many significant chapters in my career as I helped him navigate one obstacle after another. Although he struggled to breathe, he refused a ventilator. Despite growing weaker, he viewed each loss of a function as a hurdle to overcome—“It's no different than repairing an old car, Doc; just keep me running.” I thought of many parallels in the way we approached life. While mine don't compare with his, we both faced inevitable disappointments, losses, and the need to adapt to new circumstances as optimists—people who saw life as a glass of water “half full”—not “half empty.” My mind drifted back 35 years when I first met Kyle. Like many other economically disadvantaged recruits who lacked formal education and vocational skills, Kyle was attracted to the glamorous portrayals of a military career. A high school dropout, at age 17 he had married Julie, who was pregnant with Rachel. Unemployed and with limited skills, the local Army recruiter's training opportunities and monetary incentives were tempting. He loved to repair cars and wanted to be in the Army's transportation pool. To save money, Julie and Rachel moved in with her parents in Greeley, Colorado. Kyle headed off to basic training …
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